A/N: Standard Disclaimers Apply
Chapter One: The Abbey of St. Sebastian
The man in black worked his fingers into a crack in the old stone wall. He slowly, silently scaled up the ancient monastery and pulled himself over the battlement. In the pale moonlight, he counted six red robed monks, two on the walls and four in the courtyard. The monks carried torches, and the flickering firelight cast odd shadows around them. The man in black skulked across the walls and made his way to the library tower. He pressed to a wall and listened.
Women?
The man in black arched an eyebrow. He tried the door and, to his great surprise, it was unlocked. He glanced around and slipped in. The library was three stories with book after book arranged on the walls. The ancient cells where monks worked on illuminated manuscripts still dotted the ground floor, and in the center of the library was the book he was looking for.
He crept down the stairs and walked up to the pedestal. The musty fumes of ancient paper filled his nostrils and the man in black rubbed his palms together. He couldn't read the texts, but it didn't matter. The abbey was in the middle of the Carpathians, and if he hadn't been told about this place, he would have sworn it never existed. The man checked the pedestal for alarms and traps and smiled. He planned his escape as he stood there.
Suddenly, he snatched the heavy tome and rushed back the way he came. Blood rending cries arose from the monks and nuns, but he kept running.
"How?" he asked himself.
Soon hundreds of red robed people, all brandishing pole arms appeared in the courtyard. They held bullet lanterns high in the air and pointed. Crossbow bolts zipped around him, and he snapped his grapple hook to the edge of the battlement and dove over the side.
He heard their footsteps thundering up to the walls as he repelled to the ground. The man in black stuffed the book in his satchel as he disappeared into the woods.
The curses of the angry monks carried on the wind.
Two days later, the man in black, now dressed in a dapper white linen suit enjoyed a cup of coffee in Paris. He glanced down at his full satchel and took a sip. He eyed some young women and smoothed his thin moustache, thinking of the money he was about to have bulging in his pockets.
"Andre le Blanc?" a cold, hollow voice said.
Le Blanc looked up and grinned smugly. A man in a black cloak stood before him, hood drawn. The cloaked man sat across from the white clad le Blanc and folded his long, gloved hands on the table.
"Ah yes, my friend," le Blanc said. "Would you like some coffee? No? That is too bad. It is most refreshing."
"Do you have the book?"
"Certes. Of course. Do you have my payment?"
"Of course."
The hooded man reached into his breast pocket and handed le Blanc a slip of paper. The Frenchman opened it and arched an eyebrow.
"As I sit," the hooded man said, "the sum of two million American dollars is being deposited into your Swiss account."
"Bon. As soon as I receive confirmation of the deposit, I will turn the book over to you."
"Of course."
Suddenly le Blanc felt the hooded man's eyes sear into his flesh. Icy tendrils wrapped around his brain. The Frenchman tried to scream, but silently opened his mouth. The images of the theft replayed in his mind, as if someone was forcing him to remember. A cruel grin split the hooded man's thin lips, as he cast his gaze to the satchel under the table. He slowly rose and picked up the book.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you," the hooded man said icily.
The hooded man walked away, as le Blanc, puppet like, pulled a gun from his vest and put it to his temple.
The hooded man turned and watched. "Au revior, Andre."
Andre le Blanc slowly squeezed the trigger.