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CHAPTER 29
CHTEAU D’IF, FRANCE
Despite their love for Marseille, the Fargos had never managed to squeeze the Frioul Archipelago and Château d’If into their itinerary, an oversight they planned to correct that night with their own private tour. They doubted the château’s staff would let them explore every nook and cranny of the island. Though neither of them knew exactly what they’d be looking for, or whether they’d recognize it if it appeared, the expedition seemed the next logical step in the journey.
From Müller’s apartment they took a taxi to the Malmousque, a waterfront district overlooking the Friouls, and found a quiet café. They settled under the umbrella on the patio and ordered a pair of double espressos.
A mile offshore they could see Château d’If, a faded ocher-colored lump of rock fronted by sloping cliffs, vertical ramparts, and stone arches.
While the island itself covered just over seven acres, the château itself was a smaller square, a hundred feet to a side, made up of a three-story main building flanked on three sides by cylindrical turrets topped with crenellated cannon slots.
At the behest of King François I, Château d’If began its life in the 1520s as a fortress to defend the city against attacks from the sea, a purpose that was short-lived as it was converted into a prison for France’s political and religious enemies. Much like San Fran cisco’s Alcatraz, Château d’If’s location and its deadly offshore currents gave it a reputation as escape proof, a claim that was shattered, at least fictionally, by Alexandre Dumas’s Count of Monte Cristo, in which the character Edmond Dantès, after fourteen years of imprisonment, managed to escape d’If.
Sam read from the brochure he’d picked up at the Vieux Port tourist office: “ ‘Blacker than the sea, blacker than the sky, rose like a phantom the giant of granite, whose projecting crags seemed like arms extended to seize their prey.’ That’s how Dantès described it.”
“Doesn’t seem so bad from here.”
“Try being stuck in the dungeon for a dozen years.”
“Good point. What else?”
“The prison operated by a strict class structure. Rich inmates could buy their way into private cells on the upper floors, with windows and a fireplace. As for the poor, they got the basement dungeons and the oubliettes—which are . . .”
“It’s derivative of oublier—‘to forget.’ They were essentially trap doored pits in the floor of a dungeon.” Remi’s French was also better than Sam’s. “You go in and you’re forgotten—left to rot.”
The phone trilled and Sam answered it. It was Selma: “Mr. Fargo, I have something for you.”
“Go ahead,” Sam said. He put the phone on speaker so Remi could hear.
“We’ve deciphered the first two lines of symbols on the bottle, but that’s it,” Selma began. “The other lines are going to take some time. I think we’re missing a key of some kind. Anyway, the lines spell out a riddle:
“Folly of Capetian, Sébastien’s revelation;
A city under cannon;
From the third realm of the forgotten a sign that eternal
Sheol will fail.
“We’re working on solving it—”
“Done,” Sam proclaimed. “It’s talking about Château d’If.”
“Pardon me?”
He recounted their meeting with Wolfgang Müller. “The fortress is where his brother found the bottles. I already had the answer; from there it was just a matter of working backward. ‘Capetian’ refers to the dynastic line King François I came from; he had the fortress built. ‘Sébastien’ is the first name of Vauban, the engineer who had to tell the government the fort was all but useless. For whatever reason, the architects had built it with the heaviest fortifications and gun embattlements facing not the open sea, and potential invaders, but the city—‘a city under cannon.’ ”
“Impressive, Mr. Fargo.”
“It’s in the brochure. As for the second line, I don’t know.”
“I think I do,” Remi said. “In Hebrew, ‘Sheol’ means abode of the dead, or underworld. The opposite—eternal Sheol—is everlasting life. Remember the cicada from the bottle . . . ?”
Sam was nodding. “From Napoleon’s crest: resurrection and immortality. And the other part . . . ‘the third realm of the forgotten’?”
“It’s the French version of a dungeon: oubliette. To forget. Unless we’re wrong, somewhere in the basement of the château is a cicada waiting to be found. But why a riddle at all?” Remi wondered. “Why not simply, ‘go here, find this’?”
“That’s where it gets really interesting,” Selma replied. “From what I’ve been able to translate so far, Laurent’s book is part diary, part decryption key. He makes it pretty clear the bottles themselves aren’t the real prize. He called them ‘arrows on a map.’ ”