With his long hair tied back in a tight ponytail, head covered in a stained Dodgers baseball cap, eyes huge behind thick glasses, and wearing clothes at least two sizes too large for him, the Comte de Saint-Germain shuffled unnoticed through the Arrivals Hall at London’s Heathrow airport. Stepping out into the cool damp evening air, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked his messages.
There was one message. Number withheld. It said simply: Level 3, space 243.
He turned and headed into the parking structure, taking the stairs up to level three. He was moving quickly, checking the numbers, when a dark shape detached itself from the shadows and fell into step alongside him. “Looking for a taxi, sir?”
“Palamedes,” Saint-Germain whispered, “don’t do that. You could have given me a heart attack.”
“Hardly. You knew I was there, didn’t you?”
Saint-Germain nodded. “I smelled you.”
“So you’re saying I smell?”
“You smell of cloves. Ah, but it is good to see you, old friend,” the Frenchman said, using a Persian dialect that had gone extinct a century earlier.
“I wish it were in happier circumstances,” the huge shaven-headed man said. He eased Saint-Germain’s carry-on bag from his hands. The Frenchman tried to protest, but the Saracen Knight ignored him. “I sent a message to my master,” the knight continued in the same ancient language. Both immortals were too experienced to allow anyone to come close enough to eavesdrop on them, but they were equally conscious that there were more security cameras in London than any other city on earth. Anyone looking at them now would just see a London taxi driver picking up a fare.
“And how is your master?” Saint-Germain asked cautiously.
“Still angry at you. You seem to have a gift for upsetting people,” Palamedes added with a broad grin.
“Will he help me?” Saint-Germain asked nervously.
“I don’t know. I will speak for you. Shakespeare will, too, and you know what a great talker he is.” They stopped at a black cab and Palamedes pulled open the door to allow the Frenchman inside. “There will be a cost,” the knight said seriously.
Saint-Germain gripped his friend’s arm. “Anything. I will pay anything to get my wife back.”
“Even your immortality?”
“Even that. What is the point in living forever, if it is not with the woman I love?”
A flicker of immeasurable sadness crossed the knight’s face. “I understand that,” he said softly.