Paise for Gospel Truths
“A splendid, tautly woven thriller… An intelligent mystery of tremendous spiritual and literary depth.”
—Booklist
“By turns contemplative, descriptive and emotive, this mixture of mystery and intrigue reveals intense preparation and fine writing.”
—Library Journal
Praise for The Hunting Club
“A gripping story, well-told… Not only a tale of murder and betrayal, but an intelligent exploration of issues of male identity.”
—Bestselling author Scott Turow
“Slickly entertaining, right down to the last, inevitable twist.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Sandom writes with stunning elegance and nearly poetic beauty… A sure hit with any suspense reader.”
—Booklist
Also by J.G. Sandom
Gospel Truths
The Hunting Club
I would like to thank Kate Miciak for her ongoing support; David Hale Smith for his stewardship; Sir Edward Dashwood, Bt., for his insights into the Hell-Fire Caves; Christy Thompson for granting me access to the Carpenters' Hall and Jim Cicalise for his spirited tour; Brigid Jennings and Terry Jung of the National Park Service for their perceptions of Thomas Edison and Shemaine McKelvin for her lecture about the Glenmont estate; Jonathan Korzen of the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine for his tour; my readers Dr. Matthew Snow, Marcia Zand and Sylvana Joseph for their keen ears and sage advice; Vanessa and Carl, Alexander and Benjamin, for their loving embrace of my folly; and my daughter, Olivia—my own personal God machine—who renews my faith every day.
J. G. Sandom
Summer 2008
Hopewell
For Judas, the misunderstood
Prologue
A.D. 33
El Minya, Egypt
EVEN BEFORE ABRAHAM AND THE BOY REACHED THE CAVE near El Minya, the old man knew he was dying. A Roman blade had pricked his stomach and the bleeding was getting worse. They had traveled by camel for three nights due south, following the Nile, sleeping by day, hidden by papyrus and palm fronds, like scorpions. But while they had eluded their enemies, death lurked in the shadows of the caves of Kararra. And it was tired of waiting.
The Romans had known exactly how to attack them, and when. It was a sad truth of the times. At first Abraham and the boy had felt safe in Upper Egypt, far from the troubles in Judea. But even here, when a more orthodox Christian group felt pressure from a Gnostic wing, they sold their rivals to the Romans. Seius Strabo, Prefect of Egypt, was more than happy to crown his career by taking credit for the kill, to crow about the Christian death count in his weekly reports back to Rome.
Abraham sighed. Though barely fifty, he felt the full weight of the history of human avarice and folly press down on his chest. It was difficult to breathe. He pulled at his Judean headdress and loosened his burnous, and his long gray hair fell down across his narrow shoulders. It was cold. It was always so cold here in this country. It had been a long wet season, full of rain and locusts. Full of strange beasts. And one night, the moon had turned completely crimson. It was a time of omens. The old man smiled. A good time to be moving on.
A Cainite Christian of profound faith and devotion, the old man had no fear of the next world. He had reconciled himself long ago to his body's eventual extinction. But he had one final mission—and only one chance now to complete it.
The old man rolled over, into a cauldron of pain. He clenched his jaw and felt the sweat break out on his brow. It was twilight. A tongue of night air flicked in from the desert, quickening the cavern's darkness. With another sigh, Abraham heaved himself up on one elbow, closer to the fire. “David?” he cried hoarsely. “David, are you there? Come into the light.” Where was his grandson? Abraham stared at the shadows that danced in the cavern, but his eyes were scaled over by cataracts. He couldn't see anything.
In an instant, the willowy David knelt down by his side. The old man reached out. To touch his face. To be certain, be sure.
Or, perhaps, just to feel. His talonlike fingers curled round the cheek and the soft dimpled chin of his grandson.
“I have a secret, a terrible secret,” he whispered. “I've carried it for a long time. Too long, really. Forgive me, for I am tired now, David. I can carry it no longer. But you, David, you can record it for me, set it down in Mishnaic and Greek, as I have taught you to do. The logoi. The words. Before they crumble into the folds of the desert, into the sands, with the rest of the man that surrounds me.” He fingered his stomach, tried to laugh. Then he grew suddenly serious. He grabbed at his grandson, twisting the flesh of his forearm and the muscles beneath. “The words of a man that I knew as a boy. A man named Judas Iscariot.
“Record his words,” he insisted. “And then hide them away from the world. Hide them from the Sanhedrin and the Romans, from everyone, David, save from those who believe in the Word. Now bring me the codex. There is something I have to set down, in my own hand, as it was passed unto me.”
The boy did as he was told. The old man selected a pen, dipped it into a calabash of black ink and began to trace a pattern of fine lines, rectangles and circles, in a dance of exquisite proportion.
When he was finished, he felt the unspeakable burden of memory leach through his joints and his ligaments, drip from his fingertips. He rolled onto his back. “He was a man of great faith, Judas, always kind to me, always,” Abraham told his grandson. “Lest we forget. And his Master's closest companion, despite what you hear. Jesus came to Judas, and He said to him, ‘Step away from the others, and I shall tell you the mysteries of the kingdom. It is possible for you to reach it, but you will grieve a great deal.’”
The old man shuddered, remembering the vision—or had it only been a dream? He had seen Judas at the head of that gully, as the other disciples descended, all around him, with those stones in their hands. Those stones. They had gathered around him like wolves. Foul murder! The skin simply tore from his face.
“‘You will be cursed by the other generations,’ Jesus said, ‘and you shall come to rule over them… you will exceed all of them. For you will sacrifice the man that clothes me so that I may fulfill the prophecies.’
“Judas said, 'Please don't ask me to betray you, my Lord.'
“And Jesus said, ‘Lift up your eyes and look at the cloud, and the light within it, and the stars that surround it. The star that leads the way is your star, Judas.’”
1492
Milan
THE VISION CAME UPON DA VINCI IN THE EARLY HOURS OF the morning. It was still dark outside the window. Only an occasional oxcart winding by, only a few lost revelers disturbed the quiet rhythms of the city before dawn. Da Vinci sat up in his cot, looked over at his desk and sighed. He had no choice. When a vision came upon him as it had, there was little point in trying to venture back to sleep.
He struck a flame, lit a lamp; he stood and stretched, and scratched his long gray beard. He poured himself a cup of wine, left over from the previous evening's meal, still heaped upon a pewter plate nearby: half of a pheasant breast, a trifle gamey; some kind of sausage, pork; a broken discus of wheat bread. He took another sip of wine and pretended not to notice the decaying flesh.
Almost without thinking, he reached out for his nearest notebook, open to his rendering of “Vitruvian Man,” the circle in the square. It was lying on top of his studies of Cecilia Gallerani, the duke's mistress; by his charcoal sketch of “Il Cavallo”—the equestrian statue designed to honor the duke's father; right next to those drawings of his gear train mechanical calculator…
Il Cavallo! Any minute now, Duke Ludovico Sforza would come barreling through that door and demand to see the masterwork he'd commissioned weeks earlier.Da Vinci winced and took another sip of wine. Weeks, or was it months? As if it were easy to keep cranking out statues and portraits, one right after the other. As if he were some sausage-maker, official butcher to the Duchy.
Da Vinci spread the notebook out before him on his desk. There. On the blank page facing “Vitruvian Man.” He had no time to waste. He did not want to lose the pattern. And he could always tear the drawing from the notebook later, and find some hiding place.
He reached out for a nearby leather satchel and removed another illustration. It was a copy of a copy, badly smudged and wrinkled, but it was all he had to work with. And it had taken him a considerable amount of time to find it, almost sixteen years, not to mention a small fortune to procure it from that bookseller in the Levant. Contrary to the popular myth, which he himself had invented, Leonardo was not the illegitimate son of a local peasant girl from Vinci named Caterina, who had left her destitute husband and child to run off with another man from a neighboring village. In truth, his mother had been a slave girl from Constantinople. He still had his contacts in the Arab world.
Da Vinci admired the pattern of fine lines, the rectangles and squares, the circles that danced in exquisite proportion.
He lifted the blank page in his notebook, across from “Vitruvian Man.” The parchment was thin enough for him to see the other drawing beneath. Then, he began to add his own imbroglio of fine lines, circles and rectangles, extending the pattern, adding on.
It was almost noon when Duke Ludovico Sforza started banging on his door. The sound was so disturbing that it tore da Vinci from the spell which had been riding him all morning. He felt it shedding like a second skin, a spent cocoon, the remnants of another self still dangling from his shoulder blades and fingertips and hair. He shook himself, he looked about the room, but he could not for the life of him remember how he'd gotten there.
“Leonardo! I know you're in there. I can hear you. Open this door instantly!”
Da Vinci hurried over to the door and swung it open.
Duke Ludovico Sforza glowered in the corridor. His liquid coal-black eyes looked bottomless. His dark hair hung about his face. It was no wonder he was called Il Moro—The Moor. “As long as I remain your patron, this is my house,” the duke sputtered, striding forward, eyeing every object with suspicion. He wore a coat of the deepest iridescent purple, like the wings of a butterfly, and Leonardo made a note to remember the color. “These are all my doors,” continued the duke, “to lock or unlock, as I please. As I will.”
“Of course.” Da Vinci leaned forward in a kind of bow. “As you will.”
“Where is my father's masterwork?”
“I wish you'd stop referring to it in that manner, my Duke.”
Ludovico Sforza, Regent and Duke of Milan, son of the great Condottiere Francesco, waved his left hand and said, “If you'd have the world believe in you, Leonardo, you must first believe in yourself.” He hovered for a moment by da Vinci's desk.
No, not a butterfly, thought da Vinci. More like a moth.
Sforza tugged at the studies of his mistress, Cecilia Gallerani, pulled them out and scanned them quickly in succession. “Is this it? Is this all you've been working on? I saw all of these pieces weeks ago. What about my father's masterwork? ‘Il Cavallo,’ Leonardo. The bronze horse, twenty-four feet high, which—as you wrote in your letter—shall endue with immortal glory and eternal honor the auspicious memory of the prince, my father,and of the illustrious house of Sforza.” The duke's eyes settled on da Vinci's notebook, the sketch of “Vitruvian Man,” and that strange drawing on the other side. “What's this? Another study? Another commission, perhaps? Some thing from Florence?”
Da Vinci snatched the notebook from Duke Sforza's grasp. “For another time, my Duke. Another lifetime, really.” He smiled and tucked it away. “Unworthy of your attention. But you are in luck.”
“Don't patronize me, Leonardo. I'm tired of waiting. Enough of your studies, your exercises, your sinewy deadlines and tiresome delays, your procrastinations and excuses—”
“For today is the day I begin…” said da Vinci. And he felt the knowledge descend upon him like an imponderable weight. “… your father's masterwork.”
1738
Philadelphia
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN WAS AWAKENED BY THUNDER. HE HAD been walking with Franky through an apple orchard, the one behind Bishop White's house. And they had been kicking the apples together down the swale, which ended at Dock Creek. And Franklin had kicked one particularly hard, and had turned toward his son with a great smile on his face, as if to say “You see? See how far?” But Franky was no longer there. And then that thunderclap unrolled through the city like a wave on the strand, and Franklin was alone in his nightshirt, lying in bed, sweat-soaked and stinking of fear.
Someone was knocking, not on his door, but somewhere below. Franklin could hear it. At the front door, no doubt, facing Market Street. Then the banging stopped,and someone was standing outside of his bedroom, in the corridor, right there on the landing, moaning and moving about by his door.
“Mr. Franklin, sir?” Peter offered up querulously.
Franklin rolled out of bed. He put on his spectacles. His clothes had been laid out with punctilious care, following a tested system linking joint movements to articles of clothing, and he started to dress with great speed and efficiency. Franklin was thirty-two. He still retained much of the muscular physique he had engineered for himself through his passion for swimming as a youth, abetted by his dynamic nervous energy, but his vegetarianism had failed the test of time, and he was growing soft about the middle.
Ever since his appointment as Postmaster General the previous year, Franklin rarely ate at the house that he rented on Market Street. He loved his Deborah—in his own way, to be sure—but her stews, made with a paucity of ingredients, no doubt meant to impress upon him her frugality, were singularly unexpressive, devoid of flavor. In a word: dull.
Franklin simply couldn't help it, despite his espoused penchant for moderation, and much to his chagrin. He enjoyed fine food and drink. While his bastard son William should have been a constant reminder of the price of his unfettered passions, Franklin still tried to disregard the knowledge that his stupendous appetites would—one day, at some great age, no doubt—come back to haunt him.
The result was he had grown used to taking his meals about town on most evenings, at the homes of friends, associates, or acquaintances, being feted by vendors, a visiting dignitary in some alien province, doing business as Postmaster General.
He was already losing his hair—a source of great dismay to Franklin, so much so that he flaunted his baldness, and ofttimes refused to wear wigs wherever it might prove most explosive not to do so. But to be losing his figure as well!
It was all going to hell, he thought, all falling apart. Since Franky.
“Mr. Franklin?” said Peter.
“Yes, I'm coming,” snarled Franklin. “Who's calling at this unholy hour?”
“The old Jew,” Peter said.
In the middle of the night, and in inclement weather? It was too late for cards and too early to argue philosophy. Unless… Franklin opened the door. “Is he alone?”
“No, Mister Franklin,” said Peter. The middle-aged house slave glanced nervously down the corridor, as if hunting about for the answer. “He has a gentleman with him,” he added, still averting his eyes. “A foreigner.”
Franklin grabbed Peter by the shoulders. He spun him about, as though he meant to attack him. Then he laughed, stepped around him and bounded away down the stairs.
Simon Nathan, the chief rabbi of Philadelphia, stood on the stoop facing Market Street. At his side, Franklin noticed a stranger, a dark man in a dark cloak with a hood. They huddled together in the rain like a pair of hunting dogs.
“Come in. Come in,” Franklin said.
“Forgive us for intruding upon you at this hour, Benjamin,” said the rabbi, as he passed through the door, “but since you …” He shook the rain from his hat. “Since we …” He watched as it fell in a stream to the floor.
“You found it?” said Franklin.
The rabbi smiled. He was an old man with dark brown eyes ringed by years of hard service. “Yes, we found it.”
“Where?”
“In Cairo.”
As if performing a magic trick, the stranger reached under his cloak and removed a leather-bound codex, a loose binder of cinnamon paper.
“This is my friend, Haym Solomon,” the rabbi said. “He arrived on the night boat from Spain. Before that, on foot and by camel from Cairo, across the Sahara.”
Franklin glanced about the foyer. “Peter,” he called. “Warm up some brandy for our guests. Peter? You're soaked to the skin. Peter! Where did he go now? He was right on my heels.”
“No, no brandy for us, thank you, Benjamin,” said the rabbi. “We can't stay. But I wanted to deliver this to you personally as soon as it reached me.” The rabbi took the codex from Solomon and gave it to Franklin. “In truth, I didn't want to keep it at the temple.”
Franklin stared down at the book in his hands. It was impossible to believe. After all this time. He cupped the leather spine, feeling the age of the codex seep into his fingertips. “You're sure it's the one, the Gospel we wanted?”
The rabbi fingered his payots. “The one you were seeking,” he said, with a sigh. “But not what you wanted, I fear, Benjamin. Listen to me. I tell you this as your friend. There is a reason it has been hidden from the world for seventeen hundred years. It will bring you no good. It will visit upon you the wrath of your enemies. They will rise up and strike you.”
The rabbi put on his hat. “Let it go, Bennie. Franky's dead.” Without another word, he took his companion by the arm and, together, the pair made their way through the door, down the street, until they vanished into the falling rain.
Franklin folded the codex in his arms. He closed and bolted the door. Then he took the lamp which Peter had left in the foyer and made his way back upstairs.Deborah still slept in her chambers. The house was dead silent.
Franklin's study was at the rear of the house. It was a small room, paneled with books and littered with half-built inventions. Maps and portraits hung from the walls, but he did not look at them this night. Instead, he put the lamp on his desk and sat down. With a sigh, he opened the codex. It consisted of hundreds of brittle pages of dusty papyrus, most already shattered on the edges like slate.
And there it was. On the very first page. Right there. On the frontpiece itself! That pattern of lines, quadrangles and circles, rectangles and squares in a dance of exquisite proportion.
After all this time, the legends were true!
Franklin leaned back in his chair and laughed. He reached over for that small carafe of medicinal rum which he kept on his desk. He poured out a dram in a simple tin cup. Then he rose to his feet and made his way to the wall across from his desk. To that painting. To Franky.
His son was still smiling. Still full of joy. And still dead from the pox, at age four, two years earlier.
“You should have seen how I kicked that apple, Franky. All the way to Dock Creek,” Franklin said. “Of course, we'll have to do something about it eventually. A stitch in time… Lazy servants from all over the neighborhood empty the fruits of our necessaries right into Dock Creek. Not to mention the tanneries along Harmony Lane. One day it will bring down the cholera. Mark my words.” A flash lit the room for an instant. A thunderclap followed.
Franklin lifted his cup. “Soon, Franky.” He toasted the painting. “As I promised you. I'll be there, beside you, and I'll rock you to sleep in my arms once again.”
TOM MOODY WAS WORKING AT THE FAR END OF THE BASEMENT, kneeling on a plastic tarpaulin, when he first spied a corner of the box in the wall. It was nestled in a small depression, immediately beside the joist. It was made out of wood. Moody worked his trowel around the edges, and the dense compacted dirt, trapped for two hundred years, came undone, tumbled down. He wiggled the box from the hole.
In the bright glow of the work light, he could just make out a series of engravings on the top, scarred and covered in dirt: a Mason's square and a pyramid; some kind of seal. There was a latch on one side. Moody pulled the box into his lap. He opened the latch, lifted the lid. Inside was a book of some sort, a kind of notebook or journal. He put the box on the floor. Then he removed his work gloves. He turned the cover of the notebook over and his heart skipped a beat as he picked out the signature: B. Franklin.
* * *
The fact of the matter is, Tom Moody shouldn't have gone to work that day at all. He'd been up late the night before at that Thai joint on Bainbridge, in Center City, on a blind date with a girl he'd met on the Net. After his most recent string of failures, Moody hadn't been expecting much. But the date had gone great. The girl's name was Miranda. She had long brown curly hair and a big rack, and when he spotted her in the restaurant wearing that leotard—the way she was leaning with her hip out and her hand on the bar, the way she smiled at him when he called out her name—he knew that his luck had just turned. She was Catholic, too. They had stayed for Pad Thai and green tea, then gone dancing, and everything had somehow just clicked, in that weird freaky way that it does. At least sometimes. He had awakened beside her at dawn, still excited. His cell phone was ringing. It was Tony, his buddy from the union. There was a freelance gig, it turned out, at Franklin Court. If he was interested.
A tall bundle of muscle, with teal-colored eyes, a shiny shaved head and a nose ring, Tom Moody found a ten-dollar bill at the bus stop on his way to the hall. It was just lying there. He bent down, half expecting it to fly away or be pulled back by some invisible thread, but it just sat there, and he picked it up and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather jacket.
By the time he got to Franklin Court, he'd already bought two tickets for that night's drawing of the Powerball Jackpot.
The job was pretty straightforward. The Independence National Historic Park had authorized some structural engineering work under Franklin Court, at the former home and print shop of Benjamin Franklin, off Market Street. Over the centuries, the buildings surrounding Franklin Court had shifted. Recent excavations had shown less-than-optimal support structures beside the new museum. They had to go in through the basement of the old house, excavate and shore up the supports.
Moody flipped through the pages of the journal in his hand. It was all nonsense, he decided. The sentences were blocked together in distinctive rows of three, but the letters didn't link to form words. They seemed random, a jumble. Then he noticed a few words he recognized: The Gospel of Judas. And besides the familiar English alphabet, two foreign languages. Greek, Moody speculated. He'd seen it before at Greek diners. Plus some alien script.
“I found something,” said Moody, as he settled the box on Ian Wilson's desk.
Short and round, with thinning hair combed adroitly across his bald spot, Wilson was the general contractor on the Park job, and the guy responsible for interfacing with the Independence Park Service officials. He generally worked over by Rittenhouse Square, but had set up a temporary office on Third Street and Chestnut. The space was Spartan: a desk and a chair; a PC; a secondhand file cabinet and a coffee machine.
Wilson wore a light brown windbreaker, with the name of the Little League baseball team he sponsored—The Thunders—stenciled on the front, and a blue button-down shirt. He glanced up from his paperwork. “What is it?” He glared at the dirt-covered box on his desk.
“In the north wall,” Moody said. “Just under the basement joist. Some kind of hiding spot, I guess. Go ahead. Open it.”
Wilson frowned. He reached over, unlatched the top and opened the box. “A book?” He looked up at Moody.
“A journal,” said Moody. “Or diary. And look at the front cover, on the inside.”
Wilson did so. He gasped as he saw the signature. There was no mistaking that florid horizontal double helix underneath the stolid script. B. Franklin. He turned a few more pages with care.
