I made my désolés as I jumped up and ran toward the door while trying to find the damned phone, which had slipped to the bottom of my red bag.
I found it. “Caller unknown.” Not good.
Risking it all for no real reason, I picked it up, hoping to God there was no one tracking me, despite what Sadowski had said.
“Alazais Roussel?”
Where have I heard that voice before?
“Who is asking?”
“My name is Pantera. I thought I’d make this easier and forgo the cat and mouse, yes?”
Holy good God!
“Well, okay, yes.” I was desperately trying to “make” that voice.
“We need to meet.”
I knew it would have been useless to ask him how he’d found me, so I just went with, “Okay, yes. Where and when? I’m heading toward Carcassonne now.”
“Meet me in Montségur in Languedoc.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The village of Montségur.”
“The town where the Cathars…”
“Précisément.” His words actually sounded like they were made of honey.
This is one slick operator. Watch this guy—if he is this Pantera guy, that is.
“You should stay at the L’Oustal, a tiny little bed-and-breakfast run by a couple of friends of mine. You’ll be safe there, I assure you.”
“And who are you to assure me of anything, Mr. Pantera? Since I got caught up in this whole insane business with your friends, life, as you probably know, has been anything but safe for me—anywhere.”
“You don’t actually have a choice in the matter—if you want to meet me—which you do.”
That again.
“Life on the run, sans amis, is a difficult life. I know.”
“And you propose to be my ami? Teach me the ropes of living on the run…”
“I will arrange for a room for you. The address, although the town is literally no more than one small street, is—”
“Wait. I need to write this down.” I dug out my reporter’s notebook and wrote down precisely what he said, spelling out very carefully, “L’Oustal, 46 rue du Village, Montségur, phone number: 05-61-02-80-70.”
“When you reach the end of the village—and really it is half a block long before you come to the mountain—cut a deep left and go up. On the right, you’ll see a sort of grass driveway with a gate. Oh, and a lot of dogs—friendly, I assure you. Open the gate yourself; don’t bother to honk; they won’t come out.
“But they will be expecting you. Park next to the welding shed.”
“Sounds charming.”
“It is,” he said, bringing me up short.
“Right.”
“I will meet you at seven thirty this evening at the Hotel Restaurant Costes in the town.”
“Shall I drive there?”
He laughed. “Only if you can’t walk fifty yards. There’s a restaurant and bar in the lobby. We have much to discuss.” He sounded like the male Maureen.
Well, he probably is the male Maureen—if Maureen had married a thirteen-year-old, that is.
It took another hour and a half to get to Montségur, following the signs as carefully as I could. Then, finally popping out of the foggy mist, I saw it: Montségur’s mountain, rising up like a vision.
I was so awestruck by its stark beauty that I stopped the car and took out the phone to take a picture. When I looked at the photo, I saw what wasn’t visible to the naked eye—unless you know what it is you are looking for: A large castlelike structure sat on the very top of the very steep, seemingly impenetrable mountain. It must have been, I figured, at least four thousand feet high.
How the hell did they ever build a castle on the top of that thing? In fact, how did they even get up that thing, let alone carry up building materials? Astonishing. Is that the very place where the Cathars had lived—and been burned alive? Plenty of time to find that out. Are you kidding? Live past the next couple of days and you’ll be lucky.
I got back in the car and drove on until I came to the village of Montségur. He was right; it was more like a street than a town. It didn’t have so much as a grocery store, although it did have a handcraft/souvenir shop and a museum that looked like a tiny one-room stone house.
Following his directions, I easily found the L’Oustal, which was exactly where he’d said it would be.
I parked next to the welding shed, which I recognized because there was a guy inside welding and sparks were dangerously flying everywhere in the wooden shed. I headed toward the stone and plaster house, climbing what seemed like a bad attempt at steps, which were made of uneven rocks set into a steep slope. A jolly French lady who didn’t speak a word of English came out of the old stone house, wiping her hands, I swear, on her apron. She somehow conveyed to me that le coût de la chambre (which was all of forty bucks) had been taken care of.