Was it possible?
“Just a moment! What was the name of Tristan’s mother again?”
Zöller looked at him in surprise. “Blanchefleur. Why do you ask?”
“Blanchefleur . . .” The bookseller frowned, and his eyes lingered on the woman in the white dress in the mural. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but if my French isn’t letting me down, then Blanchefleur means . . .”
“White flower,” Sara muttered. “White like the lilies that Marot picked for Maria. Do you really think Blanchefleur is our keyword? There are an awful lot of letters in it.”
Steven nodded eagerly. His voice almost cracked. “Why not?” He held up three fingers. “The first keyword was Maria, the second was lilies. And number three, Blanchefleur, is both a woman and a white flower. So the word stands both for a lily and for Maria. It’s the sum of the two first keywords.” In his excitement, he pointed to the mural. “And Blanchefleur and this King Rivalon also had to keep their love secret, just like Tristan and Isolde and just like . . .”
“Theodor and Maria!” Sara struck her forehead. “I think you’ve got it.” She took out her laptop and typed the name . . . “Bingo. Although . . .” A shadow clouded her face.
“What’s the matter?” Steven asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Damn it, all we get is roman numerals again.” Sara pointed to the monitor and a row of capital letters shimmering on it.
I, IV, II, V, III, IV, IV, I, IV, IV, IV, IV, II
“First the titles of those poems, and then nothing but two sets of figures,” she said crossly. “I’m beginning to think that friend Theodor is playing an elaborate joke on us.”
“Suppose it’s not the keyword?” Zöller suggested. “Maybe the name is a false trail?”
“Nonsense!” With one finger, Steven tapped the mural showing the lady in white and Tristan. “Blanchefleur is the third keyword, I’m sure it is. If only I knew . . .”
Suddenly he stopped in alarm and looked up at the ceiling, where one of the CCTV cameras was mounted above the mural.
“Listen, I may be wrong,” he murmured, “but wasn’t that camera just pointing in a different direction?”
All three stood there as if turned to stone and stared up at the ceiling, like small children caught stealing cookies.
Finally Sara broke the silence. “Hell, Steven, you’re right,” she whispered. “The thing must have moved. But how . . .”
There was a faint humming sound, and the lens moved several degrees to one side. All at once Steven had a feeling that the camera was looking straight at him, like the eye of some unearthly being staring down at him with interest.
Sara nervously pulled at his sleeve and pointed to a second camera behind them. It, too, turned in their direction, also humming softly. Only now did the bookseller notice a detail that had escaped him entirely in his excitement.
A small black microphone was fitted over the lens of each camera, and a little red light blinked wildly whenever they made the slightest sound.
“Oh shit,” Sara said.
Still humming, the two cameras now moved their lenses down, as if to greet old friends.
LANCELOT LOUNGED ON the comfortable, black leather sofa in the middle of the control room, playing with the regulators on the control panel. Above him flickered more than two dozen monitors, each showing one of the rooms in the castle. Most of them were empty; in one of them there was panic.
They had obviously noticed what he was doing, but that didn’t matter. He knew what he wanted to know. The king would be grateful to him. Well, maybe not grateful exactly, but at least Lancelot had fulfilled the major part of his contract and could hope for a good fat fee. He knew the third keyword; he had brought together everything that was worth knowing about this man Steven Lukas and his woman. Now all he needed was the diary, and then his mission would be complete.
Caribbean, here I come.
He had to admit that the king’s plan had worked perfectly. They had fallen into the trap like so many mice, and now they were gaping stupidly at the camera lens like mice staring at a snake. With a tingling sense of anticipation, Lancelot zoomed in on the face of the little slut who had put his eye out. Her expression was partly baffled, partly terrified. He could see every bead of sweat on her brow. Now he moved the camera a little lower, so that he could admire her heaving breasts.
Nice cleavage. A pity I can’t get the camera to look up her skirt.
Suddenly the young woman’s expression changed. Her bewilderment and fear vanished, and her eyes flashed angrily. With determination, she approached the camera.