“It's in some kind of foreign language,” Moody said. “But I don't recognize it.”
“No,” Wilson said. “Not a language. A code, I'd guess.”
“I found a phrase,” countered Moody, feeling suddenly disheartened. It was as though, through Wilson's single observation, the title to his remarkable discovery had been unceremoniously transferred. “Look, here,” Moody said. He stepped around the desk. He leaned across the surface and began to flip through the pages.
Wilson pushed him away. “Your hands are still dirty. Just show me.”
“Keep going. More,” said Moody. “More. There. Right there. See? On the bottom right.”
“The Gospel of Judas,” said Wilson. “In Greek and in Hebrew. The Gospel of Judas!” He whistled. “That's a Gnostic text. The Gnostics were an early Christian sect, considered heretical by the organized Church.”
“Is that what that writing is? Looks different from the Jewish I've seen.”
“Hebrew.”
“Right,” said Moody with a nod. “That's what I meant.” This was not going as visualized, as manifested, he thought. That's what Miranda had called it the previous evening at that Thai place. She had leaned in to him at the bar, all of a sudden, before they'd been seated, leaned in with her long brown curly hair. And she had told him that things only happened when you visualized them first, and when you were in harmony, in tune with the laws of attraction. Something like that. “Hey, Mr. Wilson. Do you think there might be some sort of finder's fee… you know, for digging up the box?” Moody asked. “Not that I'm trying to take no advantage. Just wonderin'.”
“I doubt it,” said Wilson. “It's a National Park. It belongs to the Feds. To the people, Moody,” he added and laughed. “You and me.”
“What are you going to do, give it to Thompson?” Larry Thompson was the curator of Independence Park. Moody had met him before, on another project three years earlier.
Wilson closed the journal, slipped the lid into place. He pulled the box toward his chest. “On the other hand, there might just be a reward,” he continued. “I could find out for you. Wouldn't surprise me in the least. Play your cards right and this freelance gig might turn into something permanent. You never know, Moody. And you're right, of course—Larry Thompson should see it. Right away.”
Wilson stood up. He reached into his pants and took out his wallet. It was stuffed full of papers, on a chain attached to his khakis. “Do me a favor, will ya?” He flipped open the wallet and pulled out a ticket. “Swing over to the garage by Christ Church and pick up my car. It's a black Continental. Level three. I have to make a call before I leave. Then you can break early for lunch.” He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “On me.” There was a charm on the chain by his wallet, shaped like a small Mason's square. “Meantime, until I hear what Thompson has to say, might as well forget about this box here. Probably not real, anyway. And you don't want to go spoiling your chances of earning some reward now, do you?”
Moody took the ticket from Wilson. Then he took the hundred-dollar bill. The wheel of life had just turned. He was in harmony, in tune. What should he manifest next?
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN SAT AT THE TABLE BY THE ENTRANCE TO Tun Tavern, watching the late afternoon crowd amble by, waiting upon Henry Price. Located on the waterfront at the corner of Water Street and Tun Alley, the three-story beer tavern had been built in 1685 by Samuel Carpenter, whose apparent lack of imagination had resulted in his failure to come up with anything more interesting than Tun, the old English word for cask or barrel. Franklin took another sip of his pale ale and belched. Carpenter should have called it the Dun Tavern, he thought, based on the color of the patrons' clothes, or simply Dung Tavern. After all, the tavern's proximity to the river cast a malodorous pall across the establishment during these hot days of summer. That's when he first spotted Price down the street. He was walking with two other gentlemen. Franklin stood up, downed his beer and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. This was it, he thought. The great day had finally arrived.
Henry Price was a thin man with a ferretlike face,bright chestnut brown eyes flecked with green and long straight black hair. He wore a simple dark frock coat and tricorne hat with a low crown, without trimming, that did little to reveal his profession. Born in London in 1697, Price had been admitted to the Freedom of the Company of Merchant Tailors by Patrimony on the first of July, 1719, but had emigrated soon thereafter, in 1723, to the port city of Boston. Only the year before, Franklin had learned, Price had opened his own shop between Water and State streets, and the business was doing quite well. More important—though not yet officially recognized by Viscount Montagu, Grand Master of the Moderns' Grand Lodge in London—Price played the role of Provincial Grand Master to the Freemasons of the colonies, and had agreed, after some urging, to usher the twenty-five-year-old Franklin into the mysteries of the Craft.
Price entered the tavern. Franklin rose to greet him and noticed, for the first time, that the Grand Master was carrying a box under his left arm. “Brother Price,” he said. “How was your voyage?” Franklin examined the other two men. One was short and rather fat, wearing a wig of inferior quality. The other was tall with bad teeth.
Franklin and Price exchanged a quick handshake. “Fair sailing,” said Price. Then he turned toward his friends. “Fellow travelers from Boston,” he said. “Robert Tomlinson.”
The fat man made a slight bow.
“And Thomas Oxnard,” said Price, with a tilt of the head.
The tall man with bad teeth nodded almost imperceptibly. “You've started to make quite a name for yourself, Mr. Franklin. Some say you'll be Postmaster General in no time.”
Franklin felt himself blushing. He had been dreaming of little else for the past year or more, and yet he had never considered his ambition to be so readily apparent as far north as Boston. Franklin had started to answer when Price interrupted him, saying, “Is the room ready?”
“It is,” replied Franklin. “Follow me.”
They made their way past the patrons to the rear of Tun Tavern. At the end of a long corridor, Franklin knocked on a door, and a small man with a bald head and crooked nose peered through the crack as it opened. He nodded at Franklin and let the men in.
The room was small, barely large enough to accommodate a dining table and four chairs. One window faced out onto Tun Alley. But it had been covered by curtains, Franklin noticed. Only the glow of a candle on the table revealed the men's faces.
“This is the proprietor of the Tun, David Carpenter,” Franklin said.
“I know your father,” said Price. “How is Sam?”
David Carpenter beamed. “Fine, fine,” he said with an excess of zeal. “He sends you his best, Brother Price. And may I add that you're looking particularly well.”
Franklin smiled to himself. Carpenter was no fool. He knew that if things progressed smoothly, the Tun would soon see more rituals and, with them, more customers, too.
“Oxnard and Tomlinson will set up the temple,” said Price. “You stay here with me, Ben, and I'll dress you.”
Carpenter, Oxnard and Tomlinson slipped out of the room through a side door. When they had gone, Price turned and dropped the box he'd been carrying onto the table. He lifted the cover and Franklin took a step closer. There it was. Franklin could scarcely contain himself. His Freemason's apron! And below it, a book.
Price reached into the box and removed the two objects. “Practice,” he said, as he poked at the book.
Franklin picked up the volume. He opened the cover and flipped through the pages.
“I've marked it,” said Price. He pointed at a long piece of ribbon which dangled down from the volume.
Franklin turned the pages, scanning the curious illustrations and diagrams within. He had almost reached the page in question when his eyes fell upon a symbol he recognized; it was the Greek letter phi. And below it, a picture of the Ark of the Covenant, with light shooting out of the sides just like lightning, transfixing the enemies of Israel who crowded about it. To the side, he noticed another strange diagram, with the words “The Gospel of Judas” in script just above it. “What's this?” Franklin said, pointing down at the page.
Price looked over. He pinched his lips and replied, “Further back, Ben. By the ribbon.”
Franklin stared at the page. He could not tear his eyes away from that curious diagram, the circles and squares. The pattern was hypnotizing. With an effort, he glanced up from the volume, an expression of helplessness pinned to his face.
Price smiled. “I know. It's the pattern. The God machine, Ben. Though it's still incomplete.”
“The what?”
Price shook his head. “Further back, by the ribbon. Turn away, Ben. Or you'll waste your whole life on a dream.”
“What's the God machine?”
“Of that, we'll talk later, if you're up to it. But first, do you know all your lines?”
Franklin sighed. He flipped back to the page in the volume that was marked with the ribbon. He glanced at the text for a moment, then nodded and said, “I'm prepared, Brother Price. I've been practicing.”
“Very good.” Price picked up the apron. He flared it and the material wafted down to the surface like a tablecloth. Franklin stared at the intricate stitching.
The apron featured a black-and-white checkerboard pattern representing the floor of the Temple of Solomon—good and evil. It was framed by four pillars: In the rear were the pillars of Boaz; in the front, the two pillars of Enoch. Each was crowned by a globe. At the rear of the checkerboard pattern rose an altar, fixed with a compass and square. And above it, the six-pointed stars of the liberal arts—all seven of them; the all-seeing eye of the Grand Architect; and a rainbow, the great arch of heaven. The whole thing was bordered by a ribbon of red, white and blue. “It's beautiful,” Franklin said. He drew in his breath. “It's…” But he could not quite finish. The diagram from the book still swam in his head. He felt it imprinted within him, like the memory of the sun on his retina after closing his eyes.
“It was made in the Orient. Can you interpret these signs?” Price pointed at a number of symbols embroidered throughout.
Franklin hesitated. Then he plucked out a pair of gold spectacles from his topmost coat pocket. “The eyes,” he exclaimed. “I'm half blind in this light. Like my father. Soon my hair will fall out, mark my words.” He settled the glasses on the bridge of his nose and looked down.
“The border is plain,” he continued. “Red is the color of Royal Arch Masonry, of courage and fire. White stands for purity. And blue is the color of Symbolic Masonry, the Blue Lodge, and of faith and eternity.”
Price pointed at the figure of a box topped with two squares on their edges.
“The forty-seventh problem of Euclid. Although it's really a theorem, not a problem,” said Franklin.
Price sighed. He pointed at a series of other illustrations, one by one.
“The plumb line admonishes us to walk upright through life…”
“And before God,” countered Price
“And before God. The Trowel spreads the cement of goodwill amongst Men. The Pentagram represents the five points of fellowship, with the letter G in the middle for geometry…”
“And God.”
Franklin followed Price's finger as he tapped at the apron. “The Beehive is the emblem of industry. The Square and the Compass are the Great Lights of Masonry.”
“Very good,” Price replied. “And the Sword at the Heart?”
“Shows how justice will soon overtake us and that—though sometimes obscured from our brothers—our actions are never invisible to the All-Seeing Eye.”
Price's finger stopped moving. Franklin peered down at the apron. The Grand Master was pointing at a tiny black coffin at the base of the checkerboard pattern. “And this?”
“Death,” Franklin said with a shrug. “What we all face.”
“Some sooner than others,” said Price. He placed his right arm across his stomach, the palm turned toward the floor. Slowly, and with a small noise at the back of his throat, he ran his thumb along his abdomen, as if cutting open his stomach. Then he dropped his right hand at his side. “If one fails to keep secrets.”
Franklin nodded. Price's meaning was obvious. He watched as the tailor from Boston picked up the apron. “Come forward,” he said.
Franklin did as he was told. The Grand Master slipped the apron around him and tied it. “It's time,” Price continued, standing back and admiring his handiwork.
They entered the main room together. It was laid out exactly like the picture on his apron, with an altar at the rear of the chamber and a checkerboard floor. On the surface of the altar, illuminated by candles, Franklin noticed a compass and square, and a Bible. Tomlinson sat on a chair to the left of the easternmost corner, and Oxnard and Carpenter—the Grand Wardens—to the south and the west. Price led Franklin forward until they stood by the altar. Then Franklin knelt down.
“I now present my right hand in token of friendship and brotherly love,” Price continued, “and will invest you with the grip and the word. As you are uninstructed, he who has hitherto answered for you will do so at this time.”
Carpenter came forward. He stood beside Franklin.
“Brother Senior Deacon,” said Price.
Carpenter snapped to attention. “Worshipful Master.”
“I help.”
“I conceal.”
“What do you conceal?” Price replied.
“All the secrets of Masons in Masonry to which this…” Carpenter took Price's hand in his own. He pressed his thumb against the first knuckle of Price's right hand. “…token alludes.”
“What is this?” Price pressed his thumb to the first knuckle of Carpenter's hand.
“The grip of an Entered Apprentice.”
“Has it a name?”
“It has.”
“Will you give it to me?”
“I did not so receive it, neither will I so impart it.”
“How will you dispose of it?”
“Letter it or halve it.”
“Letter it and begin.”
“You begin.”
“Begin you.”
“A.”
“B.”
“O.”
“Z.”
Then Price turned and looked down at Franklin. “Boaz, my Brother,” he said, “is the name of this grip, and should always be given in the customary manner, by lettering or halving. When lettering, always commence with A.”
Franklin nodded. He was trying to concentrate. He was trying to remember each moment. But all he could think of was that strange illustration in the book Price had shown him. The God machine. And the Gospel of Judas, he thought. And he wondered how many more rituals he'd have to endure before seeing that volume again.
IT WAS A BALMY JUNE DAY, WITH JUST A HANDFUL OF CLOUDS in the azure blue sky, and Nick Robinson was speculating if he should step out for a sandwich in Union Square Park or work through lunch once again when Robert Macalister buzzed him. Robinson leaned across his Louis XV desk and tapped at his intercom.
“You have a package, sir,” said Macalister.
Robinson sensed the note of urgency in Macalister's voice. Robert had been working for the family for as long as he could remember. “Enlighten me.”
“You're going to want to look at this personally, sir.”
“All right. Come on in, Robert.”
Tall and broad-shouldered, with slightly graying black hair, gray eyes and eaglelike features, Nick Robinson sat back in his chair and surveyed his office. As he was the president of midsized publishing company Compass Press, the last of the great independents, one would have expected the room to be filled with books. Instead, the office was decorated as if it were somebody's living room, with tasteful satin sofas and chairs of the most sublime blues over a silk Persian rug, with landscapes by Homer, a Frederic Remington bronze and a Hudson River scene by Durand.
Robinson belonged to that rare group of businessmen who worked for the fun of it. He had already made several fortunes as a commodities broker in his youth, retired at thirty and then surprised everyone by purchasing this broken-down publishing company called Compass Press, only to bring it back from the brink of extinction with a spate of best-sellers. All of this would have been bad enough, but Robinson was already the sole heir to one of America's largest family fortunes—railroads on his father's side, and steel on his mother's. If there was anyone who didn't need more money, it was Nick Robinson.
There was a knock and the door to his office swung open. Tall and gangly, with a shock of black hair and startlingly blue eyes, Robert Macalister entered the room. He carried a box of PUMA running shoes in his hands. Cobalt Blue Karmaloops, it said on the label.
Macalister brought the box over and laid it gently on Robinson's desk. “From Philadelphia. A Knight Commander of Temple named Wilson,” he said as he lifted the lid.
Robinson peered over the lip of the box. Inside, on a bed of clear bubble wrap, lay a book, hand-stitched with a tan cowhide binding. Eighteenth-century, guessed Robinson. He reached into a desk drawer and removed a pair of white latex gloves. Then he slipped them on, snapping them noisily about the wrists, and removed the small leather volume. He opened the cover with care.
There had been moments like this before, Robinson thought, when everything had suddenly and unequivocally changed. Graduation from high school and college. His one hundredth million. The night he'd proposed to Theresa. Sean's birth. But nothing in his life had prepared Robinson for his first view of that signature. It seemed so strange and familiar at once. He was convinced he was seeing things until he drew the book closer. That double-helix flourish. The curve of the lettering. The weight and the texture of the paper. The feel of the frontpiece and spine. All of these details rushed together within him, and he felt his heart seethe in his chest. “You found it,” he said at last.
“It appears so, Mr. Robinson. But, I'm afraid—as we feared, sir—it's written in code. I've done my best…” said Macalister, his voice trailing off.
Robinson began to flip through the pages. The text was in English but the words were nonsensical, and they were clustered in long sets of three. “But can we be sure?” added Robinson. “It could be his gambling debts, or his sexual adventures, or his…”
Macalister reached out across Robinson's desk and began to turn the pages one by one. After a moment, he paused and pointed at the journal.
Robinson scanned the text. Once again, the letters made no sense until he reached the final sequence of the twelfth line: The Gospel of Judas. And then, right below, the same words in both Hebrew and Greek. But not just any Hebrew, Robinson knew. Mishnaic Hebrew. Before the Coptic rendering. So old! He felt a shiver snake down his spine. The Gospel of Judas. The God machine!
Robinson closed the book. He caressed the front cover one final time, and then placed the journal back in the shoe box. “Bring it to Karl, in Restoration,” he said. “Call Savita and tell her to expect company. How are the plans for the party?”
“Mrs. Robinson just telephoned. She said nearly everyone's coming.”
“Good, good. Add another name to the list.” Robinson turned and looked out the window.
People were milling about on the square. Playing Frisbee. Eating lunch. Making out. Completely oblivious, he thought.
“Who's that, sir?”
“Joseph Koster,” said Robinson. The fuse has been lit. It's already aglow in that box of blue Karmaloop sneakers. It's burning already, and they are oblivious.
Robinson turned back to his desk. He pulled off the white latex gloves and dropped them unceremoniously into the garbage can at his feet. “Thank you, Robert.”
As soon as Macalister had left the room, Robinson reached into the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, and removed a small canvas gym bag. He unzipped the zipper. The holster and pistol were curled in the bottom, shiny and black as an adder. Robinson removed his Glock 19 and loaded a bullet into the chamber.
Poor bastard, he thought. But if anyone could break Franklin's code, it was Koster.
THOMAS PENN STROLLED THROUGH THE HERB GARDEN OF the Pennsbury Mansion, at his father's country estate in Bucks County. A large man, with an egg-shaped head, small mouse-brown eyes and delicate white hands that quivered like a pair of cabbage butterflies before him as he talked, Penn sported a long snow-white wig and a blue velvet coat with a gold-colored waistcoat beneath. He was chatting with Presbyterian Church Elder Jedediah Andrews, when he turned abruptly and pointed at a pair of outbuildings at the far end of the garden.
“They're what my father called the Bake and Brew,” he said. “Where the cooks turn out roasts and meat pies. That's also where they wash the clothes, and there's a brewery t'other side. But, as you can see, they're in desperate need of repair. Juliana and I don't venture out to Pennsbury very often anymore. And those,” he pointed at another collection of outbuildings, “the joiner's shop; the ice house and plantation office, where my steward directs the labor of the manor; the smokehouse and woodshed.”
“It's charming,” Church Elder Jedediah Andrews said. “Quite charming.” He waved his arm across the rows and rows of flowers and herbs, the lavender and lemon balm, spearmint and basil, pink foxglove and cream-colored columbine. A short man, slightly stooped, with a long pointed nose and gold spectacles, Andrews wore a seedy black tricorne over an oily gray wig that seemed molded about his head like melted candle wax. His frock coat was so long it dragged across the gravel pathways of the garden as he hobbled to and fro with the help of an old hickory cane. An invitation to the Proprietor's house, the master of all Pennsylvania, was a coveted thing, and Andrews was acting accordingly.
“My father thought so,” said Penn. “But I'm inclined to be rid of the place. Who can stand the five-hour journey by barge from the city? It's simply too far. And the mosquitoes, the humidity…” He stopped, shook his head, looking back at the two-story mansion. “My father loved it, and the people of Pennsylvania loved him, but his Quaker generosity left the Penn household finances in a state of… What's the word? Disarray. Let's leave it at that. If one of your parishioners might be interested in the property, by all means, let me know.”
“About this Hemphill affair,” Andrews said. “These fringe churches and preachers are dangerous, Proprietor. They incite the basest elements in all the new immigrants. It's bad enough we're surrounded by heathens. And now this Jonathan Edwards with his Evangelical Congregationalism. Great Awakening, indeed! Speaking in tongues and…”
Penn sighed. “What happened with Hemphill?”
Samuel Hemphill was a young preacher from Ireland who had come to Philadelphia in 1734 to work as deputy at the Presbyterian Church. It was a time of great religious revival, of fervent evangelism, known as the Great Awakening, fomented by preachers like Jonathan Edwards. More interested in preaching about morality than Calvinist doctrines, Hemphill too started drawing large crowds. But the dearth of dogma in his sermons didn't endear him to church elders like Andrews. Hemphill was brought before the synod on charges of heresy. Then, an unexpected champion appeared at his side, defending his freedom to preach—Benjamin Franklin.
In reality, few things could have been further from Franklin's theology, Penn thought, than the “terror” sermons of Jonathan Edwards and the other Protestant traditionalists who were whipping up congregations into convulsive conversions. While Edwards and the Great Awakeners sought to reconnect the colonists to the spirituality of Puritanism, Franklin claimed he wanted to bring America into an era of so-called Enlightenment, exalting rationality and reason over faith; pluck and personal merit over class distinctions; tolerance, good deeds and civic duty over dogma. Dangerous concepts to the monarchy. And to the established Churches as well. Hemphill was doctrinally pure by insisting salvation came only through grace. But he was also heavily involved in charitable work. It was this practical manifestation of his faith that had endeared him to Franklin, no doubt, Penn surmised. That odious printer seemed to be behind every charity, every club, indeed every scheme to raise money in the city. Now he was talking of opening a hospital where they would treat common riffraff for free!
