The Secret Prophecy Read Online Free PDF

take this opportunity . . .” And so on, just like an airline pilot. The lights did go on shortly thereafter, and the outside world disappeared, leaving Em to stare at his reflection in the window.
    “Know what?” one of the pasengers said to his wife. “If there was ever a good time for a terrorist attack, this would be it. Couple of well-placed bombs, and the whole place would come down.”
    “Let’s hope there won’t be a terrorist attack then,” his wife said calmly.
    Ten minutes later, while they were still in the tunnel, all the lights went out.
    Em barely mastered an impulse to grab Charlotte’s hand. His stomach was suddenly tight.
    “They’ll sort it out in a minute,” Charlotte said.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” said a cheerful female voice over the intercom. “A slight technical hitch with the lights as you may have noticed, but the engineer tells me he’ll have it corrected before you”—the lights came back on—“ah, there we are! Our apologies about that, but we’re almost back to daylight in any case.”
    Em looked around. The worried husband and wife were gone. There was no sign of a terrorist attack, no sign of anything unusual. At least he didn’t think so. There was a man in a well-cut suit seated near the back of the carriage behind a group of Japanese businessmen. Em didn’t think he’d been sitting there before, although his face did look vaguely familiar. But probably Em was wrong. Probably the man had been sitting there all the time.
    “Have you been to France before?” Charlotte asked. She seemed completely unfazed by the whole lights business.
    “School trip,” Em said. “It was awful.” He glanced back toward the end of the carriage. The man behind the Japanese businessmen was gone. It wasn’t until the train was pulling into the Paris Gare Du Nord that Em realized why his face looked familiar.
    It was the same man who’d been carrying the gun at his father’s funeral.

Chapter 8
    T here was a full-color brochure that featured a chorus line of showgirls on the reception desk of the hotel. Em turned his head away while trying surreptitiously to get a better look. He’d decided that the man on the train couldn’t possibly be the same man who’d been at the funeral; but all the same he was feeling a bit emotional, reminded of his father’s death, and a bit nervy, probably from being in an unfamiliar city. And the showgirl brochure underlined how unfamiliar Paris really was. The girls were only wearing feathers, which didn’t cover very much. You’d never see a brochure like that in a London hotel.
    “Freshen up,” Tom said as he handed them their key cards. “Have a rest or a bit of a nose around, practice your French. I’ve got a couple of things to do in my room, so don’t disturb me unless you absolutely have to. Don’t get into trouble. Don’t leave the hotel. Don’t charge up anything more than a Coke—”
    “How big a bottle, Dad?” Charlotte asked deadpan.
    “Very droll, darling. Now, all three of us will meet up here, in the lobby, at quarter to seven for an early supper. We’re off first thing for my big day, so you need to get a good night’s sleep. I don’t want to have to drag either of you out of bed in the morning.”
    Tom’s big day was the symposium on something where he was delivering his paper. Em would have avoided it if he could, and so, he suspected, would Charlotte; but there was no way Tom was going to let them loose in Paris on their own, so attendance was compulsory. As was guaranteed death by boredom. It was the only bit of the whole holiday that Em was actually dreading. He realized his father’s old friend was looking at him. “Right,” he said.
    He was in his room trying to figure out how the shower worked when there was a quiet knock at the door. Charlotte slipped in without invitation when he opened it. “Fancy a walk?” she asked.
    “Where to?” What he actually fancied was a long, cool shower, but he didn’t