“Ahhh, a personal favorite. Gato Barbieri. ‘Europa.’”
As I was about to take a sip of wine, Pantera stood up, grabbed my hand, and lifted me to my feet. He pulled me to him smoothly, and we began to dance—very, very slowly. I automatically put both of my arms around his neck, but he reached over and took my right hand, closed his around it, and brought our closed hands back in to our bodies.
Holy crow.
“Old—very old—school,” he said in that honey voice, leaning away from me and looking directly at my face. Let me take a moment here to tell you that I am, in fact, quite a good dancer. Always have been. However, the “following the guy’s lead” thing has never been my strong suit on a first dance. I tend to stiffen and have a hard time allowing anyone to lead me around anywhere, but that time, after an initial reserve, I was able to fall into his arms as comfortably as if we’d danced before. Many times.
As we were dancing, floating, actually, he exerted the slightest pressure with his hand on my back, and the silk of my dress felt exquisite as it touched my skin as we barely moved our feet to the delight of the other patrons. Madame Cheri walked in and almost split her face smiling.
When the music stopped, so did we, and he led me back to the table. I was slightly shaky. Hey—once a girl has held a grenade for a guy, a kind of camaraderie develops, OK?
“I feel like a Bond girl.”
“Not a Bond girl, but a ‘chosen woman’ is more like it. One whose story has yet to be written. You will do well in finding the truth of Demiel, I’m sure.”
Did we just have that slow dance together, or am I mistaken here?
I pretended that I was not feeling smeary-eyed and stupid, so I got back down to business.
Screw you, mister—or better yet, don’t screw you!
Instead, in my best reporter voice, I said, “Speaking of Demiel, I had an extraordinary message from my reporter friend in New York.…”
“That would be Dona Grimm.…”
“And you know that—how?”
Of course he didn’t answer. “All right then, at any rate, she was pulled aside very briefly, she told me, by Randall Mohammed, ben Yusef’s lawyer? He said that she was to tell me to ‘Go forth,’ but also—and I quote—that I should ‘trust the man who raised him.’”
“C’est moi.”
“Apparently so.” Then switching the topic because I wasn’t about to give him another leg up, I asked, “I guess you’ve seen the coverage? About the alleged healings of those kids who were victims of the Manaus bombings?”
He looked unfazed.
“What? You aren’t saying anything.”
“If you think it surprises me, it doesn’t. The Son of the Son has healed since he was a little boy. I told you that.”
“Yes, you did. Did you also see the reaction of that evangelical preacher slash TV personality Bill Teddy Smythe?”
“If Demiel is the Son of God, then Smythe is the son of Satan himself. He’s part of the coalition that ordered the murder of Demiel and His Mother when the Girl was but thirteen and the boy just hours old. Smythe heads the Face of God Fellowship.”
“The what?”
“It’s also called the Black Robe. It operates as the opposite of Headquarters. But both are powerful shadow groups with international followers. Both have members in the highest realms of government, military, and justice. But Headquarters members choose to live more simply, more like the early Christians.”
“What does this mean, ‘Headquarters,’ anyway?”
“It’s been known by hundreds of names since the days of Jesus. Its goal has always been to bring about the Second Coming.
“The preacher’s organization, on the other hand, has morphed into many different loosely connected groups since the end of the Inquisition to stop that from occurring.”
“All right then, so that I understand your role here, tell me, why is all this intrigue and Holy Grail stuff concentrated in this rural area of Southern France?”
“Well, as everyone who’s read contemporary thrillers knows, Mary Magdalene probably settled here and may even be buried here—or so the local legends have it. Remember I told you about the so-called ‘head’ that the Templars worshipped and used as a banner in war?”
“Yes, of course. How did it end up here, though?”
“That goes to the heart of the mystery itself. What I can tell you is that all the Templars in the Languedoc region, as I had mentioned, converted to Catharism. There were no finer or more loyal warriors—if they were on your side, at any rate.”
“Let me guess,” I broke in, “your ancestors?”