“See what he writes,” Andrews said, drawing a newspaper from his coat. “It's a conversation between two local Presbyterians, Mr. S.—Franklin himself—and Mr. T They're complaining about how the newfangled preacher talks too much of good works. Mr. T asks, ‘Isn't faith,rather than virtue, the path to salvation?’ And Mr. S. says, 'A virtuous heretic shall be saved before a wicked Christian.' It's intolerable.”
“It's no newly forged faith that compels him, I assure you. I hear he's struck a printer's bargain with the preacher. Given Hemphill's popularity, permission to print his sermons will no doubt recoup a tidy sum. Franklin's no fool.”
“I fear, Proprietor, Franklin may be poking fun at you as well,” said Andrews. “This business with Chief Lappawinsoe.”
“What are you saying?” Thomas Penn stopped in his tracks.
“Well, so I've heard. There's talk that the treaty you're invoking with the Lenape is somehow…” He paused, pursed his lips. “… less than fully ratified, if you will, and yet Chief Lappawinsoe is abiding by it. Honorably. Like a virtuous heretic.”
Thomas Penn bristled. He and the other colonial administrators claimed they were in possession of a deed dating back to the 1680s in which the Lenape-Delaware Indians had promised to sell a portion of land beginning between the junction of the Lehigh and Delaware Rivers, “as far west as a man could walk in a day and a half.”
At best the document was an unsigned, ungratified treaty; at worst, an outright forgery. In truth, Penn's land agents had already sold vast areas of the Lehigh Valley. They needed to vacate the land of the Indians before it could be properly settled.
Since Chief Lappawinsoe and other Lenape leaders believed the treaty was genuine, and because they assumed that about forty miles was the most a man could walk through the wilderness in a day and a half, they had agreed to honor the treaty.
“I stand by the deed,” Penn replied. “It's legal and binding. As my father used to say: ‘My prison shall be my grave before I will budge a jot; for I owe my conscience to no mortal man.’ Besides,” he added with a grin, “I have a plan for the Lenape. It's Franklin I'm worried about. What did he do when you censured Sam Hemphill? You did, didn't you?”
“Hemphill was unanimously censured. And suspended,” said Andrews. “And in protest, Franklin resigned from the church.”
“He was never much of a churchgoing man,” Penn sniffed in response. “They say he's taken the vows of a Freemason.”
“His Gazette no longer lampoons that insidious cult. Or labels their rituals and secrets a hoax.”
“I'm sure his assaults did much to foment the induction. Indeed, I have heard, through other members of the Craft, that he's searching for the Gospel of Judas.”
“The Gospel of Judas? That Gnostic text! But why?”
“They say that he knows of a version set down at the time of the Twelve. You realize what this would mean to your Church, I assume. If it's found.”
“To all Christians, Proprietor. Heresy!”
“His goading is becoming insufferable.” He waved his white hand by his head. It had grown late and the insects were gathering. “Like the mosquitoes at Pennsbury. Let's go in.”
They moved from the kitchen gardens toward the main house. As they walked, Penn tried to blot out the image of Edwards hobbling behind him. If his father, the Quaker, were alive to see him now, hobnobbing with this… Thomas Penn frowned… this Presbyterian toad. But he couldn't afford to be fussy. He needed to forge an alliance with all those at odds with that odious printer. Franklin was becoming increasingly dangerous.He was constantly publishing pseudonymous jibes at the Proprietors, saying they were turning Pennsylvania's residents into “tenants and vassals.”
Pennsylvania was a Proprietary colony always had been. In 1681, Charles II had granted a charter to William Penn, Thomas's father, in repayment of a debt, and the Penn family Proprietors not only exercised absolute political power over the colony, with Thomas as feudal lord, they also owned most of the land. But while nearly all of the colonies had started as Proprietary ones, by the 1730s most had become Royal colonies, directly ruled by the king and his ministers. Only Pennsylvania, Maryland and Delaware remained.
Thomas Penn was horrified by the idea of the colony going back to the crown. He was just beginning to convert his huge holdings into currency. Franklin, on the other hand, was a staunch supporter of transforming Pennsylvania into a Royal colony. And the corpulent printer spoke of creating a union of states, like the tribes of the Delaware nation, with representation in Parliament. What was next? That kind of thinking struck at the heart of the system. Unchecked, Penn feared, what might start as a confederation of colonies, an innocent pact, could descend into revolution and chaos.
Meanwhile the Assembly was dominated by Quakers, pacifist in their political leanings, who were angry with Penn for marrying Juliana, an Anglican, and for drifting away from the faith.
Two big issues faced Pennsylvania: forging good relations with the Indians and protecting the colony from the French. It was crucial to have strong allies during the recurring wars with the French.
The politics of the colony were a tenuous balancing act between the people's need for security on the one hand, and the interests of the power elite—the Proprietors and Assembly—on the other. Maintaining the Indians as allies was costly, for it required vast sums of money for gifts. But while the Quakers opposed military spending on principle, the Penns—acting through lackey governors—opposed anything that cost money, or which might subject their huge holdings to taxes. They needed to attract buyers for their lands, which they did by ceding rights to the Assembly, and by guaranteeing that their tracts were free and clear of Indian claims.
“You heard what happened to that boy Daniel Rees,” added Penn. “Some Freemason ritual. A prank, Franklin called it. Burned to death by a bowl of flaming brandy. Bradford's paper charged Franklin was responsible for encouraging the misguided tormentors.”
“I saw the piece in the Mercury. Terrible,” Andrews acknowledged. The two men had drawn up to the mansion's back door. Penn opened it and they stepped off the porch into the lesser rear hall.
Thomas's father had built the Georgian manor for elegance and comfort. Erected of local red brick, the mansion had been more than large enough to accommodate the great William Penn, his wife and their children and a half dozen servants as well. A large center hall provided a waiting room between the governor's suite and the family parlor. On the second floor were three bedrooms and a nursery.
Penn led Andrews into the best parlor, a cozy wood-paneled room with white trim and a large roaring fireplace, framed with glazed mustard tiles. “A terrible fate,” Penn continued. “To be set afire that way.”
“God rest his soul,” Andrews said.
“I wonder if the brigade put him out.” Penn laughed thinly. It was a bad joke. Franklin and his Junto club had started the first volunteer fire brigade in the colonies. And the first lending library. He was filling the people with dreams. Dangerous dreams. “It would be a shame if something were to happen to Franklin,” remarked Penn.
Andrews looked up. He took off his tricorne and straightened his greasy gray wig. “God forbid.”
“Yes, God.”
“Of course,” added Andrews, “Philadelphia is a dangerous city. It was bad enough when I was a boy, with barely two thousand inhabitants. Now what is it? Twelve thousand. Fifteen? Today…” He shook his head. “…anything can and does happen, I'm sure. What with all these new immigrants.”
“Yet, if such a misfortune were to occur, it would not do if it ever were to wind its way back to us.”
“No, of course not.”
“No,” Penn repeated. “I have something cooking in the Bake and Brew that cannot be disturbed.” He motioned for Andrews to sit by the fire. “Some brandy, Church Elder? Or a touch of Madeira?”
Andrews propped his cane against the wall by the fire. He sat down and stretched out his legs. “I wouldn't deprive you of company.”
Penn smiled and poured two glasses of brandy. He carried them over and gave one to Andrews, who sniffed at the lip of the glass.
“No,” Penn continued. “We have to augment our forces. And we need something oblique. That's why I've decided to make a pact with the Catholics.”
“I thought you were trying to suppress them. Especially when they opened that chapel three years ago.”
“The Quakers of the Assembly thought otherwise. They're protecting their rights to free worship. I have agreed to give up my objections.”
Andrews laughed. He took a big sip of his brandy. “For a price, to be sure.”
“Why, Church Elder, you surprise me.” He smiled, raised his glass. “To the King.”
Andrews struggled to his feet. He lifted his brandy. “The King.”
They emptied their glasses and Thomas Penn moved to refill them. “You know that my father, William, was a Jacobite.”
“It was bandied about.”
“He supported King James. I still have some Catholic friends, and they have grown even more fond of me lately, what with my new softened position. The Catholics have an excess of zealots, I'm sure, who would do almost anything to show their love for the faith.”
“Their Knights are renowned,” Andrew said, sitting down once again. “Though expensive, I'm sure.”
Penn stepped up to the fireplace. “I told you, I have a plan for Lappawinsoe, and all the Lenape-Delaware. The financial fortunes of the Penn family will soon turn. We will neutralize Franklin and his Royal-colony cronies by expanding our holdings considerably. And by expanding, we'll dilute the presence of these new religious sects, and disperse the flood of new immigrants away from Philadelphia.”
“What kind of plan?”
Penn lifted his glass of brandy and warmed it by the fire. “The treaty with the Lenape says the distance a man can make his way through the bush in a day and a half. How much would you say that is?”
“Thirty miles. Maybe more.”
“Are you familiar with Edward Marshall, Solomon Jennings, or James Yeates?”
“Yeates? That crazy vagabond.”
“But an excellent walker.” Penn smiled. “The course has already been blazed. Tomorrow, accompanied by several young Indian observers, the three of them will depart from that chestnut tree in the corner of the field where the road from Pennsville meets Durham.”
“Near the Wrightstown meetinghouse? At the northernmost boundary of Markham?”
“That's the place. My good friend, Provincial Secretary Logan—who tarries in the Bake and Brew as we speak—has promised them five pounds and five hundred acres apiece. They'll start on the bed of the old Durham road, make haste past Red Hill, dining at Wilson's, the trader, before crossing the Lehigh a mile below Bethlehem. They'll breach the Blue Mountains at Smith's Gap, in time to sleep on the north side of the mountain. Then, at sunrise, they'll continue on the old Indian path that leads from the hunting grounds of the Susquehannas down to the Delaware River near Bristol. It's the same route the Indians used to follow on their visits to my father here in Pennsbury.”
“You know what the heathen will say: that the walk should have been made up the Delaware; that your men walked too fast, or they ran; that they didn't stop occasionally to shoot game, or to smoke or to eat…”
“Let the Indians say what they will. It won't matter. By the time they bring it to council, the land will be mine.”
“How far will they walk, by your estimate?”
“About seventy miles. That's what they accomplished the first time.”
“The first time?”
“Yes, they had a practice run when we first blazed the trail.”
“Seventy miles!”
“I'd say more than a million acres. One and a quarter, perhaps. An area the size of Rhode Island.”
Church Elder Andrews struggled to his feet once again. He lifted his glass. “I commend you, Proprietor. A million and a quarter acres,” he muttered, half under his breath. “A fortune.”
“More than enough to remove our impediments.Including that troublesome printer.” Penn finished the last of his brandy. He wiped his mouth with a kerchief which he plucked from his sleeve. Then he smiled and looked down upon Andrews. “We'll either buy Franklin or bury him.”
JOSEPH KOSTER HAD BEEN INVITED TO NICK ROBINSON'S summer house at Point O'Woods several times through the years, had attended more than his share of Nick's Soho soirées, but judging from the celebrities milling about on the deck of the five-thirty ferry from Bay Shore, Long Island, tonight was going to be different. Koster recognized local politicians, including the new governor of New York, movie actors and Broadway stars, business luminaries and TV media personalities. There were models and aspiring rock stars, concert pianists and painters, and, of course, there were writers, including the author of that best-selling new biography of President Alder. And they all carried the identical tote bag, of royal blue Kevlar with the Compass Press seal on the side. The bag had been a part of the invitation, complete with beach towels and sunscreen.
The first Friday in June was the date of the annual Robinson bash. The sun might be eclipsed, the moon halved in phases, the stars might spin from the sky, but every year, rain or shine, you could set your watch by the Robinson party.
Joseph Koster stared out across the Sound, at the distant line that marked the coast of Fire Island. A rather ordinary-looking man in his late forties, with sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes and a delicate nose, Koster was dressed in a long cashmere coat, midnight blue—with that one regretful burn mark on the lower right side—a summer-weight blazer, gray trousers and loafers. He was looking off to starboard, watching the lighthouse at the western end of the Fire Island National Seashore, just east of Robert Moses State Park, as it blinked and it turned. It blinked and it turned once again, warding off mariners. Robert Moses. Robert Moses. See me! Koster's hands played the railing like a concert piano. His long fingers danced as he counted.
The lighthouse was the work of mid-twentieth-century New York's most notorious builder, a man who had transmogrified shorelines, built roads in the sky and morphed vibrant neighborhoods into ghost towns with a wave of his hand. Koster had studied Moses's urban planning principles in architecture school. Robert Moses's decisions favoring highways over public transit had helped create the modern suburbs of Long Island, and influenced a generation of engineers and urban planners. And, in the course of redesigning the city and pre paring for the age of the highway, Moses had displaced hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers, thereby contributing to the ruin of Coney Island, the decline of public transport, the departure of the Brooklyn Dodgers…
See me, see me, the lighthouse blinked.
Koster was not in a good mood. He had been working on a new project—a tower in Newark—and everything had been going so well when, suddenly, right out of the blue, the project had been unceremoniously yanked from him. That very afternoon. A conflict with the client, the senior partner had called it. A division of vision. Koster laughed to himself. Well, at least they hadn't pulled the plug altogether; they had simply requested new oversight. Koster leaned over the rail and looked down at the water, the way that it tore at the bow. “Take a vacation,” the senior partner had told him. “It's been far too long, Joseph.” And then that final warning: “Use it or lose it.”
If he fell from here, Koster wondered, would he be sucked down by the currents and drowned? Or would his body be tossed into the ferry's propeller, torn apart? He performed a few mental calculations, mapping current speed to direction, when the horn blew and he was forced from his reverie. There. The Fire Island dock was finally coming into view.
Founded in 1894, the community where the Robin sons summered still maintained a level of exclusivity unusual even by Long Island standards. The oldest beach enclave on Fire Island and, some would argue, the most beautiful, Point O'Woods had been launched originally by the Chautauqua Assembly as a religious retreat, offering discussions on cultural and political topics, lectures on languages, cooking and photography, seminars on physical and spiritual development. Foremost amongst the community's guiding principles was the importance of family. While other communities were regarded as “family-oriented,” P.O.W. made it a rule. No one without children could live there. Prospective buyers had to be recommended by at least two existing members. Each suffered through an agonizing battery of interviews before being introduced as “guests” to the community. Only after renting for a minimum of a year did one become eligible to buy. This careful screening process, plus the emphasis on children, helped explain why there were so many third-, fourth-and even fifth-generation families in residence. Nick Robinson was a fifth-generation Point O'Woodser.
The ferry finally docked and the passengers gathered up their dark blue bags with the Compass Press logo and disembarked. Soon, a line of guests made their way up the trail by the community's tiny commercial center: a grocery store, a candy shop, a post office. But no liquor store, Koster noticed. Even in the face of ongoing onslaughts by Manhattan's A-list, Point O'Woods still managed to retain the old-world charm of a private beach community.
The passengers filed up the path, across several raised walkways that straddled the dunes. Most of the guests were staying at the Club House, a sprawling clapboard structure, complete with tennis courts and a health spa housed in an unfortunate extension. Only a few, like Koster, were bunking at the Robinsons'. Well, strictly speaking, Koster thought, Robinson didn't actually own the property. Families were sold ninety-nine-year leases. Koster struggled up the hill, circled a stand of pines and the house finally came into view.
Robinson's “cottage” was a huge gray-shingled three-story cape, with eight bedrooms, a solarium and a large widow's walk on the roof. The structure sat on a promontory overlooking the ocean, at the far end of P.O.W., only a few hundred yards from the Sunken Forest. A path ran down to the beach by a boathouse, to a long wooden jetty that jutted out into the bay.
Koster mounted the steps. Like the widow's walk on the roof, the porch wrapped around the entire circumference of the house. Bloodred geraniums and lavender hyacinths dangled from planters that hung down from hand-carved details in the arches. The sound of children's laughter blew in off the beach. Someone was barbecuing somewhere, he noticed. Koster dropped his overnight bag on the porch, and sighed. Despite the pastoral scene, the decompressing boat ride, the mind-numbing perfumes of summer, he felt an unshakeable weight at the heart of his being. He could barely stretch out his fingers to reach for the knocker—a kind of mermaid—when the front door swung open. It was Theresa, Robinson's wife.
Theresa smiled and opened the screen door. “I saw you coming up the walk. I'm glad you could make it, Joseph. Nick's been anxious to see you. Here, let me help you with that.”
Mrs. Robinson grabbed his overnight bag and carried it into the foyer. She was a beautiful woman, always had been, with sparkling brown eyes, long brown hair and a regal yet unpretentious demeanor. She was wearing a white cotton blouse, tight-fitting black slacks and black Top-Siders. Her unassuming manner belied the fact that, like Nick, she had grown up in startling affluence, the sole progeny of Bill and Anne Huntington, of the Texas Huntingtons—oil and gas. Educated in Europe, like Koster, she had studied art and art history, and had even written a book on da Vinci. “You're looking well, Joseph,” she said, standing back and taking him in. “You've gained weight. You were too skinny before. No more dreams?”
“Just occasionally.”
Theresa Robinson smiled. “It's a pleasure to discover there are still some constants in the universe. You are, and always will be, a bad liar, Joseph,” she said.
Koster began to stammer out a rebuttal when Macalister, Nick's man, appeared in the hallway at the far end of the foyer. “Mr. Koster,” he said. “Mr. Robinson's expecting you.”
Theresa patted Koster on the arm. “I'll have your bag brought to your room. You run ahead. You might want to freshen up before meeting the guests at the Club.”
“The guests? What am I, then?”
Theresa smiled. “Why, Joseph. You don't count.” She turned and hurried away down the hall, trailing the words, “You're practically family.”
ROBERT MACALISTER LED KOSTER UPSTAIRS, DOWN THE LONG narrow corridor—splashed with photos of sailing regattas—all the way to Robinson's study. It had once been a bedroom, but Robinson had transformed the guest suite into an office and gallery. Paintings were stacked up against the far wall, some by coveted artists, some unknown. Koster wondered if Robinson had a good security system in place to keep out intruders. The collection was worth a small fortune.
Three bay windows looked out over the beach and the flint gray Atlantic beyond. A cherry wood desk, made by Nick Robinson's great-grandfather, stood beside the central window, its surface littered with books. Nick Robinson was nowhere to be seen. Koster circled the room, keeping a wary eye on Macalister. “Where's Nick?” he inquired.
“Mr. Robinson will be here shortly.”
Koster stopped behind Robinson's desk. The panels and drawers were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Nick had placed a green leather mat with mauve blotting paper on the surface. An inkwell and quill stand stood off to one side, by a malachite letter opener and a leather-bound book. “What is it, Macalister?” Koster said. He could feel the man staring at him.
“What's what, sir?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I'm waiting for Mr. Robinson.”
“You don't trust me very much, do you?”
Macalister smiled. “Not at all, sir,” he began to protest.
Koster didn't know how to respond. He glanced down at the desk, at that book with the tan leather binding. It was open. The text was in English but the words didn't make any sense. The lines were clustered together in long sets of three. The door closed with a bang.
Koster looked up. Macalister was gone. There was something weird about him, something creepy, thought Koster. He was always shadowing Nick, wherever they went.
Koster stared back down at the volume. He ran a finger along the letters across the page. They made no sense until he reached the end of the twelfth line. Then Koster read the words: The Gospel of Judas. And right below, the same phrase in Hebrew and Greek.
For a moment, Koster found himself back in the heart of the cathedral at Chartres. He was holding a cup in his hands made of gold. A woman lay at his feet. On her side. With that great bloody hole in her head.
“Joseph!”
Koster looked up with a start.
It was Nick Robinson. “How the hell are you?” he said as he loped across the office and grabbed him in a bear-like embrace.
Koster wrenched himself free. “Fine, Nick. I guess. How are you?”
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Koster said. He stared up at his friend. At six feet four inches, Robinson towered above him. Koster was but five feet ten. And Robinson still sported the shoulders he'd built for himself back in prep school, as the stroke of the school's premier eight. “Now I know why I bothered to come. Because you always know what to say.” His fingers started to dance on his trouser legs, as if he were playing piano.
“Long day at McKenzie and Voight?” Nick asked.
“You could say that.”
“Go ahead. Tell me. What's the matter, Joseph? What's wrong?”
“Why do you always think something's wrong?”
“I just know.”
Yes, Koster thought. Robinson always did seem to sense when something was troubling him. Not just him, for that matter. Any friend. It was one of Nick Robinson's gifts.
“You're doing it,” Robinson said, pointing down. He was staring at Koster's fingers as they danced about nervously.
“Doing what?”
“Counting again. Your abacus thing. I thought you were taking medication for that.”
“No pharmacologic solutions directly treat the core symptoms of AS.”
