Maelstrom

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Authors: Paul Preuss
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electrical contacts sounding like the call of a dove.
     
“Where’s this?” the bum demanded edgily.
     
“We’re going to the registrar,” said the woman. “Then we’ll get you something to eat.”
     
“Rather have something to drink,” he said.
    “We don’t mind that. Let us feed you first.” They stopped at the top floor. The black-jacketed man pulled back the grille and let the other two off, then closed it and rode the elevator down, his chores apparently complete.
    The woman led her charge to the end of the hall, where a doorway stood open. They entered a highceilinged office lined with bookshelves. Tall windows opened onto a balcony; the tower of Saint Germain des Pres was prettily framed by lace curtains.
    “Ah, here is our scholar.” The man lounged comfortably against the corner of an Empire desk, swinging a polished slipper at the end of a corduroy-clad leg. He was fifty-ish, sun-tanned, elegant in a white knit shirt. “And what would his name be?”
The woman said, “I’m afraid we didn’t have time to become acquainted.”
     
The bum stared at the man. “You call me a scholar?”
     
“You are a student of Egyptian antiquities, are you not? You have been studying the poor objects in our friend Monsieur Bovinet’s window with such passion these several evenings now.”
     
The bum blinked. A perplexed look crossed his face, wiping off the belligerence. “There’s something about them,” he mumbled.
     
“They speak to you, perhaps?”
     
“I don’t read that writing.”
     
“But you would like to,” the older man said, confirming what had been left unspoken. “Because you believe some secret is hidden there, some secret that might save your life, set you free.”
     
The bum’s expression hardened. “What do you know? You don’t know me.”
    “Well . . .” The man’s smile was very alluring and very cool. “You are right, of course”–he leaned back across the desk and tapped the keys of a filescreen–“Idon’t know your name. And if we are to enroll you we will need that, won’t we?”
The bum stared at him suspiciously. The woman, whose hand had never left his arm, leaned close, encouraging him. “I’m Catherine. This is Monsieur Lequeu. What is your name?”
     
He blurted it out: “My name is Guy.”
     
“Don’t worry, Guy,” said Lequeu. “All will be well.”
    Unlike the purse-seining tactics that other fishers of men have employed since antiquity, Lequeu and the Athanasians were highly selective. They were uninterested in anyone over thirty, anyone badly sick, anyone with an apparent physical or mental disability, or anyone so far gone into drugs or drink that organic damage was likely. They cared nothing for repentance, and hardly more for need. The Athanasians proselytized not so much as a fisherman fishes but as a rancher buys calves. Had Blake’s derelict disguise been too persuasive, they might have passed him over completely, and Monsieur Bovinet of the Librairie de l’Egypte might not have bothered to alert Lequeu before calling in the police–a move that had the desired effect of forcing Blake into a quick choice, or so the Athanasians thought.
    The first thing “Guy’s” saviors did for him, after they fed him and gave him a glass of rather good red wine and showed him to a room in the limestone-walled basement with a bed, a locker, and a change of clothes, was to escort him to a nearby clinic for a thorough physical examination. The technicians treated him with that special Parisian hauteur Blake had to get reaccustomed to every time he visited Paris, but they quickly declared him grade-A beef.
    Then came long days as a pampered guest of the Athanasians, spent getting to know the staff and his fellow inmates, who were also referred to as “guests.” There were five other guests in the basement dormitory, two women and three men. One had been there for six weeks, one for only a few days. Blake gathered that the basement was a staging

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