The hot chocolate was rich and delicious, but my hands were shaking so badly, I could barely get the cup to my mouth. I sat alone at the café in the hotel, waiting for Nate to return. He’d steered me back to the InterContinental so he could gather his gear from the conference and stash it in his room, but not before seating me at a very public table and ordering me the drink. He asked if I wanted to speak to hotel security, but I waved him off. I didn’t need any more officials involved in my mess.
I checked my phone and saw that Tai had texted back his intelligence on Beatrice: Sources say she is not well-regarded. Questionable provenance on pieces. Then another: I am literally dehydrating to death during this break out session. Send Evian. In Tai’s world, “not well-regarded” was a damning slam. And “questionable provenance” was tantamount to being in the pocket of the Russian mafia or some other organized crime syndicate laundering money with art. This was bad news. It made me wonder what else Mike would come up with on Beatrice. I couldn’t tell Nate.
He intended to personally escort me back to my hotel. Whatever happened out on that street had rattled us both. How could I be a target? The portfolio of sketches was gone; why did anyone need to intimidate me? Nate asked me the same question two or three times as we made our way back to the hotel. My initial response was this: “I don’t know. I’m just the courier.”
“Are you sure?”
“I mean, obviously my name is a connection. Joan of Arc and Joan Blakely. But I’m hardly the second coming. Maybe it was random?”
Nate wasn’t buying it. “Joan, this is what I do, sequence events, from A to B to C with a finite number of detours. From what you’ve told me, none of this seems random. You being here with these specific sketches at this time.”
“You’re sorta random.”
“True. I’m a variable.” Nate smiled. “But somebody knew when you were out of your hotel room and had some idea of when you’d be back. And now it seems that somebody knew you were here at this hotel.” He left me in the café pondering his observation.
I thought about the course of events: the out-of-the-blue inquiry from an anonymous buyer; the missing, and now-questionable, art dealer Beatrice; the theft of the sketches themselves, executed with skill and precision during the three hours I left the room; and of course, the near-death experience. Maybe Nate was right. The whole thing was starting to feel bigger than the individual incidences.
As I waited, I started to text Mike about the car and then thought the better of it. I wanted more time to follow up, to find the missing drawings on my own. If Mike knew that my physical safety was in jeopardy, he’d pull the plug. I was on my own here. But I did tell him about the information Tai had given me about the missing Beatrice.
Nate rejoined me at the café. He’d swapped his jacket for a more casual suede shirt. He looked like a guy ready for action, not a panel discussion. He hung his messenger bag on the back of the chair and swung into his seat. He’d told me at dinner that he was a distance runner and a novice yogi. I surmised that made him more graceful than the average coder. Something I’d noticed the night before, too, as my fingertips glided down the backs of his legs, up the front of his thighs. Yes, he was very fit. A little wave of heat seared through me.
Nate flagged down the waiter and ordered a coffee in perfect English, not even attempting a slight French accent. Why pretend? He started in on me. “Okay, so if the artist isn’t anything special and the sketchbook is of modest value, then what’s the deal with Joan of Arc? I don’t really know anything about her.”
Obviously, he’d used the last few minutes to scrutinize the situation, as I had. He’d asked the exact right question, but I was hesitant to go into detail. The less he knew, the better because eventually we would wind up at my father’s exhibit in Paris, a fact that was starting to creep into my own consciousness as a possible connection. I couldn’t connect any dots yet, but there was no reason for Nate to even try, as I’d already involved him in way too much for a one-night stand.
I gave him the middle school tour version of Joan of Arc. “She is an important figure in both the political history of France and the religious history of France and the Catholic Church. Joan was a peasant girl, uneducated but a hard worker, who grew up in rural France in the fifteenth century during the end of the Hundred Years’ War. In short, the Hundred Years’ War was an epic battle of control for France between France and England, with both sides laying claim to the French crown and both sides having cause. But France having a little more cause because they were, you know, France. As a teenager, Joan heard, or as some would offer, claimed to have heard, the voice of God, instructing her to crown the son of the French king, the Dauphin, and return France to the Catholic Church. Let’s remember, she was an uneducated French teenager with a bad bowl haircut, and this was a preposterous notion. How could she do that? She kept her conversations to herself and waited four years before beginning her task.” Nate listened intently, so I continued. Here I really was in my element.
“As you can imagine, there was disbelief, skeptics and tests from authorities of church and state to prove her sanity, her faith, and her virginity. Because virginity—that’s important in your military leaders. Ultimately, Joan prevailed, first accompanying and then leading the French army, defeating the British in key battles, crowning the French king, and winning the hearts and minds of the French people. But she overreached, went rogue, and headed to Paris to conquer the city for the French. Not part of the instructions from God, FYI. On the road to Paris, she was captured by the British, put on trial for heresy, and ultimately burned at the stake. Twenty years later, Rome and the French state embraced Joan as a martyr and leader. And in 1909 she was beatified in a ceremony at Notre-Dame, then canonized by the Roman Catholic Church in 1920.”
“And what’s her appeal now?” Nate said, like a scientist, apparently unimpressed with one of the great “unlikely hero” tales of all times.
I scoffed a little because he was so serious. “Well, that is a pretty incredible tale, even if only half of it is true. And we know much more than that is true because of the copious documents surrounding her trial, including the transcript of her testimony. She has a well-documented life and it’s an extraordinary story. But to answer your question, people are drawn to her because of her faith and the manifestation of that faith. They are drawn to her because of what she overcame and her strength in the face of doubt. They are drawn to her as someone who put it all on the line and delivered. She is considered a brilliant military strategist, a leader of warriors who continues to inspire. According to documents, Joan’s image appeared to French troops in World War I, and they defeated the Germans in a key series of battles, giving her full credit. And of course, there are numerous feminist story lines that still inspire. To women around the globe, she is the symbol of strength. To millions, she is one of God’s soldiers. Joan has a lot of fans. Of course, to others, she is symbolic of women’s hysteria, manipulative ways, and general instability, but that’s a small subset of male academics and misogynists.” A small head shake from Nate was a welcome sign. “Now that I think of it, next year is the six hundredth anniversary of her birth. That would add value to any Joan ephemera, like the Panthéon Sketches.”
Our eyes connected. For the first time since I stormed the conference, he looked at me like he had last night at dinner, when he lingered over the tastefully revealing neckline of my dress, a look that made my cheeks warm and my defenses relax. He looked at me with desire, not like I was a psychopath who’d come to stalk him. “You know a lot about history . . . for a dental hygienist.”