“Clearly not. What was it, the panes in the windows? The number of square feet of each wall, divided by the angles of each mural plane?”
Koster stuffed his hands in his pockets. He did not respond.
“What happened?” demanded Robinson. “Spit it out.”
Koster told him what had transpired at the office that morning.
Nick listened patiently, then shrugged. “Well, the firm didn't lose any money, so who cares? It's time you took some time off anyway. How much vacation time do you have?”
Koster moved around the desk. “I don't know. About seventeen weeks.”
Robinson laughed. “Seventeen weeks!”
“I like my job. I like to keep busy.”
“You're using your work like a drug, Joseph. A distraction elixir. Like your pot. Like your counting.”
“And you sound like my mother.”
“Good. She's got sense.” Nick Robinson grew suddenly serious. He folded his arms and said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
Koster stood still. “A what?”
“A conundrum. A puzzle,” said Robinson. “I want you to solve it. I can't. Believe me, I've tried. But I have faith that you can.”
In the almost forty years they had known each other, Koster couldn't remember a time when Nick Robinson had asked for a favor. It just wasn't part of his makeup. On countless occasions he had said, “I have a job for you …” or “a task…” or “a present…” or “a recommendation …” But never, ever a favor.
“And it sounds like you have the time now,” said Robinson.
“Thanks for reminding me. What's the favor?”
Robinson reached over the desk and flipped to the front of the tan-colored volume.
Koster glanced down at the book. He spotted the signature and unraveled its meaning immediately. “B as in Ben?” he inquired. “As in Benjamin Franklin?”
Robinson nodded. “It's his personal journal. But it's written in code. I haven't been able to make hide nor hair of its meaning. I thought you might give it a try.”
Koster picked up the book. There were strings of unintelligible words, with no punctuation. Except for that one phrase in English and Hebrew and Greek. “The Gospel of Judas?” he said.
“It's an early Christian text.”
“I know what it is, Nick. A Gnostic codex. Like the one that I searched for in France, under Chartres Cathedral. Like the Gospel of Thomas.”
“But far more incendiary, Joseph. According to this ancient text, Judas was asked by Jesus to betray Him. This book describes how—despite his protests—Judas finally agreed, in order for Christ to fulfill the prophecies. Instead of being an archvillain, Judas is portrayed as Christ's closest companion and confidante. A true anti-hero. And he didn't commit suicide by hanging himself. The gospel implies that Judas was murdered, in revenge for his act of betrayal. Murdered by the apostles themselves. Can you imagine? Without the betrayal, there would have been no crucifixion. And without the crucifixion, no resurrection. No Christianity, Joseph.”
“But don't copies of the Gospel of Judas already exist? They must, if you know what it says,” Koster handed the book back to Robinson.
“Much more recent editions,” said Robinson. “A Gnostic codex in Coptic Sahidic dialect was discovered in the seventies near El Minya, in Egypt. It was brought to the States by a collector where it languished in a safe-deposit box for some sixteen years, right here on Long Island, until an antiquities dealer named Frieda Nussberger-Tchacos purchased it in the spring of 2000. After two unsuccessful attempts to resell it, she became concerned for its rapidly deteriorating state and transferred the codex to the Maecenas Foundation for Ancient Art in Basel, for restoration and translation. That was in February 2001. The Tchacos codex was radiocarbon-dated to between the third and fourth centuries A.D.”
Robinson put the journal back on his desk. He patted it gently. “But the discovery,” he continued, “of a version of the Gospel of Judas in Mishnaic Hebrew—presumably written within decades of Christ's crucifixion—would seriously undermine the current interpretation of the Bible. After all, it would be significantly older than the Tchacos codex, and therefore more historically accurate.”
“More reflective of Christ's teachings, you mean.”
“That's right. And yet it was considered heretical by the early Church fathers. Gnostic. Who could be a more powerful adversary against the Christian Church than Jesus Christ himself? If His teachings were Gnostic…”
“That's the same reason I searched for the Gospel of Thomas,” said Koster. “And look where it got me.”
“That was different. It wasn't hidden right here, in the States, like this Gospel of Judas. And it didn't belong to Ben Franklin.”
“What's Franklin got to do with it?”
“I'm not sure. That's the mystery.” Robinson walked over to the central bay window. Dark clouds were gathering over the ocean. Day sailors were heading to port.
“Franklin was a Freemason,” he continued. “As were George Washington and many of the Founding Fathers. According to Masonic lore, Franklin somehow managed to procure a version of the Gospel of Judas that was particularly old. And there's more. According to the legends, Franklin's version also featured a curious illustration. Call it schematic number one. Masonic historians have documented the presence of two similar schematics, purportedly created by Leonardo da Vinci, schematic number two, and another by Franklin himself, number three. And they're all somehow related.”
“In what way?”
“We don't know.”
“What are these illustrations?”
“We don't know. Masonic curiosities.”
“You don't know very much, it appears.”
Robinson chuckled. “You're right. That's why I need your help. It's a code, Joseph. Created by Franklin himself. Wasn't he a childhood hero of yours?”
“You remember that?”
“Of course I do.”
“That was thirty years ago.”
“We go back a long way, Joseph. Call it fate.”
“Fate?”
“Do you really think this is all a coincidence? You come over all glum and depressed because of troubles at work, and here is something to challenge you, to take your mind off things, if only for a little while. The universe hums at a particular frequency. And now you've got all this time. Deciphering Franklin's journal might help uncover the Gospel of Judas. Can you imagine the publishing sensation?”
“As if you need another success, Nick.”
“I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about you, Joseph. What you need. What have you done for the last fifteen years? Who died in that basement in France?”
“I've built a career,” Koster snapped back.
“But you're miserable. You need to let go of what happened. Mariane's gone. It's time to move on. It's time to climb back on that horse.”
“That's easy for you to say. You've never lost someone you loved.”
“Yes, I have.” Robinson turned back toward the windows. “I lost someone I cared about, deeply. Long ago. When I was younger and foolish. But I got over it, Joseph. I met Theresa, and everything changed.”
“I didn't know.”
“I still keep a few secrets. Call it vanity.”
Koster sighed. “What do you want me to do, Nick?”
Robinson walked back to his desk. He picked up the volume. “Take the journal and study it. See if you can interpret it, break the code. So you never found the Gospel of Thomas in France. So what? Perhaps you can change that. Perhaps you can unearth the Gospel of Judas instead. Change the ending this time. Decode Franklin's journal, Joseph. That's all I'm asking. Help me find the location. I'll do the rest. Besides, I've already booked you on the morning flight to the Coast.”
“The Coast?”
“San Francisco. I have a friend there who can help you. Her name is Savita Sajan.”
“Of Cimbian, the chip manufacturer?”
“That's her. Savita's done some work in this area. And I trust her.”
“I don't know, Nick…”
“Look, think about it. We can talk more tomorrow, before you leave for the airport. Right now we've both got to get ready for dinner.” He stared out the window. “It looks like it's going to rain. I hope it holds off until after dessert.”
“You think?” Koster said. “It's so far away.” A lightning head burst on the distant horizon.
Koster sensed Robinson step up beside him. “Here,” he said, with a nudge, handing Koster the book.
Koster stared down at the volume, at the soft leather spine. “Okay, Nick. For you. I'll think about it.”
KOSTER RETURNED TO HIS GUEST ROOM, UNPACKED AND pulled out a fresh cotton shirt. It was the same cozy spare bedroom he always stayed in, with a four-poster bed trimmed with hand-stitched white lace. The walls were festooned with paintings of seascapes, including a dreamy rendering of Venice in one corner that Koster suddenly realized was an actual Monet. He'd spotted it many times, had admired it, but had never once thought it was the work of a master, the way it had been stuffed in that corner like an afterthought.
That was just like Nick Robinson. Why speak at all, except in low tones? On Koster's thirteenth birthday, with both of his parents abroad on a tour, a Lisa computer had appeared on his doorstep, without even a card. Nick. Nick's father had helped him nail his MIT interview. Nick had helped him get his job at McKenzie & Voight. He had introduced him to Priscilla, although that hadn't lasted. And then to Becky, the IT consultant. Koster, on the other hand, was not a very good friend,though he tried, in his own way. But he rarely reached out, made the effort to plan. So, it had been left to Nick Robinson to call him like clockwork, every two to three weeks, with another invite to some party or exhibit or opening.
Koster did have a few friends from work. But they were all married, and it was awkward to always be the third wheel. The single architects were much younger than he was. Koster belonged to some math clubs, and he had developed some strong relationships there. Un for tunately, his best friend lived in Moscow. They played chess via Skype once a week. There was another who taught at the University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor.
Koster brushed his teeth in the bathroom and washed up. As he did so, he stared at his face, trying to remember the man in the mirror.
Robinson was right. He did need a break. As much as he claimed to love his work, it had grown stale lately. Gone were the flashes of insight he so loved, when a whole plan became suddenly clear. In a panic, as his passion dissolved like a lozenge inside of him, he began to latch onto the minutiae of projects, to the point where the engineers always complained that he did all their work for them. He just couldn't let go of a drawing. In case someone had missed something. Not until it was done, each umpteenth detail, all the wiring, every specification.
“Go out,” Nick had urged him one evening, as they had shared a quick meal in the Village. “Find a girl and get laid. You're wound way too tight.” And he'd tried. He had dated a few different women over the last decade or so. A bank manager. A sales rep. And Becky, the IT consultant. He had tried. Once, for seven whole months. But he had managed those affairs with the same level of punctilious care that he bestowed upon his projects at work. They drowned in detail. They all came undone, like beautiful bows, as he fussed at the knot.
Koster slipped on his new shirt and his blazer and made his way to the foyer where Nick and Theresa were waiting. Their son Sean was to meet them at the Club. Robinson was dressed in an impeccable charcoal gray cashmere over a rumpled white shirt; Theresa in a colorful off-the-shoulder affair, a retro muumuu from the fifties.
They made their way to the Club House. Most of the guests were clustered out on the deck, drinking champagne, nursing cocktails, munching on tiny hors d'oeuvres of king crab and fresh shrimp, hamachi and sevruga on toast points. It didn't take long for Koster to find himself alone in one corner, eyeing the crowd.
A model was arguing with her friend about representation. The commissions were killing her. Her agent was a bloodsucking ghoul. A Web entrepreneur discussed art with a radio commentator. The new governor of New York chatted idly with the producer of a reality TV show called simply Revenge. And Nick and Theresa flitted like hummingbirds from person to person, trailing laughter behind them.
By the time they sat down to dinner, Koster was starving. He had already calculated, with some level of certainty, the cash value of what each of the guests was displaying in jewelry around him: around $12.3 million, give or take a few hundred thousand. He had counted each strand, each chain and each stone—semiprecious and precious—using a standard variable for mean carat size and a simple mathematical algorithm. Then he'd estimated the number of hairs on the heads of the guests with brown hair, but they kept appearing and disappearing from view, and he found it hard to keep count—even with the dance of his fingers on the lip of his wineglass.
The night air had grown chilly by the time the party migrated inside to the main dining room. Koster was seated at a table next to a young movie starlet named Roberta Hachette, a blonde with an impenetrable accent and mysterious cleavage. At first things seemed to go well. They chatted quite amiably through the poached salmon with hollandaise. Until she found out what he did for a living and grew suddenly bored. By the time the game hen arrived, the man past the floral arrangement proved far more enticing to her. He dabbled in media development, some sort of investor. So Koster took up with the P.O.W. dowager to his left, but she complained bitterly about the riffraff one saw in Manhattan these days.
“Unkempt,” she kept saying. “The part of your hair can determine your future, you know?”
Koster nodded and answered, “Five million.”
“Excuse me?” She looked over her glasses.
“The approximate number of hairs one can see on the heads in this room as we sit here. Not counting the wait-staff.”
They waited in silence for dessert to arrive. After a while, as other guests began to mill about, to stretch their legs or visit friends at neighboring tables, Koster made his excuses and headed for the sliding doors. A few guests were already smoking outside on the deck. He could hear their muffled voices. They turned to look at him, then stared out to sea once again, chatting, engaged, as waves broke their backs on the strand. The part of your hair, he considered.
Koster slipped down the back stairs toward the beach. The sounds of music and laughter slowly faded, replaced by the pulsing of waves and the dull trudge of his loafers as he tore up the sand. He walked and he walked, then he started to run, until the light from the Club House was just a dull aching glow, until the wind carved up his blazer and shirt, and the tide nipped at his feet. He stopped at the lip of the jetty. The pier jutted out from the beach into darkness and the bottomless sea. Koster reached into his jacket and plucked out a cigarette case. The joint was perfectly rolled. He stuck it between his lips. The tip glowed rhapsodically within his cupped hands as he set it ablaze with his lighter. He sucked in the smoke, held his breath and exhaled.
Who died in that basement in France? Koster laughed. He took another hit off the joint and felt something tear deep inside him. Who died? He wondered sometimes. Perhaps Nick was right.
Rain pelted his face. Koster looked up just as the night sky burst into light. Lightning shattered the heavens. Who died in that basement? He had been sleepwalking his way through his life for more than a decade. Ever since France. Since Mariane's death. Only the death of his son had scratched him as deeply.
Koster came to the end of the pier and looked out to sea. The storm was upon him. Great sheets of water fell from the heavens. Lightning bolts fissured the sky. He would be crazy, he thought, to get involved in one of Nick Robinson's schemes once again. And yet he found the notion strangely appealing. He owed Nick a great deal. But it wasn't his loyalty, or the idea of unearthing the Gospel of Judas, a text of great age and religious significance. Nor was it because it had once been the property of Benjamin Franklin, though that helped. No, Koster thought, as he stared at the water glimmering and churning at his feet. Instead of running away, he was desperate to rush back into chaos. Was he just bored? Or did he still blame himself for Mariane's murder? Koster looked up at the sky, letting the rain wash like tears down his face. Mariane! He tossed what was left of the joint in the waves.
To wake up. To live, for a moment, like life mattered again. To feel like he actually cared.
Koster put his hands in his pockets. Then he turned and made his way back down the pier toward the beach.
FROM THIS ANGLE, MICHAEL ROSE WAS IN THE PERFECT POSITION to watch his penis as it plunged into the black whore kneeling on the bed right in front of him. A big man in his thirties, with thinning blond hair, thick red lips and transparent blue eyes, Michael thrust into the girl once again, and again, mindful not to tip the mirror balanced precariously on her back.
“‘Watch out that no one deceives you,’” he said, as he picked up a tightly furled bill from the glass. A Franklin. A hundred. “‘For many will come in my name… You will hear of wars and rumors of wars… Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.’” He stuffed the furled bill in his nose. Then, careful not to let his penis slip out of the girl, he snorted a line. “‘There will be famines and earthquakes in various places.’” He shivered and thrust, and came with a groan. “‘The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light…’ Say ‘Amen!’” He slapped the girl's ass.
“Amen,” she obeyed, her face pressed to the sheets.
“‘… the stars will fall from the sky, and the heavenly bodies will be shaken.’ Say ‘Amen!’”
“Amen!”
Michael pulled himself out of the girl. He fell back on the bed. He snorted the rest of the crank still lodged in his nostril. He watched as the girl reached around for the mirror, as she placed it before her and snorted a line.
“Why then,” Michael asked, “should we study the End-Times?”
The girl was barely eighteen, probably younger, he thought. She called herself Blue, perhaps for the makeup she favored. Her skin shimmered with sweat and, for the first time, he noticed her nose stud. Her hair was done up in tight cornrows. “To know Jesus,” she said. “To get ready. And…”
“And what?” he replied.
“When He comes, He'll bring a reward.”
“That's right, Blue. I'm so proud of you.” He reached over to the nightstand next to his bed and picked up his crocodile wallet. “The apostles knew a great secret, a divine secret. When King Jesus returns, the reward He will bring will relate to the lifestyle you've lived. So, here,” he continued, “you'd better take this.” He handed her another hundred-dollar bill. Then he swung himself round, off the bed. He tilted his head to the side, stretching his neck, until it resounded with an audible crack. He walked to the window.
From this imposing vantage point in the Hollywood hills, beyond his swimming pool and tennis courts, beyond the cabaña and greenhouse, he could see the entire expanse of the smog-shrouded sprawl of Los Angeles. The highway looked packed. If he didn't leave soon, he'd be late for his sermon. And that, he considered with a sigh, would not sit well with Dad. Then he smiled. Oh, well. No time for a shower.
The Prayer Palace had once been the Mother of Angels Hospital, located on just under ten acres, two miles or so west of Los Angeles and two miles from Hollywood. The 360,000-square-foot facility featured more than one thousand rooms in nine buildings on the WCC campus, and the impressive fourteen-story main building, where the Prayer Palace was housed, was seen by an average of two and a half million motorists every week.
Michael's father, the great Thaddeus Rose, had purchased the property three years earlier. The elder Rose had been the Senior Pastor of the fastest-growing church in the history of the United States, based in Arizona—the Worldwide Church of Christ of Phoenix. With an average weekly attendance of more than fifteen thousand, the Phoenix megachurch had hosted outdoor events with more than twenty-five thousand worshipers, and from Palm to Easter Sunday the congregation swelled to more than one hundred fifty thousand. Rose had been responsible for launching the Heart of the Family radio show, plus the Heart of the Family Research Council, a Washington-based lobbying group—arguably the most powerful Christian Right organization in the country. As a reward for his remarkable success, Thaddeus Rose had been invited by the WCC chapter of Southern California to start the Prayer Palace in L.A. And in only three years, it already boasted more than twelve thousand parishioners. It put that Crystal megachurch monstrosity in Orange County to shame.
But all this success, Michael thought, as he pulled his pearl gray Infiniti into the parking lot, all of the glory heaped upon his father, the praise and adulation, all the money and fame had only transpired due to him—from the sweat of the son's brow. To this day, Thaddeus could barely surf the Internet. It was Michael who had expanded the radio show. It was Michael who had produced the first WCC TV broadcast, now available to more than ninety percent of American households, and in more than twenty-six nations overseas—albeit hosted by Thaddeus. It was Michael who had pushed for the Web site. He'd nurtured their successful e-mail campaigns, their keyword buys, the systems that supported their more than four hundred outreach ministries. It was Michael who had interfaced with the RNC through the Heart of the Family Policy Councils, and who had worked so tirelessly and relentlessly for the GOP during the last presidential campaign. And yet, try as he might, no matter what he did, Michael would always remain Thaddeus Junior. The son.
Michael pressed the button on his car key and the Infiniti beeped.
The follower.
He lifted the key to his face and sniffed at his hand. He could still smell Blue on his fingers.
BY THE TIME MICHAEL ROSE FINALLY MADE IT ONSTAGE, HE was late. He'd been forced to endure a phalanx of supplicants and petitioners from the parking lot to the dressing rooms, with time-sensitive questions about Webinars and search engine optimization, telethons, tax exemptions and gross rating points. His pretty wife, Judy, and Thaddeus were already up front by the podium. The attendance was excellent. More than ten thousand teens, tweens and twenty-somethings swelled the arena. When they saw him, a few girls pressed forward, crowding the stage. One was wearing a pink and white dress with blue ribbons. Barely eighteen, Michael guessed. Then the spotlight came on.
“Why do we study the End-Times?” Michael said. The auditorium grew dark. A giant screen behind the dais burst into light as the first of the three cameras caught the figure descending the stage. “What are the four pillars which support this assembly?”
The crowd murmured and voices cried out, “Salvation through Christ!”
“Amen. And what else?” Michael asked.
“Divine healing!”
“Deliverance from sickness is provided for in the atonement,” he said.
“Baptism in the Holy Spirit!”
“Yea, all believers are entitled to receive the baptism in the Holy Spirit, and should expect and seek the promise of the Father. And what's the last pillar, my brothers and sisters?”
“The Second Coming!” someone shrieked.
Michael turned toward the voice. “That's right,” he said. “The Second Coming.” A rampart of kettle drums sounded. Horns blew. The words WHY STUDY THE END-TIMES appeared on the gargantuan screen, superimposed upon Michael's flushed face. “It is fitting to study the End-Times for three reasons: first, to come to know Jesus; second, because the Bible tells us to be prepared for His coming; and third, because when Jesus returns He will bring His reward, as the apostles foretold. Al most all the letters of the New Testament look forward to some future age. And they call for complete obedience in lifestyle as it relates to the judgment and blessings you'll receive in that future. I tell you that great and terrible Day of the Lord…” he continued as the stage lights grew dim and the spotlight went out, “…which the Bible tells us will shake the whole world, the whole planet, is coming—sooner than you probably think.”
