Doomsday Medallion - VanOps #3

EXCERPT - THE DOOMSDAY MEDALLION, COPYRIGHT 2021, REPRINTED BY PERMISSION

PROLOGUE
Present Day
Salon-de-Provence, France
January 13, 1:45 p.m.

Disguised as a hunchbacked old man using a cane, the Watcher followed her down the narrow street called Rue Nostradamus. The raven-haired sixteen-year-old with a scarred face and her middle-aged au pair moved with purpose, their soles clacking like bones on the ancient cobblestones. He'd been waiting for them at the café near the intersection, where a handful of metal patio tables still clutched last night's frost.
Per his choice, only one young operative accompanied him on the potential kidnapping mission, a short, pit bull of a man named Raphael. Unhappily camouflaged as a woman, Raphael had followed the pair of females from the train station while updating the Watcher on their progress through a discreet high-tech bone-conducting microphone.
Moving further down the alley, he braced himself and the cane against the cold afternoon wind. As he hobbled past a battered blue barn door with rusty hinges, Avril, the girl, stopped and glanced back.
Does she know we're following her? he wondered.
He kept shuffling toward her, eyes downcast so she wouldn't notice his one glass eye. She turned her attention to the square plaque next to the entrance of Nostradamus's former abode. From prior visits, the man knew the sign announced that the famous prophet had been the guest of royalty during his lifetime and had left behind an impressive legacy of prophecies that fervent believers pored over whenever dramatic world events occurred.
The girl's hips swayed as she and the au pair entered the Musée Nostradamus. There were signs that the building was once beautiful—its tan brick walls held the remains of stucco, and the second-floor windows were laid out in an intriguing diagonal. But the modern touches, like the black metal and glass door, made it lovely no longer.
Taking shelter in a deep doorway next to the faded blue barn door, the Watcher leaned his cane against the wall and pulled out a pack of American cigarettes, the likes of which had added layers of gravel to his voice over the years. He spoke in French. "They are in the museum."
"I am around the corner." The operative's voice was low and rough, the sound of death rustling dry leaves in the night.
The deep voice made for an interesting contrast to Raphael's disguise, which had the man squirming the second he saw the navy skirt, flats, a fine wool coat, and flashy silver hoop earrings.
The Watcher took a single cigarette from the pack and, cupping his hand around the tip to ward off the wind, lit it with his gold lighter. "Good, wait there."
"We should take her today and find out what she knows."
He inhaled the smoke and considered the suggestion. His foreign patron had given him carte blanche. And it was tempting. But he'd been after this prize for most of his adult life and had learned to wait and observe. He'd earned his nickname.
"The time isn't right," he replied.
"But you believe she has the formula that Nostradamus used to see into the future."
For a moment, staring at the glowing tip of his smoke, he saw far into the past, recalling one of the bearded man's prophecies. On the first evening of July in 1566, Nostradamus, renowned physician, astrologer, and herbalist, had told his secretary, "You will not find me alive at sunrise." The prophet died the next day.
Based on mountains of research, the Watcher was convinced that Nostradamus had not only predicted his own death, but also hid the formula he used for his trances in a sealed box bequeathed to his daughter. Although the world's superpowers had been searching for decades to find the formula as a way to gain military supremacy, it remained hidden in the shadows of time.
"I have a hunch, only," the Watcher said, pulling on his smoke. "We have no facts yet that the girl has the box. It hasn't been seen in 450 years. And if she does have it, it's unlikely she'd be here, looking at wax mannequins."
"Why is she here then?"
Of late, the girl seemed fascinated with the seer. "I think she's learning what she can of Nostradamus. Research."
"If she does have it, though, it's worth a bonus for us, right?"
That was exactly why Raphael was here. Money. A generous, retire-to-the-Greek-islands financial reward. But for the Watcher, the funds paled next to the influence he would wield by having the ability to tell the future. He'd been obsessed with all things Nostradamus since before he joined the army. The United States had shown interest in the prophet in the 1970s after a new biography hinted that the seer had documented his secrets in a formula, but had dropped their search after a lack of immediate success. He smiled to himself; he'd played no small part in dissuading them to move on by eliminating the operative who'd been hot on the trail.
Such fools the Americans were. He knew the value of patience. And the potential prize of prophecy.
His benefactor was also well aware of the value of knowing the future. According to his sponsor, scientists had made strides with getting test subjects into trance states using sound and light machines, but the prophetic results were inconsistent. They needed precision, bullets-produced-to-spec-level consistency. From reading between the lines on recent encrypted phone calls, the Watcher didn't need a fortune-teller to tell him war was in the wind. The forthcoming military campaign would be won or lost based on how the US responded to his patron's first move.
Inside the museum, the girl wandered past the glass door, hands behind her back as she studied a wall-sized arcane diagram, similar to those drawn by Leonardo da Vinci. The Watcher had examined those images for decades, looking for hidden meanings. He'd never found any.
He took a final drag on his cigarette, dropped the butt, and ground it into the stone cobbles with the heel of his boot until no spark remained.
"Yes," he finally answered Raphael. "That's why we have her under surveillance. We will snatch her when the time is right."