The frantic escape from the café through back alleys and side streets with their luggage had kept their adrenalin pumping, and after a taxi ride to the airport, the shock was wearing off. Instead of getting out at the airport, Keith asked the driver to take them to a bed and breakfast in the area, someplace the driver might know.

Conveniently, it was a place run by his sister-in-law, and they were welcomed warmly with his recommendation. Barbara explained they needed a place to stay for one night because of their flight departure time and the woman waved off the explanation, saying one night was still income.

"Should you call your policeman friend?" Barbara asked, searching through her bag for a clean top.

"I don't think contact with anyone here would be a good move right now." He watched her change and then decided it might be a good idea to change his appearance too – just in case.

"I'm scared, Keith. This is not the Riviera trip I envisioned."

"You and me both."

"Do you think it was that Jean Paul that shot him?"

"I'm not so sure. He could have picked Snelgrove up at any time if he knew where he was. Maybe the other party Snelgrove alluded to – Tewksbury, Frossard's buyer. This scroll thing seems to have stirred up a lot of dangerous people. Can it be that valuable to justify what's happened?"

"We never thought so, but then we only had a screen image of what the client initially received. It could be something quite unique."

"Should we look at it? I mean is it safe to open?"

"If we're careful. It has to be looked at some time."

"Well, we aren't going anywhere until tomorrow. Shall we?"

The page lay before them, the wrapping open but not removed. Barbara stared in awe at the crumbling sheet with the cursive writing, her hand over her mouth.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

She clutched his arm. "I'm certainly no expert but I've seen enough old documents to believe this is rare . . . very rare, and the calligraphy . . ."

"How do you find out?"

"We use forensic paleographers for works like these. They have libraries of data about paper and ink and writing styles, which have all been documented, that they use for comparison. Plus there are all kinds of different tests they can perform."

"So is this a real find you think? How would anyone know?"

"Those comparisons I mentioned, they can often times find similar characters and from that, develop an alphabet or at least a few key words. They can test the ink and the paper – it's all very technical."

"How would Snelgrove know it was valuable though?"

"What do you think looking at it?"

"What do you mean, it looks old alright, and I don't know what the writing is?"

"Would you just toss it out?"

Keith made a face. "No- I don't know-"

"I mean knowing people have been killed and others are doing all they can to find it?"

He puffed his cheeks and looked at her. "I see your point. We'd better wrap it back up, it looks pretty fragile."

"Wait until I get some pictures." She took out her phone and snapped several shots of the piece then they carefully sealed it back inside the padded envelope.

Instinctively, Keith went to the window and scanned the street, satisfied for the moment that they were safe. When he turned back, Barbara was on the phone and he began to object but she held him back with a hand signal. When she finally got off the phone, he started again.

"Phone calls are not a smart thing to do while we are trying to hide, Barb."

"It was necessary. If we are going to risk our lives for this we need to see it is protected. That was a courier service in Paris that Arthur uses quite frequently. We can't fly back with this going through x-rays and handling by customs. It could be damaged beyond repair and we don't have any papers to exempt us from that."

"So how is a courier in Paris going to help?"

"It isn't one man, it's an agency with offices all over Europe. They're contacting Arthur for verification, and they have an office right here in Nice. We should know by this evening if we can hand this over to their man."

"Not Tremblay I hope."

"Wouldn't that be something? No, he's a private contractor. Our courier will come here with the proper carrier for precious documents, and take an agency plane home to Arthur."

"Can't we nick a ride with him?"

"No. They are pre-cleared with all the paperwork direct from Paris – no extra passengers."

***

The men stood at silent attention around the room, awaiting the coming explosion from their boss. Jean Paul sat on his lounge, pulling his lower lip and staring out the large window to the sky. The news that Snelgrove had been tapped had not gone over well. Somebody else was in the game and it was someone he didn't know.

Several theories from the men did little to ease his currently suppressed rage. They didn't know he was with anyone. There was no indication. They weren't certain he had the item with him. They were just keeping watch to see his next move. The shooting took them all by surprise and it was then they noticed the other couple fleeing the café.

Jean Paul stood and wandered to his desk, tension was palpable in the room.

"I want every means of transportation blocked. This pair must not get out of Nice let alone France. I don't care if it means bicycles and scooters, nothing moves with those two on it. Am I clear?"

Relieved agreement from all the men hung in the air as they quickly departed the scene. Jean Paul picked up his phone and dialled.

"Constable Marchand. Your friend from overseas, where might I find him."

The reply was hushed and nervous. "You shouldn't call me here, there are too many people around."

"I asked you a question."

"I don't know. He called to say they were leaving Wednesday but I don't know where they are now."

"Flying?"

"I believe so – they flew here."

"He didn't say."

"No, I just assumed-" The line went dead.

Word went out to his soldiers to cover every accommodation near the airport, check taxis, rentals and to make sure the airport was thoroughly covered. Flying was the most obvious and since they were foreigners, likely their only thought. Jean Paul settled himself on his balcony patio and admired the young woman doing laps in the pool.

***

The concierge called their room announcing a male visitor and Barbara went downstairs to accompany the man up. Keith shook hands and showed the man the envelope. He turned to Barbara and said, in French, he had to verify the contents in front of them before taking receipt.

"We have to open the envelope again," she told Keith.

"I hope we don't destroy the damn thing before it gets back."

Barbara carefully removed the wrapped package and opened it again for the courier to see.

"Mon Dieu!"

"Something wrong?" Keith looked to Barbara.

"I think we just had another confirmation that this is old."

The courier re-packaged everything himself, muttering away unintelligibly in French then placed it in his special case, locked it and gave Barbara a copy of his verification for transport. She saw him out, thanking him for his service and went back upstairs.

"So, it's on its way now?"

"Yes. And we can be sure it gets there safely." She sat by the window, kneading her fingers. "Now all we have to do is get out safely ourselves."

"We will." He went to her and took her hands. "Why don't you get some sleep and we'll plan tomorrow in the morning."

"What about you?"

"I need to call my boss and fill him in. maybe he can help expedite things somehow, but he needs to know he can't trust the Municipal Police here."

She handed him her phone and he shook his head. "I'll use a landline here, a public phone box."

"You're going out!"

"There's a box on the corner I saw when we arrived. I'll be twenty minutes, and don't send those pictures you took. Don't use your phone anymore, okay?"

Keith checked the street carefully then went to the phone, placed his call, cursing at the time difference, and left a detailed message then hurried back to their room. Barbara had tipped over from a sitting position on the bed and was breathing softly, sound asleep.

He lifted her legs up and made her comfortable with only a sleepy purrfrom the disturbance, then he took up a spot on the other side, leaving hiscloths on and willing himself to sleep too