With that, the auditorium seemed to erupt into flames. Fireworks burst in the air. Giant screens behind the stage came to life. They depicted volcanic explosions and earthquakes and floods. They pictured infernos of fire. The seats of the auditorium started to shake, to bounce, and a portentous blowing of horns filled the air. Then it stopped. A spotlight shone down on a figure on the far side of the stage—a young girl, dressed in white. She was kneeling and praying, bathed in pearlescent light. Another spotlight shone down upon Michael. “But there is a shift taking place in this world,” he continued, “especially amongst the young, such as you.” The screens of disaster were replaced by a close-up of the young girl in white, fused gently with Michael's own face. “God is stirring you to seek out more than an eBay of self-help philosophies. Could it be, I ask you, that the Holy Spirit is awakening a prayer movement to contend for revival on a planetary scale?
“Much has been written about the first generation of Christians, who seemed convinced that the Lord would return in their lifetimes.” Renderings of the saints and apostles shimmered behind him. “Then, something happened.” A depiction of the Temple of Jerusalem filled the screen. In a flash, it was gone, burnt to rubble. “Jerusalem was destroyed in A.D. 70 after a failed Jewish revolt, and with it, the Temple. Brick by brick, as Jesus foretold. Then, in 135, after another rebellion, Jerusalem was wiped off the face of the earth. The kingdom of Israel was no more. And many Church leaders began to write of the end of the world as something that would take place in the future. The far distant future. They didn't know what to do with those Biblical passages that speak about Israel, a nation that had ceased to exist. Until 1948. And the rebirth of Israel as a nation. And the return of Jerusalem to Israeli control some years later. This return of the Jews to the land which was promised is a signal of a change in the seasons. It presages the sequence of signs and events that will culminate in the birth of a terrible age of renewal.
“Jesus listed the signs that will tell us the End-Times are nearing, in the Beginning of Sorrows,” said Michael. “‘You will hear of wars and rumors of wars… Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom… There will be famines and earthquakes in various places… The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light…’ Say ‘Amen!’”
The crowd responded as one: “Amen!”
“Why will these events be so massive, so intense?” Michael asked. “The answer is not because God is severe, but because the condition of the Earth will become so acute that no alternative course will be possible. Is it happening now? Are we nearing the End-Times?”
The three screens behind him burst into focus, revealing scenes of devastation and flooding. “In 2005, eighty percent of New Orleans was deluged by Hurricane Katrina, and a first-world metropolis was instantly transformed into a third-world disaster. But while liberal media outlets like Time magazine mocked the explanation that the hurricane was God's judgment on that city for sin, for those who believe, there can be no debate. Un like the terrorist attacks of September eleventh, where many groped for answers about the source of that trouble, this time the answer was clear. Only God controls the monumental forces of nature. As Jeremiah predicted, God has a controversy with the nations over sin.”
Michael strode to the edge of the stage. He lifted his arms. “I tell you, my brothers and sisters, Katrina was not just a judgment on New Orleans. It was a judgment over all who embrace darkness and sin. The cataclysms of the past few years—terrorist attacks, tsunamis, hurricanes—are but harbingers of terrible events still to come, preludes to the ultimate End-Times.
“The Bible speaks of the great ‘Bride’ of Christ, bundling up all believers into one holy group. In contrast, Revelation describes a monstrous figure named the Mystery Babylon, a woman ‘arrayed in pearls and scarlet, adorned with gold.’ Of course, she is not a real woman, but a symbol of a global religion. She embodies the spirit of our current age: self-indulgence, self-worship and self-gratification. Who here isn't tempted by these new world religions that speak of deliverance through the discovery of self? But I tell you the Mystery Babylon will presage the ‘Great Tribulation,’ during which billions of people will perish.”
The screen displayed a map of the world. Little icons of people measured out populations. In an instant, the icons began to disintegrate, and a death toll rolled off in a box to the right. “Combining the numbers described in chapters six and nine of Revelation, plus chapter thirteen of Zechariah, half of the world's population will be taken. Wiped out. Put to death.”
The great screens went dark. Only Michael's pale face was still visible. “How could—no, how will this happen?” He looked out at the mesmerized crowd. “It will begin with the devil.” A highly stylized picture of Satan appeared on the screen in the middle. The audience hissed. “Satan's plan involves two main strategies: to wipe out the beneficiaries of God's prophecies—the Christians and Jews—and to set up his agent as king of the world.
“To many,” said Michael, “the Antichrist is simply a fable, a creation of biblical conspiracy theorists. But studying the Antichrist will prepare us to face his swift rise to power, for his dominance will be part of the End-Times. There is much speculation about this future world leader. Some believe that he's living today. Regardless of his origins, when he arrives on the scene, he'll make a huge impact, on an international scale. Daniel says of the Antichrist that ‘he shall confirm a covenant with many’ Israel will be one of the many nations that participate in this covenant, portrayed as a peace treaty. They'll be fooled into making a deal with the Antichrist. As a result of the security that comes out of this treaty, a new world religion will be born—the religion of the Mystery Babylon—and the Antichrist will begin his ascension to power. He will leverage this new world religion, benefiting from the network of connections and the economic prosperity it engenders. And behind the scenes he'll be building his resources and amassing his forces, making the kind of backroom agreements and side deals that will eventually propel him to power.
“Once the Antichrist has set into place this religion, he will begin the mass murder of Christians and Jews. He will entice the world's nations with false signs and prosperity. Ten kings will hand over all governmental authority to the one man amongst them, the Antichrist, who can take over the city of Babylon and its religious and economic resources, and establish the ten-nation empire as the one true international power. Where is Babylon?”
Michael pointed behind him and a screen sprang to life. A map of the Middle East came into focus. Babylon was marked with a tiny red star. And above it the name of the nation: Iraq. “That's right,” Michael said. “In Iraq. When Satan comes to Earth, the Antichrist and his allies will destroy the city of Babylon. Worse, the Antichrist will move to establish himself as the one true God, and set up an image of himself in the Holy of Holies. Those willing to join in worshiping him will be given a mark that will enable them to participate in the global economy. Those who refuse to bow down will be brutally murdered. But while this is happening, an even more dramatic event will take place in the throne room of Heaven. God will hand over to Jesus a scroll—the ‘deed’ to the Earth—and this will be so momentous an occasion that the angels around the throne room will break into song. A new song.”
The auditorium was suddenly filled with a single clear note. A spotlight shone down on a young boy dressed up as an angel. As the spotlight expanded, it revealed even more choristers singing. Soon the whole room resounded with a glorious sound, a bright tapestry of synchronous voices.
“When Jesus opens the scroll, He will break seven seals, thereby paving the way for His eventual return to the Earth.” A huge hand appeared on the screen in the center, holding a cream-colored scroll. “As the first seal is broken, the Antichrist will demand that all people revere him as God.” A mighty roar, like a thunderclap, unrolled through the chamber. Images flashed on the two outside screens. Great crowds of people surrounded an idol that moved. The image started to bubble and burn, as if the film had slipped from its sprockets and jammed the projector. The scene burned and curled up, revealing depictions of warfare beneath.
“This enforcement will at first be quite bloodless, but will soon become a full-scale international war. When Jesus breaks the second seal, the false peace on Earth will be shattered.” Another thunderclap echoed. “When Jesus breaks the third seal, the world war waged by the Antichrist will lead to a famine of global proportions.” The screens displayed endless lines of humanity, waiting for handouts at soup kitchens, roaming the highways. More thunder roared. “When Jesus breaks the fourth seal, one quarter of all the people of the Earth will die by the sword, from hunger or disease or wild animals. When Jesus breaks the fifth seal, those martyring the saints will experience their due torment and death,” Michael said. Crude black-and-white photos of death camps, with corpses piled high, flashed behind him. “The breaking of the sixth seal will unleash extraordinary cosmic disturbances; the sky will roll back like a scroll and every land mass will shift. And when Jesus breaks the seventh and final seal, it will initiate the sounding of trumpets.”
Instantly, all the screens dimmed. The house lights went down, till the hall turned pitch black. Then, once again, the auditorium was filled with the blaring of horns—first one, then another, until seven resounded.This time it was uncomfortably loud. Strobe lights flashed through a great fog of dry ice. Without warning, the trumpeting stopped, trailed by a cool rush of silence. The only sound was the rumbling of the quivering seats as they started to vibrate again, at first barely at all, then with increasing rapidity. Michael could hear some of the teenagers screaming.
“The judgments that accompany the trumpets will be akin to the great plagues of Egypt which Moses brought down upon Pharaoh. While the first four will be used to destroy the provisions of the Antichrist's worshipers, the last three, the ‘woes,’ will affect them directly…” The screens suddenly burst into light, showing hideous creatures, like bats out of Hell, swooping down upon figures. “… using demons to torture and kill them.”
Three spotlights shone down upon Michael and Judy and Thaddeus. They looked up at the ceiling as the chorus started singing again. “At the sounding of the last trumpet, Heaven will break into great rejoicing and proclaim, ‘The kingdoms of this world have become the kingdoms of our Lord and his Christ.’ It's time for the great King's return. But before He descends, Jesus will gather the saints in the sky—those who truly believe—in the Rapture.”
Judy suddenly vanished. One minute she was there; then she was gone. Her spotlight narrowed and vanished. Thaddeus was next. And then Michael. All three vanished from the stage like some magic trick. A rippling of chimes filled the chamber. It shimmered, then faded away. “As believers are ‘caught up’ in the air,” Michael said, still invisible, “they will be transformed ‘in the twinkling of an eye,’ into what Paul calls their ‘spiritual bodies.’”
A hologram of Michael Rose floated over the audience. He glowed with a strange inner light. “When Jesus returns, some will mourn. Many will have taken the mark of the beast and must now face the consequences. And others, tricked by the Antichrist, will believe that Jesus is Satan, intent upon destroying the world. Numerous kings and world leaders—who resisted the Antichrist until now—will change their minds and join with him to face the growing threat out of Bozrah. They will be enticed by demons, energized by the Antichrist. They will lead their armies to the gathering point, to Mount Megiddo and the Valley of Jehoshaphat, to lay waste to Jerusalem. Jesus will release the great bowls of wrath, and the most powerful earthquake in history will rattle the Earth. Mountains will fall. Roaring waters will cover the earth.”
The auditorium erupted as a cold spray misted the audience from the rear of the vibrating seats. There were screams, cries of panic. Then the screen at the center seemed to shatter. A brilliant white light shot out from the back of the chamber, transfixing the stage. The strobe lights blinked wildly. The dry ice machines kept on pumping. The chorus rose out of the stage. They were singing Handel's Messiah. A gigantic white horse appeared on the screen, with the figure of Jesus upon it, surrounded on all sides by a heavenly host. And Michael ascended from out of the floor, dressed in a long snow-white robe, directly in the midst of the audience. He pointed behind him. “Then Jesus will ride into battle. Alleluia!” he cried. “Clothed in white, on a horse, with the armies of Heaven around him.” Michael strode down the aisle, through the audience. “At the end of the battle, the Antichrist will be captured and cast, whilst alive, into ‘the lake of fire burning with brimstone.’” Michael paused, took a breath. The figure of Jesus and his horse on the screen slowly faded, replaced by a play of soft lights—blues and pinks, gold and purples—as the choral group reached its crescendo.
“All of these things I have told you,” said Michael, “are the Word. They will all come to pass. They have all been foretold, for thousands of years. They are written. But you,” he said, pointing down at the eager young faces around him. “You still have a choice. You can continue to live as you have, mindless of consequences, feeling immortal, invincible. Or you can humble yourself before God and prepare for the End-Times. And there is only one way to prepare. And that, brothers and sisters, is to pray.”
Michael had positioned himself at the front of the audience, barely feet from the stage. There she was. He could see her, in that pink and white dress with the tiny blue ribbons.
“We are meant to rend our hearts, not our garments,” said Michael. “Which means paying the internal and emotional cost of really turning toward Jesus; an outward pretense does not matter. All of you. When you fall into crisis. When you feel poor in spirit. When you know there are no earthly solutions to your problems, no self-help books left to guide you, no human secrets to save you. I tell you, this is the best place on earth, a true gift from God, this valley of the spiritual void. Because no one allows God to rescue him until he realizes that he needs to be rescued.”
He got down on his knees. “Pray with me now,” he continued. He lowered his head. He stared at the floor. “And prepare.” Then he reached out and snatched the young girl in the pink and white dress by the hand. He pulled her down to the floor until she was kneeling beside him. She was glowing with bliss. Her full chest was heaving. The material was wet from the seventh bowl spraying. He could see her breasts outlined beneath. He could feel her small fingers in his. She was squeezing his hand. She was holding on for dear life. Her long hair covered her face. She was praying, he realized, as hard as she could. She was praying as he glanced at her eyes.They were shut. They were shut tight as almonds. He waited and waited and it finally came. She pulled her hair back from her face, round one ear. She opened her eyes and stole a quick peek at his face. Then, when she saw he was staring at her, she blushed and turned quickly away.
Michael smiled. Judy was taking the kids to their grandma's tonight. He had scheduled some office time to wrap up some business. An hour or two. Perhaps less. But more than enough time to offer some guidance through the valley of the spiritual void.
FATHER PATRICK O'TOOLE SAT IN THE DARKENED CONFESSIONAL of St. Joan of Arc on Atlantic and Frankford in North Philadelphia, waiting for his next confessor, thinking about Abby Lindsborg, the assistant director of the Young Adult Ministry. Attendance at the church was way down, and O'Toole was pondering a Youth Gang Music Festival to help attract new members. Abby had loved the idea. “Wow, there's a thought,” she had said, tipping her head to the side, with that beautiful smile she had, the pixie brown hair and those glasses. And he had felt that damned feeling again, that glow, that unwelcome turbidity which—no matter what he did—never seemed to quite dissipate. “Wow, there's a thought,” she had said, and then smiled at him. “There's a thought,” the priest considered.
If he was going to raise enough money, he would have to work fast. Things were tough in the parish. It seemed like every other day another church closed in the diocese.
The screen of the confessional slid open. A tall,bullet-headed young bald man appeared in the frame, concealed only slightly by the sheer nylon screen. He was wearing a nose ring.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he began. “It's been… three weeks since my last confession.”
“Go ahead,” said O'Toole.
“These are my sins. I've been unfaithful to my new girlfriend, Miranda. I don't know how it happened. I was at a party. I was just standing there, minding my own business, when this old friend of mine came up to me and…”
Everything was a mess since '98, decided O'Toole, when the National Catholic Reporter first revealed that the archdiocese's former cardinal, Anthony Bevilacqua, had sunk five million dollars into renovating his mansion, a seaside villa and other personal properties. Parishioners were so outraged that they had taken to the streets with signs depicting Bevilacqua as Darth Vader. O'Toole shuddered, remembering the angry confrontations, the shrill taunts and curses. Then they had brought in a new archbishop, from Los Angeles, of all places, and made him a cardinal, too.
“… and somehow, I guess I forgot to throw out the condom, and she saw it.”
“Anything else?” asked O'Toole, struggling to pay attention.
“I found this thing, the other day, and I feel like I stole it.”
“Go on.”
“This old book, at this job that I'm working on, down on Market Street. I gave it to Wilson, the boss on the gig, and he said he was going to turn it over to Larry Thompson, the curator. From Independence Park. With the National Parks Service. But I saw him this morning, and he told me Wilson never gave him a thing. I think he plans to sell it. It don't feel right, Father.”
“What is this book?” said the priest.
“It's like a diary. We thought it might belong to Ben Franklin. Wilson and me. It's got his signature and everything. It sure looked real. And there was some funny writing inside, like a code …”
In truth, thought O'Toole, Cardinal Justin Rinaldi was probably doing his best. The cardinal's heart seemed to be in the right place. At least he was trying. And what more could he do to counter the seismic forces of the financial and sexual scandals plaguing the Roman Catholic Church in America today?
Just recently, two former prosecutors, who had helped conduct the grand jury investigation into clergy sexual abuse, had sent a letter to Cardinal Rinaldi accusing the Archdiocese of Philadelphia of failing to seriously address the problem. Throughout the city they called it being “Bruggered and Bolested,” after two of the accused priests: Brugger and Bolesta. Meantime, the local parishes languished. And with them, O'Toole's stalled career.
“… the Gospel of Judas.”
“What did you say?”
“The Gospel of Judas.”
“What about it?”
“That's what was written in the diary. The only words I could read that made sense. And there, right beside them, the same words, in both Hebrew and Greek. The rest was in code.”
“In Hebrew? You're sure of this?”
Father O'Toole sat up in the darkened confessional. He leaned a little closer to the screen.
“That's what Wilson said. Why?”
“It could speak to its age. And you're certain it was Ben Franklin's journal?”
“It sure looked like his signature. I checked it out on the Web. Plus, the Gospel of Judas; it's some old heretic text.”
“Why would Franklin be talking about the Gospel of Judas?”
“Dunno.” The young man shrugged.
“Franklin was a Mason. And in Hebrew? That would mean…” Father Patrick O'Toole felt a darkness descend upon him. “What else?” he inquired.
“I lied to my friend Tony. I told him I was going to go out on Thursday, but when Thursday finally rolled around, I didn't feel…”
So old, thought O'Toole. He felt as if the air had been sucked from the tiny confessional. He couldn't stand it. He was drowning in darkness.
The young man droned on about his petty sins. When he was finally done, O'Toole absolved him and sent him on his way with a dozen Hail Marys and two dozen Our Fathers. Heart hammering, the priest closed the panel that covered the screen, and made his way out the side door into the nave, bounding past the choir stalls toward the rear of the church. It was a little after eight A.M. If he hurried he might catch the bishop on the phone before his stroll to morning mass.
O'Toole suddenly stopped. No, not the bishop, he thought. This was a matter for the cardinal himself. If he was right, if Franklin had somehow come into possession of a Gnostic text, and if Father Patrick O'Toole was the one who revealed it, it would be impossible for the bishop to shoot down his Youth Gang proposal. Not this year. Not again. A sudden vision of Abby Lindsborg flooded his mind. The assistant director of the Young Adult Ministry sat on the side of his desk in the church office, right in front of him. She was wearing her ivory silk blouse, leaning toward him, with that button undone at the neck…
What was he thinking? O'Toole paused near the altar, by the red votive candles, and stretched out his hand.The flames started licking his skin. It burned. It burned! He jerked his fingers away.
With the Church reeling as it was from scandal to scandal, with growing divisions between the North and the South, with once-loyal congregations flocking to new Evangelical churches, with the Pope growing sicker, with costs up and tithes down… after two thousand years, this news about the Gospel of Judas couldn't have come at a worse possible time.
ARCHBISHOP DAMIAN LACEY SAT IN HIS OFFICE ON THE VIA della Posta, off the Piazza San Pietro in Rome, reviewing the final selection of spreadsheets that would go into the annual report of the Istituto per le Opere di Religione (IOR)—commonly known as the Vatican Bank. It was a large chamber, with a twenty-foot ceiling and panels of biblical scenes on the walls. The Ark of the Covenant. The tower of Babel. The flight from the Garden of Eden. The archbishop was trying to keep himself occupied. He'd already scanned these documents several times. As assistant comptroller, Lacey was responsible for vetting the final report. But word of the Pope's failing health had reached him that morning, and the news from the field was not good. There was a powerful movement afoot to elect a third-world Pontiff, reflecting the strength of the growing Catholic population in the South. Lacey's candidate, the stout German cardinal from Stuttgart, was trailing. And the straw polls from Latin America had not even arrived.
Lacey clicked on the Send button and climbed to his feet. He crossed to the windows facing out on the Via Salita del Giardino. A beam of June sunlight pierced the glass, illuminating his face as he neared, but his features did not grow any clearer. He was a dark man, of Irish descent—black Irish. He was fond of saying at cocktail parties that his elevation from Dublin to Rome had been a kind of Mediterranean homecoming. After all, it was commonly held the black Irish were descendents of the survivors of King Philip's Armada, blown off course during the Spanish invasion of England back in 1588. Thrown up on the hard shores of Ireland, they had intermarried with the local inhabitants, adding their own olive strain to the pool, plus their fervent belief in Catholicism. Short and squat, with emerald eyes and a head that appeared too big for his shoulders, Lacey looked down at the street. There it was—the black Mercedes sedan. Time to go, he thought. His night job awaited.
The driver swung the car along the Via di Porta Angelica, past the Piazza San Pietro, swarming with tourists, across the Borgo Santo Spirito toward the river. Traffic was bad on the Via dei Penitenzieri. The black Mercedes cut in and out of congestion, fighting for access, until it tore up the Lungotevere. To his left, the river glowed in the afternoon light like a hot band of copper, and Lacey thought about Dublin, the city he had grown up in, his home. It had been years since he'd been back, but he really didn't miss it. Now, he felt at peace only in Rome. The Eternal City. How many millennia, he thought, had the Tiber been coursing along in this way, through this valley?
The Mercedes crossed the river at the Ponte Palatino, sped round the Parco di Sant'Alessio and the Circo Massimo came into view, a large field off the back of the Palatine Hill, the chariot racetrack where once two hundred thousand spectators had cheered on the drivers. And beyond that, the Forum, the Temple of Gemini with its stunted white columns.
