The Thirty-One Kings_Richard Hannay Returns by Robert J. Harris (author)

Author:Robert J. Harris (author) [Harris, Robert J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781846974151
Amazon: 1846974151
Publisher: Polygon An Imprint of Birlinn Limited
Published: 2018-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

13

THE LAST GUARDIANS

We crossed the Pont Notre-Dame to the Îie de la Cité and here the driver let me out in the main square in front of the Prefecture of Police. I gave him a large enough tip to put a smile on his face even in this troubled time. As he drove off I hoped it would be of some small help to him through what lay ahead. I gazed across the square at the face of the great Gothic cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris, with its double doors, its solid, soaring towers and its array of threatening gargoyles perched along the roof. A flight of doves glided between the towers then arced upwards into the sky where I lost them against the brightness of the sun.

For a moment the cathedral took on in my eyes the appearance of a massive rock rising out of a stormy sea, unmoved and unmarked by the crashing waves of war and revolution. Somehow, through all the turmoil, civilisation survived and men learned again to live in peace, turning their energies to better things than killing each other by the thousand.

The thought came to me that, down the centuries, hundreds of others had stood on this spot before me, gazing at the mighty facade, and felt the same realisation wash over them. In ages to come others would stand here again and see eternity itself raised up before them in the ancient stonework.

On a normal day there would be swarms of sightseers here, but today only a few cyclists rolled past the worshippers who were filing despondently into the cathedral. From inside I could hear the faint murmur of Mass and wondered if, against all hope, the faithful were still praying for peace.

I turned away from the mercy of God towards the justice of man. The grey walls of the Prefecture loomed over me, their many windows staring out across the city like the empty eyes of a blind man. Passing through the arched entrance, I sought out the reception area.

It was unexpectedly quiet inside and only a single junior officer sat at the desk. I gave him my name and showed my identification, then asked to be shown to whoever was in charge. Silently I wondered if there was any such person in what was becoming a city of ghosts. He rose and straightened his tunic, then led me up a flight of echoing stairs to the next floor. Ushering me into the Prefect’s office, he announced me to his superior and left.

There were two men here: one a short fellow in a smart police uniform, the other a burly civilian smoking a pipe. ‘I am the Prefect of Police, Paul Rogeron,’ said the officer. He cut a dapper figure in his immaculate blue uniform, the buttons freshly polished as if he expected to review a parade before the day was out. ‘In these dangerous times I must ask for some confirmation of your identity.’

As the prefect examined my papers I cast an eye around the room.

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