In a few weeks, perhaps days, the Polish Pope would be dead, and a new Pontiff named to succeed him. And while the Christian West faced unprecedented attacks from the Islamic East, they were busy squabbling between the North and the South—between the established, conservative churches of Europe and North America, and the mushrooming faiths of the southern hemisphere, with their home-grown expressions of liturgy and their extremist political views.
Lacey looked at the three standing columns of the Casa delle Vestali, once home of the virgins who had maintained the sacred flame in the Tempio di Vesta next door. And right over the edge, at the top of the columns, stood the Arco di Tito, built in A.D. 81 to commemorate Titus's and Vespasian's military victories against Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple.
For sixty years the sacked city had languished in ruins, until the Second Bar Kokhba uprising, when the Jews had been dispersed to the four corners of the earth. Palestine had fallen to the Persians, only to be reconquered by the Christians in 629, and lost again in 638. Back and forth, a pawn in the eternal struggle between the East and the West, Christians and Muslims. Until 1099, when Jerusalem had been liberated by the Christian Crusaders. And so it had flourished for one hundred years, under the protection of the warrior Knights, until Salah ad-Din, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, recaptured the city and made it an Islamic holy center again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Nothing changed.
The black Mercedes cut up the Via di Santa Sabina, up the slopes of the Aventine Hill to the Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta. Two boys were playing soccer in the street. The sedan drew to a stop and Archbishop Lacey stepped out by the massive closed doors of the Priorato. A black cat with white feet padded by.
Most guidebooks, Lacey knew, suggested a peek through the keyhole, where one could see the dome of the Basilica San Pietro neatly framed, strangely close, despite its great distance, as if the smog of the city served as a lens. But Lacey did not bother to look. He had seen it before. He knew what lingered within. It was the home of the Militare Ordine Ospedaliero di San Giovanni di Gerusalemme di Rodie di Malta, commonly known as the Knights Hospitaller. The Knights of Malta.
Founded in Jerusalem in 1080 by the Blessed Gerard, the Order was originally launched to provide care and relief for poor pilgrims who had made their way to the Holy Lands. Then, following the conquest of Jerusalem, the group became a Catholic military order, and expanded its role into providing armed escort to pilgrims en route. Eventually, these escorts grew into a significant force, and together with the Knights Templar, formed in 1119, the Order matured into one of the most powerful Christian groups in the region. The black tunic with white cross soon became a symbol of power and fear in the minds of the Muslims.
By the mid-twelfth century, the Order was clearly divided into military brothers and those who worked with the sick. It also enjoyed astonishing privileges. The Knights were exempt from all authority, except that of the Pope, and obliged by no tithes. Over time, the rising power of Islam eventually pushed the Knights from their traditional holdings. After the fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, they settled on the island of Rhodes.
In 1312, the Knights Templar were dissolved, and much of their property handed over to the Hospitallers. Now known as the Knights of Rhodes, the Order was forced to become a more militarized force, fighting most frequently with the dreaded Barbary pirates. They withstood two invasions in the fifteenth century one by the Sultan of Egypt and another by the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed II, after the fall of Constantinople. Then, in 1522, four hundred ships under the command of Sultan Suleiman delivered two hundred thousand men to the island, against a force of only seven thousand Knights under Grand Master Philippe Villiers de L'Isle-Adam. The siege lasted six brutal months. At its end, the survivors were finally allowed to leave Rhodes, and the Order, what little was left of it, retreated to Sicily.
After seven long years of moving about from one place to another, the Knights were eventually established on the Island of Malta when the Holy Roman Emperor, King Charles V of Spain, gave them Malta, Gozo and Tripoli in perpetual fiefdom in exchange for the annual fee of a single Maltese falcon.
Once again, in 1565, Suleiman assembled a massive invasion force to dislodge them. But, once again, the Ottomans were defeated. At its height, the Turkish army had some forty thousand men, but only fifteen thousand returned to Constantinople—while only six hundred Knights remained guarding the walls.
Following the Christian victory over the Ottoman fleet in the decisive Battle of Lepanto, the Knights continued to attack pirates and Muslim shipping, and their base became a center for slave trading. It required a thousand slaves to equip the galleys of the Order. The slaves perished in droves for the greater glory of God.
For two hundred years the Knights prospered, but with the rise of Protestantism, the Order lost holdings in Europe, and slowly but surely their power declined. France erupted into revolution in 1789, and a huge source of revenue dried up overnight. Napoleon captured the Mediterranean stronghold of Malta during his expedition to Egypt. The Order continued to exist,though greatly diminished. A few nations offered them refuge; the Tsar of Russia gave shelter to vast numbers of Knights in St. Petersburg. But, by the early 1800s, the Order had been gravely weakened by the loss of its priories. It wasn't until Pope Leo XIII restored a Grand Master that the Order's fortunes began to ascend once again, and the Knights eventually established a new headquarters in Rome, at the top of the Aventine Hill.
Archbishop Lacey stepped up to the doors and yanked on the chain. Somewhere deep within, a bell chimed. The Sovereign Military Order of Malta—or SMOM—was legally, politically and historically unique. Just beyond those doors, Lacey knew, lay another sovereign state within the borders of Italy, like San Marino and the Vatican City. It was presided over by the current Prince and Grand Master, Fra Andrew Bertini, who served as Head of State, and by the ten high officers of the Sovereign Council and the General Chapter. The SMOM had the right to legislate itself, and to trade ambassadors with other nations. Indeed, the Knights had diplomatic relations with almost eighty countries. The Order issued its own passports; Lacey carried one. It had its own emblem, the Maltese cross. And it was a Permanent Observer at the General Assembly of the U.N.
The doors swung open. A middle-aged woman dressed in black blocked the entrance. The archbishop said a few words, shook her hand in a particular way, and she motioned him forward. In one step, Lacey passed out of Italy, and entered the elegant gardens of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. He passed down a corridor of manicured trees which led his eye to a perfectly framed view of the cupola of the San Pietro Basilica. To his left spread clipped shrubs, laid out with punctilious care, creating symmetrically designed patterns of walkways between them. As he strolled onto a patio, he took in the view of the city. The territory of the Great Magistry had once been far greater, he knew. But as the role of the Order had changed, and Rome had expanded, the Knights had scaled back their presence, and now they shared the hilltop with other religious communities.
Today, as far as the world was concerned, the activities of the Order were mostly charitable—with medical and social service missions in Western and Eastern Europe, North and South America, throughout Africa and the Middle East and in Asia. They ran hospitals, clinics, homes for the elderly and the terminally ill; workshops for the disabled; rehabilitation and reeducation and refugee centers. The group had ten thousand-plus members, more than seventy thousand permanent volunteers, one million regular donors and nine thousand employees. In total, the Order assisted more than fifteen million people worldwide, with contributions valued at over $700 million. This was the archbishop's night job. In addition to his work at the Vatican Bank, Lacey was responsible for managing the finances of the Order. And, of course, he had a few other duties as well. Duties such as the one he was about to perform.
THEY SAID THAT IF YOU REMOVED ALL THE CLOTH DECORATIONS in the Magistral Church of the Sovereign Order of Malta, it would be the only truly white church in the world, decorated inside and out entirely with white plaster stucco, without any marble whatever.
As Lacey approached the main entrance, he noticed a series of plaster sepulchral embellishments, upside-down torches and skulls, floral and animal reliefs. The façade borrowed design elements from many earlier styles, and featured the recurring motif of the serpent. Lacey studied the intricate carvings. The serpent represented three things: the Roman origins of the area, since the hill had once been known as the Hill of Snakes; the Hospitaller role of the Order, as the snake was the symbol of medicine, as seen on the seal of Hippocrates; and the Christian symbol of death… and resurrection. How apt, Lacey thought, as he stepped through the door.
The light seemed to swell all around him. It bounced off the snowy white walls. The church was empty. Lacey made his way down the aisle, inspecting the pews as he moved. When he got to the altar, he reached down and pressed a carved figure embossed in the stone. With a groan, the altar slid to the side, revealing a narrow stone staircase beneath. Lacey dashed down the steps just as the altar moved back into place.
He made his way down. A solitary light illuminated the narrow passageway. Moments later, he stepped through a door at the foot of the stairs, revealing a long narrow chamber, once again plastered in snowy white stucco. At the center of the room rose a giant sarcophagus made of Bianco Carrara.
Lacey moved toward the marble sarcophagus. It, too, was intricately carved, featuring scenes from the Old Testament—especially Genesis. He could see Eve reaching out for an apple, as the serpent reclined in the tree. The archbishop pressed his right thumb on the apple; the top of the stone chest unlocked with a click and a hiss. He pushed and it rolled to the side. Lights popped on underneath, revealing a series of boxes, twelve by twenty-four inches, each topped with a tight-fitting glass lid.
Lacey gasped. He had been here on countless occasions, but the sight of the codices still filled him with awe. Some were almost two thousand years old.
He leaned over and stared down at the pages of an illuminated text. It was a Renaissance version of the Apocrypha—from the First Book of Adam and Eve. “And God commanded him to dwell there in a cave in a rock—the Cave of Treasures below the garden,” read a passage in Latin.
The archbishop's eyes veered to the foot of the passage, as if drawn by some movement on the vellum itself—to that jumble of lines, that strange intricate series of rectangles, circles and squares. But the vellum was torn, the drawing ripped down the middle.
Lacey sighed. He reached to one side of the marble sarcophagus and pulled out a file from a narrow compartment. He flipped it open and plucked out a photograph. It featured a close-up of Savita Sajan. She was standing beside a black stallion, wearing jodhpurs, staring up at an indigo sky.
Is she the one? Lacey wondered. And is she the last in the line?
They had to find the Gospel of Judas. It was the key to the God machine. But it had to be done very carefully, without incident. With the Papal election just a few days away, they could ill afford some new scandal. Which meant that they needed the cover, the support of the American government, and all of its security apparatus—the police and Homeland Security. And that was not going to be easy.
Lacey sighed once again. He stuffed the photograph back in the file. There was no love lost between the current Administration and the Catholic Church. Not after that business during the last presidential election. Which meant that he, Lacey, had to forge an alliance with Thaddeus Rose, that Evangelical peacock, as distasteful as that was. There was no way around it. It had to be done.
The archbishop glanced at his watch. Time to go, he thought. Sister Maria Morena Diaz would be waiting in the gardens above.
Archbishop Lacey had known Sister Maria for three and a half years. She had been brought to his attention after having been caught up in an unfortunate robbery and murder in Tuquerres, Colombia. Orphaned by gangsters as a child, Maria had turned to prostitution during her teenage years to survive, and then—following a startling conversion—had become a Franciscan Sister of Mary Immaculate. But her misfortunes had trailed her,for one evening, following vespers, she had come upon two robbers intent on stealing some artifacts on exhibit in the church next door to her convent.
Like many nuns who came from and still frequented the worse parts of the city in their daily ministrations, Sister Maria carried a gun. A Taurus. A low-cost Brazilian knockoff of the Smith & Wesson revolver. When the robbers ignored her pleas to depart, she had pulled out her pistol and brandished it. One of the thieves, a large man with a great bushy beard, had lunged at her, thinking that this pretty young nun didn't have the cajones to shoot him—only to feel his left ear blown cleanly away. The other robber surrendered soon after, but vowed to return. And he had. Four months later, he had broken into the convent and raped the young nun in her cell, over and over, until—in a way that she never fully explained to the prioress or the bishop—she had somehow disarmed him and put a slug through his head.
Sister Maria was disgraced by the murder, but her story came to Lacey in that roundabout kind of way that it does on occasion, one informer to the next to the next, like the crowing of roosters, and he had offered the young nun from Colombia a choice: stay with the Franciscan Sisters of Mary Immaculate, but remain a pariah, an outcast; return to the streets; or join with the Order of the Dames of Malta, the Knights' female auxiliary. She had skills, he insisted, which the Order could leverage.
Sister Maria glanced over her shoulder, as if sensing his presence, as Lacey approached the stone patio. She was a beautiful woman. Her traditional full-length navy blue habit and gray tunic could scarcely contain her womanly figure. Though in her mid-thirties, her dark unfathomable eyes, small buttonlike nose, round features,and diminutive stature—she was barely five feet—made her seem significantly younger. Until you looked in her eyes.
As the archbishop drew near, he held out his hand and Sister Maria dipped down to kiss his ring. “How was your trip?” he inquired in Spanish.
“As expected,” she answered.
The archbishop sighed. To say that Sister Maria was laconic was a gross understatement. She was a nun of few words, but it was her actions that mattered to Lacey. He was used to this ritual. He simply needed to coax her.
“And how was our friend Bishop Muñoz?”
“Your Excellency, do you think that I need to confess?” Sister Maria moved to the edge of the patio and looked down. A slight smile played on her lips, surrounded by the starched rim of her wimple.
“My child, I am always here for you.”
“Of that, I am sure,” said the nun. And then the story slowly spilled out. She had met with the Brazilian bishop in São Paulo, where the prelate had grown a significant pro-Liberation Theology following, mostly from the city's dispossessed. To Bishop Muñoz, Christ was a political figure, one who championed the rights of the poor over the financial and political elite. Muñoz had fostered powerful alliances with the Socialist government. He was a man much in demand. And yet, despite his apparent reluctance, despite his false protestations, Sister Maria had somehow seduced him, one evening, in her convent cell. Muñoz was a man in demand—but a man. She had slowly disrobed him, and taken him up in her hand, and massaged him until he was hard. Then she had pushed him back down on her bed, and she had dropped to her knees at his feet.
“I don't need all the lurid details,” Lacey said.
“Yes, you do,” she replied. “And I took him right here in my mouth, and I worked him, in the way I was trained on the streets of Tuquerres. And when he finally came, and I tasted the salt of his liquid communion, I stood up, and I hugged him, pressed his face to my breasts. And as I kissed him, I wrapped my black rosary beads round his neck. These here, that I'm wearing. I let him fall asleep in my arms. Just like that. Till the last breath escaped from his chest. Till the tongue that had been poking my mouth only moments before stuck out on his lips, like a piece of spoiled fruit. Is that what you wanted, Your Excellency? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Lacey looked down at the small woman beside him. She seemed to glow in the warm Roman afternoon light. She was smiling at him. “Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat,” said Lacey. “Et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges.” He made the sign of the cross. “Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
Sister Maria laughed. “You absolve me from every bond of excommunication and interdict, so far as your power allows. Believe me, it will take far more than your hand, Excellency, to cleanse me.” Then she looked out at the city beneath her, at the Circo Massimo and the Forum beyond. “Why did you call me here? It wasn't just to hear about Muñoz, as much as you enjoy my accounts. I'm sure you already heard of his passing.”
Lacey nodded. “Do you know why I love this city?” he asked as he followed her gaze. “Why I feel so at home here?”
Sister Maria said nothing.
“It's not because Rome is the center of the world. I'm afraid that its glorious past has long since been extinguished. The chariots no longer run,” he said, pointing below. “And it's not because Rome is the center of the Catholic Church. While the Pope may reside here, the balance of power is shifting. No,” he continued. “It's because Rome is at the center of time. Here, one can feel the true meaninglessness of the temporal dimension. Here one can understand how each act—and each actor—is but one link in the long chain of the Faith.”
The nun remained silent.
“Something has been found,” Lacey said. “In Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. Something that could deliver a great blow to the Church. Perhaps an insurmountable blow in this age of our struggle with Suleiman. I want you to retrieve it. It's a task that requires your particular skills.”
“All of them?” said the nun.
“Whatever's required, my child. And may the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints obtain for you that whatever good you do or whatever evil you bear might merit for you the remission of your sins, the increase of grace and the reward of everlasting life.”
AS THEY STEPPED THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR OF THE HOUSE, it was Deborah who first noticed the chest overturned in the foyer, and the grandfather clock on the floor. She screamed, and Franklin caught her as she took a step back. “We've been robbed,” she exclaimed. Then she scuttled off down the hall toward the kitchen, and the few pieces of silver she kept hidden in the pantry.
The Franklins had just returned from attending a sermon by George Whitefield, the most stirring preacher they had seen since Sam Hemphill, and Franklin's spirit was not in the mood to be dashed by thoughts of ill will and larceny. He had been genuinely moved by the young English minister's fiery sermon. But it was not Whitefield's spiritual ministrations that had stirred him, nor the practical guidance the preacher had delivered on treating the poor. It was the size of that audience, the sheer mass of it.
All the way home Franklin had been counting his profits, adding up with each footstep his share in the publication of the minister's sermons. He was thinking of revenues, not expenditures. And now this. A sudden fear gripped his entrails, and he looked at the door leading down to the basement. The gospel!
Franklin dashed down the steps to the root cellar, to that cache in the floor, and that box. He dropped to his knees, scrabbling at the dirt with his hands. There it was. He reached for the box. The Gospel of Judas. He ripped open the top. Still safe and unharmed. Franklin uttered a sigh of relief.
Franky, he thought. Don't you worry, I'm coming.
He caressed the volume, dropped it back in the box, then slipped the box back in the hole. It wouldn't be long now. He was working on it. He was making real progress. And in a decade or so, if he kept at this pace, he'd have the funds to retire, and the time to devote to his research.
But who, he considered, would have done such a thing? Who would violate his home in this manner?
Franklin pushed the dirt back with his hands. He was patting it down when he heard Deborah scream.
He leapt to his feet. Before Franklin even knew how he got there, he had ascended the stairwell and was on the last stair. He charged round the corner; he ran toward the kitchen when he heard Deborah scream once again. She was nowhere in sight. The kitchen and pantry were empty. “Where are you?” he shouted. He circled about. “Deborah!”
“I'm here. In my room.”
Upstairs! Franklin cursed and dashed back through the hallway, up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom. Deborah was standing on the far side of her bed. She looked white as a mainsail at sea. Then she pointed right at him. “There,” she began. “He was standing right there, where you're standing, God help me. Just a moment ago.”
Franklin spun about. He looked down the hall. It was empty. Then, at the far end of the landing, he made out a face, though distorted and warped, rather cloudy, with a long pointed nose, jet-black eyes and black eyebrows. In the mirror. The mirror with the great concave lens. The stranger was standing right off to the side. In his study!
Franklin raced down the hall like a bull. He felt the blood pound in his temples as he came to a stop by his doorway. The stranger. He was gone! The study was empty, ransacked but most certainly empty. Nothing moved but the curtains. Then he noticed the window, and the two planks of wood that marked the top of a ladder.
Franklin ran to the window. The man was already half way down to the ground. He was getting away. A tall man, with long hair pulled back in a shiny black ribbon. He wore a long black minister's frock.
When he got to the ground, the stranger grabbed the two sides of the ladder and pulled it away from the house. It balanced precariously, pointed skyward, and then tumbled back down on the walk, next to Deborah's herb garden. The stranger looked up. He was smiling. Those black eyes and black eyebrows, and that long pointed chin. That wispy black beard. Then he waved, and he turned with a laugh and was halfway across the backyard before Franklin could even think to cry out. But it was too late by then. The stranger had vanished behind the old necessary. He had slipped over the neighbor's rear fence.
Franklin made his way from his study to Deborah's bedroom. His wife sat on her bed now, her hands in her lap. She was crying. “There, there, now,” he crooned. “He's gone.” He sat beside her. He patted her back, like he used to pat Franky. Long ago. When his son suffered from hiccups. “Don't worry.”
“Who… was he?”
“I don't know him. But I have my suspicions.”
“A lackey of Bradford's, I'd warrant. Or a thief on the prowl for loose silver?”
“Neither, Mrs. Franklin,” he answered. “Though if Bradford's not somehow involved, I'd be very surprised. He's not slept well since Spotswood ordered his system to carry my papers. At least now that I'm Postmaster, I'm no longer obliged to pay bribes to his drivers.”
“It was his own fault,” said Deborah. “He was sloppy in his bookkeeping. He didn't deserve his commission.”
“Perhaps so, but to lose it to me…” Franklin laughed. “The effrontery. His greatest of rivals.”
Andrew Bradford was Philadelphia's other great printer. Bradford boasted an unassailable pedigree, and his Mercury was aligned with the the Penn family and their insidious governors. But the decidedly middle-class Franklin and his Pennsylvania Gazette supported the elected Assembly. Only a few years before, Franklin's paper had endorsed Andrew Hamilton in his quest for reelection as Assembly speaker. Franklin called Hamilton the “poor man's friend,” while Bradford's Mercury attacked him vociferously. Hamilton had once helped Franklin strip Bradford of some government printing contracts, and when he won reelection, he named Franklin clerk of the Assembly. So, when Colonel Spotswood, the Postmaster of the colonies, found Bradford had not been forthright in his bookkeeping, he had offered, with Hamilton's urging, the title to Franklin. Now Franklin was thinking about starting the first magazine in the colonies, to augment his publishing empire, and he had no doubt Bradford would invent his own offering. But why would his business rival send someone to break into his house and steal his… what?
Much had been tossed about, as if the stranger had been searching for something in particular, but nothing appeared to be missing. At least, not at first glance. Had they scared him away before he'd ventured down to the root cellar?
No, Franklin thought. It wasn't Andrew Bradford. It was the masters at the end of his leash. It was the Penn family—Thomas Penn in particular. And, perhaps, his other dog too—Presbyterian Church Elder Jedediah Andrews.
Franklin sighed. But why worry his Deborah? She had enough to contend with already. “Why don't you undress and get ready for bed,” Franklin said, standing up.
“I should help …” Deborah started to say.
“No, you rest. Don't worry, there'll be plenty to do in the morning.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I'll look in on you later, perhaps. Try and sleep.”
Franklin closed the door softly behind him and made his way down the landing without waiting for his wife to respond. The man at the bottom of the ladder. He played the image over and over again in his head. With the dark eyes and dark eyebrows. With that wispy black beard and frock coat.
Franklin looked in at his study. Everything was chaos. Even the paintings had been stripped from the walls, his inventions disassembled, his desk drawers flung open and tossed to the floor. He picked his way carefully across the detritus of his life. The coat of a clergyman, he thought.
Franklin had already run afoul of Church Elder Andrews in his support of Sam Hemphill, that young preacher from Ireland. Now Franklin had made an arrangement with the English Evangelist Whitefield to publish his sermons as well. But he didn't support Whitefield simply because of their business arrangement. It was because, like Hamilton, Whitefield was a populist, and this let Franklin tweak his nose at the religious and political elite. They needed to be thwarted, kept in check. Since Penn's duplicitous “Walking Purchase,”the resentful Indians had been cozying up to the French, who—according to Franklin's network of postal agents—were building forts all up and down the Ohio, from Louisiana to Canada. Franklin believed the colonists should reaffirm their alliance with the Indians before French and Spanish privateers began raiding towns on the Delaware. Unprotected by government, for their mutual defense, for the security of their wives and their children and estates, they needed to form an Alliance that could draw up some sort of militia. But the Quakers wouldn't fund it because of their pacifist leanings, and the Penns vigorously resisted any tax on their lands.
In frustration, Franklin had recently concocted the idea of a lottery to furnish a hundred companies with cannons and equipment, though the idea of a private association of shopkeepers assuming from government the right to create and manage a military force would undoubtedly prove far too radical. The Proprietors would never permit it. Through their greed and resentment of the Assembly, they would dither, and put off and debate—until their chances to mount a defense were long gone, and Philadelphia had been burned to the ground.
Franklin began to gather up the objects strewn across his study floor. He stacked the loose papers in a pile on his desk. He picked up the shards of a shattered carafe, and righted his inkwell and quills. Who could save the colonists, he wondered as he replaced his possessions, who but the middling people, the tradesmen and shopkeepers and farmers? At present, they were like separate filaments of flax before the thread is formed—without strength, unconnected. But union would strengthen them. And this, he surmised, was why his house and his study lay in ruins. This powerful notion that lingered within him. If the rich and the powerful Proprietors couldn't be counted on to support them when threatened by the French or the Indians, the colonists needed to take on the challenge without them. Without the Penns. Without relying on their British governors. With out the support of the Crown.
Cooperation amongst the colonies didn't come easily, but it would have to come sometime, eventually. After all, if the six nations of the Iroquois could invent such a union, so could a dozen or so English colonies, especially when the need was so urgent. Such a union would require a national congress composed of representatives from each state, based on their population and wealth. A President General could be named by the King. Issues such as national defense and westward expansion would be handled by a General Government, while each colony would follow its own local legislature and its own constitution. This was the logical next step … but the colonial Assemblies would resist it for usurping too much of their power, and London would subvert it from fear of encouraging too much colonial unity. In the end, Franklin feared, the Crown preferred her colonies divided and squabbling, fulfilling their role as the source of raw materials, so that goods and products could be manufactured in Britain, only to be exported back to the colonies.
Penn held the leash. He had tried to destroy or subvert Franklin on several occasions, but always through agents, through third parties, obliquely. If he were true to form, he'd select the same tactic again. Jedediah Andrews was behind that tall stranger with the dark eyes and black eyebrows. Of that, Franklin was certain. The man in the clergyman's frock.
He picked up his portrait of Franky. The canvas was unharmed, though the frame had been chipped in the fall. He hung it back up on the wall. Then he took a step backward and looked at his son, at that smile, at those small doleful eyes. But what does all this have to do with the Gospel of Judas? Franklin wondered. Unless Penn's using the gospel as bait. He shook his head. Who would risk breaking in, would risk ransacking his house, for such an old Gnostic text?
He continued to clean up his study. When he had put away all his papers, when he had remounted the art on the wall and reassembled his shattered inventions as best as he could, it had grown late. The June sun had long set. Franklin lit a lamp. He made his way through the door, began to turn toward his bedroom when he noticed the mirror again. This is where he had first glimpsed the face of the stranger. Franklin stopped. He lifted the lamp. Something was wrong. The mirror appeared to be scratched. He ran a hand down the glass. No, it wasn't scratched. It was covered with white chalk or dried soap. And it was etched in the shape of a cross. A Maltese cross.
With a shudder, Franklin wiped the shape from the glass with his sleeve. So the rumors he had heard from the rabbi were true. Andrews and Penn had made a pact with the Papists. From now on, he'd have to invent a new code, draft his journals so that no one could read them. This symbol, this cross was the sign of the Knights, the Hospitallers of Malta. They were after Christ's Logoi. Long ago, in a far distant land, they had misplaced His words and the Judas schematic. Now, after almost two thousand years, they were coming back to reclaim them.
IAN WILSON HAD BEEN WATCHING THE SIMPSONS WITH HIS son, Trevor, and daughter, Kathleen, in their small house in Narberth, when the power went out. It was one of those episodes with Itchy and Scratchy and Wilson had just been thinking how he should probably turn it off due to the violence, or change the channel at least, when the TV went off by itself. It was like he was telekinetic.
“Shit,” said Kathleen. She was a lanky thirteen-year-old, with brown hair pulled back in a scrunchy with pink polka dots.
“Bubonic shit,” countered Trevor. “I love that episode.” At ten, Trevor had his father's round face, and a buzz cut which he'd greased up into a kind of a faux Mohawk. He wore a blue dinosaur T-shirt.
“Watch your language,” said Wilson. He got up from his lounger and made his way, like a blind man, toward the kitchen. There was a flashlight in the cabinet by the stove, he was sure of it. He could visualize it. He was about to swing open the door when another light flashed in his eyes. At first he thought it was Trevor. “Cut it out,” he said tartly, blocking the light with his hand. “For crying out loud, it's right in my eye.” That's when he saw it was somebody bigger, someone dressed in a ski mask and jacket. Someone carrying a gun.
“What the devil…” he stammered. Then somebody hit him.
When Wilson awoke, he was tied to one of his dining chairs. Kathleen and Trevor were tied up beside him, to his right and his left. A half dozen men wearing ski masks and jeans, and holding automatic weapons—M16s—stood around them. All wore night vision goggles. The lights were still out. Wilson could barely make out the figures in the glow of the night light. “What do you want from us?” Wilson said.
The men didn't answer. They simply stood there and waited. Then a warm glow appeared at the base of the stairs. Wilson heard someone approaching, the clip-clop of hard leather soles. The glow broadened; a figure materialized. At first Wilson could scarcely believe it. A young nun, wearing a traditional habit and veil. She was carrying a candle, and the bronze glow of the flame emblazoned her face, the full lips and small button nose. She looked as if she might be strolling to vespers, down a long convent corridor in Veracruz or Cancún; she looked Mexican. She stared at her feet, humbly looking away. She was muttering a prayer, he could see that. Her lips moved. She looked up and he noticed her eyes, black as space, like an infinite tunnel, seemingly welling with tears. They were vacant, he realized. Dead.
“Your wife, Mr. Wilson?” she inquired. “She hasn't come home yet?”
“Any minute now,” he found himself answering. “She went shopping for dinner.” He had meant to lie. He had meant to say something quite different.
The nun smiled. She had an infectious agreeable grin, with large perfect white teeth that glimmered against her brown skin. Wilson shuddered.
“Then we'll just have to wait,” she replied.
“Wait for what? Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want from us? Money? I don't have any money.” His voice trailed off. Clearly they weren't looking for money he thought. They had come for something quite different.
The nun took a step closer. Instinctively Wilson reared back. She smiled and looked down at Kathleen. “How old are you, child?” she inquired.
Kathleen stared up in terror. Wilson wrestled against his restraints but they just wouldn't budge. The knots were too tight.
“Thirteen.”
“Like Saint Agnes,” the nun said. “Did you know that back in the early 300s, the prefect Sempronius asked Agnes to marry his son, but—being Christian—she staunchly refused. So he condemned her to death. According to Roman law, the execution of virgins was forbidden. Undaunted, Sempronius ordered the girl to be raped, though they say that her hymen was miraculously preserved. Then they led her outside to be burned at the stake, but the bundle of wood would not burn. So the officer in charge of the troops simply chopped off her head.” The nun reached out, placed her hand upon Kathleen's left shoulder. “With his sword.” She caressed the slender young neck. “Sometimes,” she murmured, “one has to make terrible sacrifices for the good of the Church.” For a moment she stood there, staring off into space. Then she added, “Her bones are conserved in the church of Sant' Agnese fuori le mura, in Rome, and her skull at the Piazza Navona. It's an interesting tour.”
Wilson couldn't stand it any longer. “What the hell do you want from us? Who are you people?”
The nun moved closer to Wilson. “A few days ago, a construction worker named Tom Moody brought you a journal unearthed at your worksite on Market Street—Franklin Court.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
The nun nodded curtly at one of the men in the ski masks. He came forward and stood behind Kathleen. Without warning, he jammed a black rubber gag in her mouth. Then he took out a roll of electrical tape.
“Now, wait a minute,” Wilson said. “Leave my kids out of this. They don't know anything.”
The man wrapped the tape around Kathleen's head, over her eyes and her nose and her lips, trapping the gag in her mouth. Only then did he begin to untie her. He pulled the girl up by the hair.
“Please,” Wilson said. “I'm begging you. Let her go. She knows nothing.”
Kathleen flailed at first but the man in the ski mask cuffed her once on the cheek and she fell still. He picked her up by her scrunchy with the pink polka dots. He dragged her just out of sight. Wilson struggled to see, but—lashed as he was to the seat—he was unable to turn. “I said she doesn't know anything,” he pleaded. “Let her go, or I won't help you find what you're looking for.”
The nun took Wilson by the chin. “But you will, Mr. Wilson,” she told him. “I have faith in you. Where's the journal?”
“What journal?”
The nun nodded again and despite the gag and the masking tape, Kathleen uttered a scream. “Stop it. Please, stop it,” begged Wilson.
“Franklin's journal,” the nun said.
Wilson heard the sound of something tearing. Kathleen shrieked. The noise was muffled and grim. Kathleen cried out again. “I don't have it,” Wilson said.
“You're lying.”
“I sent it away. To New York.”
“To whom?”
“To Robinson. Nick Robinson.”
The nun held up her hand. “And the copy you made?”
“What copy? I didn't make any copy. I don't have a copy.”
“Anyone ambitious enough to send the journal to Robinson would never let go of his prize. You made a copy. One denial would have been more believable.”
The nun grew suddenly silent. She cupped the palm of her hand round her ear, clearly outlined just under her veil. “We have company,” she told the masked men.
They ducked out of sight. The nun faded back toward the kitchen, blowing out the candle as she did so. The room fell into darkness again. Seconds later, a key scraped in the lock. Tumblers clicked. The front door swung open. A hand reached inside for the light switch, turned it on, turned it off, but the room remained dark. A figure stepped into the hallway. It was Wilson's wife. She was carrying two bulging brown grocery bags in her arms.
“Run, Nancy,” cried Wilson. “Get out of here. Now!” A flash of white light. In his head. It exploded. And then pain. And then nothing at all.
THIS TIME, WHEN WILSON AWOKE, HIS HEAD HURT, AND HE could feel blood running down the nape of his neck. It felt shockingly cold. Nancy was standing a few feet away next to Trevor. The nun stood behind her. She was strangling Nancy with her rosary beads. She was choking her. And Nancy was trying to reach up, trying to tear at the nun's little fingers, at her veil, at her habit. But she couldn't quite reach. Wilson strained at his bindings. He pulled at his chair. The nun kept on squeezing and squeezing until the woman he had known for seventeen years, who had borne his two children, who had slept in his bed every night of their marriage, was as limp and as unrecognizable as a stranger at the back of a car wreck sliding by on the highway at night.
“Nancy,” moaned Wilson, but the word seemed to have lost all its meaning.
The nun loosened her grip. His wife slid to the floor. She flopped forward, lifeless, landing inches from Trevor's left foot.
“Where is the copy, Mr. Wilson?” the nun asked.
Trevor began to scream. The nun slapped him. He quieted for a moment, then he started again. She reached out, slipped her rosary beads round his neck. She yanked until she cut off his shrieking. “I'm growing impatient,” she said. “And, soon, your son and daughter will grow cold. Like their mother. The copy, Mr. Wilson.”
With a desperate shiver, Wilson pointed his chin at the sofa. “In the springs. Underneath the right cushion.”
The nun released Trevor. One of the masked men ambled over to the sofa. He pulled up the seat pillows. There was a pen, and two coins, and a small plastic dinosaur … and a slit in the dark green upholstery. The man reached in and pulled out a small stack of papers. They were bound by a clip at the corner.
“There, you see,” said the nun as she picked up the candle again. The man gave her the papers and she examined them closely. Then she smiled. “We could have avoided all of this awkwardness, Mr. Wilson. There is a delicious release, is there not, in the embrace of every confession?”
“You have what you came for,” said Wilson. “Now go. Leave my children alone.”
The nun frowned, shook her head. “If only it were that easy, Mr. Wilson. But I give you my word; I will pray for you and your family. And I will never forget what you've done.”
The nun walked over to the window behind the TV. She lifted the candle until the flame touched the base of the curtains. Seconds later, they burst into flames. Fire licked up the wall. The men in the ski masks stepped back.
“You can't leave us like this,” Wilson pleaded. “What kind of a monster are you?”
The men retied Kathleen to her chair. Wilson could see his daughter. Her face was bloody. Her blouse was torn. And Trevor still whimpered beside him. The flames billowed and roared. The curtains had fallen to the floor and the carpet was melting. Then the TV caught fire, and the table it sat on. Then the bookcase against the far wall. A smoke alarm started to wail. No, it wasn't a smoke alarm. It was him.
The nun paused in the hallway. The men in the ski masks were gone. Wilson could scarcely see through the smoke. “Consider this a kind of rehearsal, Mr. Wilson,” she said. “A prelude to eternal damnation.”
Wilson struggled but his bonds would not yield. He yanked at the ropes until his wrists bled. He yanked and he heaved but he couldn't pull free. Trevor was the first to catch fire. Wilson watched as his son's khakis burst into flames, then his dinosaur T-shirt and his hair and his skin. Nancy was next. In a flash, she exploded in a great ball of fire. The flames danced on the carpet, a bright chemical blue. They licked at his feet. They wicked up his pants. He could smell the scent of his own bubbling flesh. He could feel his skin cooking. As he screamed, the flames blistered the roof of his mouth. The pain was unfathomable. Every nerve in his body was sizzling. He yanked at his bonds. He pulled and he wrestled, but there was nothing at all he could do … except die.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, he thought. But he knew in his heart of hearts, as the darkness descended, even that was a lie.
“YOUR SEAT BELT, PLEASE, MR. KOSTER.” THE PRETTY ASIAN flight attendant pointed down at his lap. “We'll be landing in San Francisco in just a few minutes.”
Joseph Koster slipped the leather-bound volume he'd been reading on the padded seat next to him and buckled his belt. He'd been studying Franklin's journal intently and had failed to notice the little red light in the carved walnut bulkhead flash on. The flight attendant picked up his tray of green figs and yogurt and the crystal decanter, and made her way back to the galley.
When Robinson had told Koster he had booked him on the morning flight to the Coast, Koster hadn't realized he was traveling on Robinson's own Citation X, the fastest business jet on the market, with a top speed of over 590 mph. He'd assumed he was flying commercial, until the driver had turned down the side road at the airport marked General Aviation, and there she was—smooth-lined and predatory, parked right on the edge of the tarmac.
The X was the most luxurious plane Koster had ever seen, and yet, despite the plush seats and impeccable appointments, he had found it virtually impossible to sit still during the flight. The cabin was almost twenty-four feet long, with room for eight to stretch out in comfort, but other than the flight attendant and two pilots, he was the only passenger aboard. It all seemed, well… just too much for one person.
Robinson's faith in him had been greatly misplaced, Koster feared. Despite his skills as a mathematician, he had failed to make any progress in deciphering Franklin's journal. He had started, as always, with a simple substitution cipher, replacing true letters—plain text—with different characters—cipher text.
One of the simplest substitution ciphers was the Caesar Cipher, named after its Roman origins. This required writing two alphabets or numeric sequences, one on top of the other. The lower sequence was shifted by one or more characters to the right or left using the cipher text to represent the plain text in the line above:
Plain Text
Cipher Text
Koster usually tried to identify a cipher text message from other cipher text or from plain text. Then he counted the different cipher text characters or combinations to determine their frequency of usage. He looked for patterns, series and common combinations. Finally, he replaced the cipher text characters with possible plain text equivalents, using specific language characteristics.
For example, although the English language features a total of twenty-six letters, nine letters—E, T, A, O, N, I, R, S and H—constitute seventy percent of plain text. EN is the most frequently used two-letter combination, followed by RE, ER and NT. The letter A is often located at the beginning of a word, or second from last. The letter I is often third from last. And vowels, which constitute forty percent of plain text, are often separated by consonants.
Koster had worked on the journal the entire flight from New York but he had nothing to show for it. He looked out the porthole as the plane slowly descended through clouds. Then a hole opened up and the ground became visible, a great swath of green, and a lake—Lake Tahoe, perhaps—before it vanished again, and for some reason, Koster thought back to Switzerland, and that first time he had flown to Lausanne, on his way to the École Polytechnique Fédérale.
Becoming an architect had been his mother's idea. She'd seen it as a respite from the end of his mathematical career, a replacement for his aborted work on the Goldbach conjecture.
Born in New York, the only child of concert oboist Peter Koster and Katrina Östergård, a high-school physics teacher, Koster had excelled at mathematics from a very young age. At twelve, he had published his very first paper—on group theory, with an emphasis on algebraic topology—and soon the young Koster was being hustled off from one conference to the next. He had entered MIT at fifteen. There his fascination with the Goldbach conjecture, one of the oldest unsolved problems in number theory, first took hold. The conjecture states that every even integer greater than two can be written as the sum of two primes. Koster had spent years developing a theorem based on statistical considerations focusing on the probabilistic distribution of prime numbers. His work was featured on the cover of academic journals. He became a minor international celebrity, speaking at universities and mathematics symposia from Bangkok to Berlin. He was even nominated for the prestigious Fields Medal, awarded to but a handful of mathematicians at each International Congress of the International Mathematical Union only once every four years. At twenty, Koster was at the top of his game.
But his heuristic argument proved nonrigorous. Though asymptotically valid for c ≥ 3, in the end, a true proof eluded him. He had sat there in his brand-new tuxedo that night at the Congress in Nice, on the French Mediterranean, as the waves pounded the shore, listening as they announced first one name, then the next—but none of them his.
For small values of n, the Goldbach conjecture could be verified directly. Since that day on the Côte d'Azur, he had run a distributed computer search that had confirmed the conjecture up to n ≤ 4 × 1017. The search was still going on. He was becoming increasingly right every day, with each cycle of the distributed network. He just couldn't prove it.
Still in his twenties, rather than becoming a math teacher, Koster had taken up architecture at the École Polytechnique Fédérale in Switzerland. In truth, he wondered who had suffered more from the demise of his mathematical career—he or his mother, Katrina. She had often accompanied him on his lecture tours, basking in the glow of his genius. Then, when it had finally collapsed, she had simply sent him away. As always. Unless he were debating mathematics or science with her, she seemed deaf to his voice, blind to his very existence. And his father was always performing, or locked away in his study rehearsing.
Koster had done reasonably well at the university in Lausanne, and after a few years apprenticing at various architectural firms throughout Europe, he'd landed a job—with no small help from Nick Robinson—at McKenzie & Voight, New York—Paris—Dubai. Based at their headquarters in Manhattan, Koster had ascended the corporate ladder with remarkable ease. Starting with small projects—school auditoriums, conference rooms, bits and pieces—he was soon renovating major estates, or assisting in the development of large corporate pavilions. He got married to Priscilla, although that didn't last very long. Then, during a slow period in the early nineties, he had taken a break from it all. At Nick Robinson's request, he had traveled to France to write a book on the Notre Dame cathedrals. He had become embroiled in a hunt for the Gospel of Thomas, allegedly hidden beneath the cathedral at Chartres. He had met Mariane. And then lost her.
The clouds burst open and the west slope of the Sierra Nevadas slipped down toward the ocean. There was a price to be paid for his love of mathematics, Koster realized. Numbers were an addiction to him, with their own demands and sacrifices, their own aesthetics, their own logic and truth. Sometimes they responded, they let go, made you privy to their inscrutable patterns. And other times—Koster looked at the volume beside him—they just didn't.
THE CITATION X BANKED AND WAS SUDDENLY DOWN ON THE ground before Koster had even prepared himself. Moments later they taxied off the main runway and came to a stop by the terminal. Robinson had told him that Sajan was to meet him in town. But as Koster made his way down the cabin stairs, the flight attendant plucked at his sleeve and informed him that there had been a change in itinerary. Ms. Sajan, it turned out, was not in San Francisco after all. She was staying at her Morgan Hill ranch. A Cimbian plane was en route to fetch him for the twenty-minute flight to the south. But, unfortunately, it was running a little bit late.
Koster ended up in the General Aviation terminal, where he made himself as comfortable as he could in the lounge. Half an hour later, a slight Indian man in a dark blue uniform with the Cimbian logo on his breast pocket, sidled up to him. His name was Ravindra. He was the pilot, he told him, assigned to take Koster to Mineta, the San Jose International Airport. Koster followed him out of the terminal and they made their way to another private plane, a Hawker 400XP, also featuring the Cimbian logo—bright gold and blue, with the C so much larger than the rest, it appeared to be amplifying the name.
“I thought Ms. Sajan was going to meet me in town,” Koster said as they climbed up the steps to the jet.
“Engine trouble,” replied the pilot. “That's why I was late.”
The Hawker was slightly smaller than the Citation X but equally opulent. Koster buckled himself up in one of the creamy white seats. The side panels were cloth instead of walnut, he noticed. There were only seven passenger seats, and slightly less headroom. As soon as they took off, the copilot came back and handed Koster an LCD tablet and a small metal tie pin with the Cimbian logo. “What's this for?” asked Koster.
“Just enter your preferences. Once you're done, it will Bluetooth to the pin. Ms. Sajan has a smart home.”
Koster looked at the tablet. There were a whole bunch of questions about preferred temperatures and colors and music and artwork and food, plus a series comparing physical textures. He found it all fascinating. When he had finished, Koster tapped the tablet and the data was passed to the tie pin. Then he attached the pin to his blazer.
The flight was over in minutes. The plane landed and Koster transferred to a black stretch limousine that drove him out toward Morgan Hill, at the foot of the El Toro Mountain, twelve miles south of San Jose in the southern Santa Clara Valley. It was a beautiful drive. They passed orchards and vineyards, and winsome bedroom communities that serviced nearby Silicon Valley, where Cimbian was headquartered. The Valley itself was surrounded by the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west, and the Diablo mountain range to the east. Large homes of mostly Spanish architecture dotted the hillsides.
After they left the highway, the road started climbing toward El Toro and Koster found himself surrounded by horse farms. The driver turned off down a dirt road sided by tall eucalyptus trees. They came to a gate with a guardhouse and the limousine crawled to a stop. A moment later, they entered the property.
The gravel driveway was at least half a mile long, wandering through pastures and meadows, by outbuildings and stables, circumscribed by long stretches of fencing to the ranch house itself. The layout of the property seemed perfectly attuned to the hilly terrain. The main house was perched on top of a hill, three stories, made of cedar, with a long wooden porch and a stone chimney that looked like it had been crafted from freestones plucked out of some river nearby. A couple of guest cottages ran up the hill to the rear, enclosed by a stand of green olive trees. On the other side were a stable, an expansive corral and what appeared to be some kind of chapel.
Koster was greeted at the door to the ranch by the housekeeper, Flora, a gregarious Mexican woman. She told him Señora Doña Sajan was outside in the gardens. As she escorted him to his room, Koster finally determined the reason for the tie pin he'd stuck in his jacket. He stepped through the door and the fan started purring, the lights slightly dimmed, and a sonata by Mozart started playing from invisible speakers. He dropped his small suitcase and computer bag on the bed when he noticed the paintings—of distant blue mountains—grow suddenly dark. They weren't paintings at all; they were gas plasma displays. In an instant they were replaced by impressionist landscapes, drawings by Escher and the abstract expressions of Rothko.
The room itself was tastefully decorated with simple bleached wooden furniture, a desk of contemporary Danish design, wide cedar plank walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on El Toro. They seemed to tint automatically as the sun struck them. Koster unpacked and settled in. When he had finished washing up in the stone sink in the bathroom, he made his way out to the hall. He tried to find Flora, the housekeeper, but she was nowhere about. So he slipped out the front door and strolled through the gardens.
Koster walked about for a good ten minutes looking for Sajan, and was about to give up, when he again noticed the chapel on the far side of the barn. It was a small wooden building, with blue lancet windows. A plain wooden cross stood over on the lintel. He traversed the courtyard and tested the door. It was unlocked. He opened it carefully. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. The chapel was tiny, with only eight pews—four on either side of the aisle. There was a diminutive rose window with an abstract design in the wall above the altar. A woman knelt in prayer at the front, near the aisle. As soon as she heard the door swing open behind her, she looked up.
Savita Sajan was a small woman, in her mid to late thirties, with large almond-shaped eyes, black on black. Her features were delicate. She had full lips, the color of berries, and impeccable teeth—surprisingly white against the rich brown complexion of her native south India—and her long shiny black hair hung loosely about her narrow shoulders. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans, he noticed, a black T-shirt and cowboy boots, and a simple gold charm on a chain round her neck. It was hard to believe he was looking at the founder of Cimbian, one of the most successful Telco chip manufacturers in Silicon Valley, whose C4 chip was present in almost fifty percent of all cell phones worldwide. In the end, though, he realized, what she wore was irrelevant.There was something hypnotic about the way that she moved. She seemed to glide down the aisle, seemed to hover before him, her hand out, and that smile—it was luminous. “Hello,” Koster said.
She kept smiling at him.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Koster, clasping her hand and shaking it. “I'm Joseph Koster.”
“Welcome,” she answered. “I'm Savita Sajan.” She had a sing-song tone to her voice with some undefined accent.
“I didn't mean to disturb you—”
“Yes, you did. Why deny it? This is no way to begin.”
“Excuse me?”
Sajan wrinkled her nose. She examined him closely. In her gaze, he felt suddenly exposed, like an exhibit in some sort of collection, a beetle or butterfly pinned to the wall of a glass-fronted display. She tilted her head. Then she laughed. “It's okay, Mr. Koster. I was finished. Aren't you coming?” She moved toward the entrance.
Once outside, they made their way down a path that cut toward the stable. The light was painfully bright after the cool of the chapel.
“I trust your flight was comfortable,” Sajan said as they walked. “I'm sorry I didn't make it up to San Francisco. I have a house near California and Powell, not far from the University Club. You would like it, I think. Lots of good food nearby.”
“No problem,” said Koster, somehow cheered by her breezy apology. “This is beautiful here.”
And she smiled once again. Sajan entered the stable and moved toward a magnificent Arabian, midnight black, in the very last stall. She patted his cheeks and pulled at his nose. His eyes rolled. He whinnied, then began to munch on some hay at his hooves. “So tell me, Mr. Koster. How do you and Nick know one another?”
“We met at school years ago. In New York. At Friends Elementary, in the Village. We were both interested in mathematics. Of course, he was also a three-letter man, the school's most successful debater, chess champion, the number one stroke and valedictorian—you know Nick. We took some classes together at Columbia. Then I moved up to Boston, to attend MIT. But we kept in touch through the years. It's hard not to keep track of the Robinsons when they're in the papers so much. I have a feeling Nick likes to keep a few mortals around just to remind him what it's like for the rest of the planet.”
Sajan tipped her head to the side. “That's not the Nick I know,” she retorted. “He's far more than his family name.”
“I was kidding,” said Koster, trying to bring up a smile.
“No. You weren't.”
Koster sighed. “What about you?” he asked. His fingers started to dance on his trouser legs. “How did you meet Nick?”
Sajan reached into the front pocket of her blue jeans, pulled out a sweet and fed it to the stallion. The horse nuzzled her chest. She pushed the Arabian away. “I was finishing up my thesis at Princeton,” she said, “and I got sidetracked on another project, an article I was writing for some popular science journal. I doubt it exists anymore. Anyway, Nick read it. He must have been trapped in some dentist's office between root canals. It wasn't that good. For some reason, he contacted me through the magazine's publisher.”
“What was it about?”
“You might think it a little bit strange. Some people consider my pastimes… eccentric. I theorized how the Ark of the Covenant may have been crafted as a kind of capacitor. I'm an electrical engineer, as you know. The specifications of the Ark are defined in the Bible. I believe it was designed to build up and store static electrical charge as the Israelites carried it about through the desert. That's why there are legends about the enemies of Israel being struck down by lightning whenever they got too close to the Ark.”
Koster smiled.
“It's not as farfetched as you might think,” Sajan said. “The design of the Ark, the position of the cherubim on either side, the materials—all these things were engineered to help trap and preserve electricity. The charge would build up over the interior surfaces and when the charge became strong enough, it would jump the gap between the wings of the cherubim and discharge—a corona, a glow at the point of the wing tips. Other people believe the Ark was a kind of communications device, allowing the Israelites to talk directly to God. As it says in Exodus twenty-five, ‘Between the two cherubim, on the Ark of the Testimony, I will meet with thee, and I will give thee my commands for the children of Israel.’ Anyway, Nick thought it was interesting.”
“Yeah, he would. He loves all that stuff.” Koster reached out and made an attempt to pat the stallion's left cheek, but the animal turned as if to bite him, and he snatched his fingers away.
Sajan laughed. It was a gentle laugh, not unkind. “Be careful, Mr. Koster. Pi nibbles.”
“Pi?”
“The horse.”
What was wrong with him? He was acting like an idiot. “You know, that reminds me—”
“Do you play the piano?”
“Excuse me?” Koster took a step back. “Why, yes. I do, actually. Why?”
“Your hands. You looked like you were practicing scales with your fingers.”
“It's a nervous habit. Like a tic, I guess.”
“What do you know about the Gospel of Judas and the Gnostics?” Sajan asked, abruptly changing the subject. “Nick told me you were involved in a search for the Gospel of Thomas a few years ago. How did that come about?”
“I was working on a book about the Notre Dame cathedrals of France when I discovered a legend about how an early version of the Gospel of Thomas might be hidden under the cathedral in Chartres. I wasn't the only one. You may recall that—some years ago—the head of Italy's largest private bank, a fellow named Pontevecchio, was found hanged under London's Blackfriars Bridge.” “In the nineties. I remember the newspaper stories.” “Turns out he had been using the Vatican Bank as a financial conduit to make illicit investments overseas. It was a huge scandal. The head of the Vatican Bank at the time was—of all people—a cousin of mine, a guy named Archbishop Grabowski. Apparently, before Pontevecchio was hanged, the banker tried to get his hands on this early copy of the Gospel of Thomas as a kind of lever to force the Church to honor his debts. I eventually found clues leading me to the gospel's location. Mathematical clues, hidden in the labyrinths of the cathedrals. My cousin, Archbishop Grabowski, assisted by a gangster named Scarcella, came upon the cathedral just as we were about to dig up the gospel. I was being helped by a British policeman named Nigel Lyman, and a local tour guide named Guy. He had a sister. Mariane was her name. Anyway, when all was said and done, we never did recover the gospel. And Scarcella and Mariane… She was killed.”
KOSTER COULD FEEL SAJAN STARING AT HIM. SHE KEPT looking at him in that same penetrating way, with those same unfathomable eyes. He turned and glanced at the stallion instead. Pi, he thought. Why was that name so familiar? And he wondered, if he filled up his mind with these nonsensical questions, would they replace the memories that still plagued him? He looked back at Sajan. She was still staring at him.
“You were close to her?” Sajan said.
“You could say that.” Somewhere, deep under his feet, tectonic plates ground against one another, rubbing like the haunches of mares.
After a moment, Sajan asked, “And what do you know about the Gnostics, Mr. Koster?”
“Call me Joseph. Please.”
“According to Nick,” she continued, “they're the authors of both the Gospel of Thomas, which you searched for in France, and this new one, which Franklin refers to in his journal—this Gospel of Judas.”
“When I was in France,” Koster said, “I met a woman named the Countess Irene Chantal de Rochambaud. She was a member of the Grande Loge Féminine, a Masonic Lodge of women with a special affinity for Gnosticism. She told me something about them. It's funny,” he added, “but you kind of remind me of the countess. Just a little bit, anyway. She was old—in her seventies—and she had a slight limp, but she was really quite something.”
“I'm sure.” Sajan started to grin. “You are quite the lothario, aren't you, Mr. Koster?”
“Excuse me?”
“It's not every day I'm told by a man that I remind him of a handicapped crone.”
“That's not what I meant,” Koster began to protest.
“Please, go on, Mr. Koster. The Gnostics. I'm fascinated.”
Koster started to say something. Then it suddenly occurred to him. The countess would have delighted in this impudent woman. They were exactly the same. Two peas in a pod.
“According to the countess, the Gnostics were a religious movement, not a people. They didn't believe in the traditional three-tiered hierarchy of the Church: the bishops, priests and deacons. They didn't support centralized power. Instead, they selected a priest from their group, drawing lots for someone to read the Scriptures, and a bishop to offer the sacrament. And each week it was somebody different. Very democratic. Even women participated. But what really marked them as heretics was their belief that to have gnosis—a kind of mystical secret self-knowledge—meant that you didn't require the Church, the organization. The more gnosis you had, the closer you were to your own human nature, the closer you were to God. That's why the centralized Church in Rome felt so threatened. To them, Peter and his fellow Apostles were the only real authority, not some mysterious truth residing within. Eventually, nearly all of the Gnostic gospels were lost or destroyed. Many Gnostics were slaughtered for their beliefs. The communities faded away. The Church was determined to destroy them.”
“What's the root,” said Sajan, “the origin of their philosophy? It sounds almost Eastern to me.”
“According to the countess,” said Koster, “many elements of the Gnostic belief system were Babylonian or Chaldean. Gnostics flourished at a time when the trade routes between the Greco-Roman world and Far East were just opening. There is a line of knowledge, she claimed, that stretches from the Babylonians to the Hebrews and beyond. She called it a system of numbers.”
In ancient Babylon, he explained, astronomy was the province of the magi, the priests. They believed that numbers derived from planets and stars were divinely ordained. Because of the seven stars of the Pleiades, for example, the number seven was considered good luck. Just as the number forty, which corresponded to the number of days in the rainy season when the Pleiades disappeared, became a number symbolizing suffering and loss, deprivation.
“You know—like Lent, or the number of days Christ spent in the wilderness,” Koster said. “And when this system combined with the number theories of Pythagoras, it had a lasting impression on western numerology.”
All of the medieval Masons were familiar with these systems, he added. They knew them because of the medieval emphasis on Pythagoras and the Neo-Platonists, and because the Masons had their own particular interest in numbers. In the Middle Ages, Masons were generally itinerant. They moved about from one project to the next. But bandits were everywhere and so they learned not to travel with currency but to rely instead on fellow Masons for shelter and food. What had started as a way of protecting one's person over time became a means of preserving vital trade secrets. Soon a brotherhood was born. Masons passed their knowledge on only to fellow Masons. And when the Crusaders brought new number lore back from the Levant, the Masons were quick to absorb it, and to pass it along.
“The line of the tradition,” Koster concluded, “spanned from the Magian Brotherhood in Babylon, through the Gnostics and the Manicheans, past the Paulicians and Catharists to the Templars and Freemasons that we still see today. You know Nick is a Mason.”
Sajan looked startled. She threw Koster a smile and replied, “I knew Nick was somehow involved, but I thought it was mostly a social thing. You know. For business and such. A networking tool.”
“He's real cagey about it, but I know he takes it quite seriously. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if his own personal interests haven't influenced his quest for this Gospel of Judas. I get the feeling it's not just a business opportunity to him, some publishing coup.”
“But what does all this have to do with Ben Franklin?”
“Over time, the brotherhood of Masons became concerned with the more metaphysical aspects of their trade. They developed rituals and regalia. As more members of the middle class became involved, there came to be a new kind of Mason, a Speculative Mason, instead of the Operative Mason, the Journeyman, who worked with his hands. Eventually, the fraternity began to attract some pretty powerful members. George Washington was a Speculative Mason. So was Ben Franklin.”
“Oh, I see,” Sajan said. “I wondered what he was doing with a copy of the Gospel of Judas. Still, I… Have you had any luck yet translating it?”
Koster shook his head. “I'm afraid not. It's impenetrable.”
“Perhaps I can help,” she replied. “Here. Follow me.” Without waiting for an answer, Sajan turned and headed outside. Koster fought hard to keep up with her. She had incredible energy. They followed the path toward the house.
“What I don't understand is,” said Koster, “how does the founder of Cimbian, a worldwide concern, have time to play around with this mystery?”
“Nick thought I could help. And I'm semiretired these days. I only go in to the office when I feel like it. When he called… Well, you know Nick. It's hard to say no to him. We go back a long way.”
They entered the house through a side door. As Koster moved through the hallway, he noticed the paintings on the walls shift and alter around him. “Hey, you're not wearing a tie pin,” he said teasingly.
Sajan swiveled about, looking back at him over her shoulder. “I took it off years ago, soon after I first built the house,” she replied. Then she smiled. She seemed somewhat embarrassed. “You know, it's funny. I made my fortune developing technologies, specifically wireless circuitry. But each time I wore that damned pin I felt trapped by my last program selection. One is more than one's previous collection of preferences, so to speak, Mr. Koster.”
“God, I hope so,” he answered fervently, and she laughed.
“But my guests usually get a kick out of it.”
Laughter came so easily to her. “Call me Joseph,” he said again.
“I wanted to show you something. When I heard you were coming,” she said, “I started to do a bit of digging about Benjamin Franklin. I found a reference in a letter that he wrote to a Mme. Helvétius, a noblewoman Franklin wooed while living in Passy, in France, around 1779. It describes a coded journal he kept which Mme. Helvétius had seen only once, by accident, while Franklin was staying at her country estate. Perhaps it's the same code as the one in the journal Nick gave you.”
They entered the living room. It was spacious and bright, with great windows that looked out on the valley below. An impressive cathedral ceiling rushed up toward the heavens, braced by great wooden crossbeams. There was a pair of comfortable overstuffed sofas, a rocking chair draped with a striped Mexican blanket and a wooden desk by the windows. Koster noticed a printout of a handwritten letter on the surface. Sajan picked it up. “Here's what Franklin says in his letter: ‘Of the journal you glimpsed, and the code it is written in, there is nothing more I can tell you, except what you already know, and then this…’” She gave Koster the printout.
The passage was followed by a series of symbols, like boxes with dots in them, and capital Vs, but facing in every direction. Then it suddenly hit him. “The Masonic cipher,” he said.
“The what?”
“It uses a pair of tic-tac-toe diagrams and two X patterns to represent letters of the alphabet. Got a piece of paper? I'll show you. It was used by Masons back in the Middle Ages to pass messages to each other in secret.”
Sajan opened a drawer and pulled out a pad. Koster placed the letter on the desk and started to notate the sequence. “Letters were enciphered,” he said, “leveraging the shapes of intersecting lines and small dots.” He fleshed out the matrix.
“The name Sajan would be enciphered like this,” he continued.
Sajan pointed down at the letter which Franklin had written to Madame Helvétius. “That's it,” she replied. “It's the same. So what does it say—Franklin's letter?”
Koster scanned the line of figures in the letter. Slowly but surely he decoded the message. Once again, he mapped it out on the pad.
Within the three by three reside the sums of twelve, on any path, to eight from naught.
“It's nonsense,” said Koster, after he read it aloud. “The three by three? The sums of twelve?”
“What does it mean?”
“I don't know. Three is the number of the Trinity, and therefore of God. And twelve is a compound of the Trinity and four—the four compass points, the four elements—symbols of the material world. According to art historian Émile Mâle, to multiply three by four is to infuse matter with spirit, to proclaim the truths of the faith to the world. It's not an accident that there were twelve Apostles. It was ordained by this number lore. Twelve was also a ubiquitous number in medieval architecture. It's found all over the Notre Dame cathedrals of France.”
“The three by three. Perhaps it's another tic-tac-toe?”
“I don't think so. The code in the journal is different. It's made up of letters, not symbols.”
“Well, what do we know about Franklin? I mean, besides being a Founding Father and everything.”
“Ran away from Boston and his tyrannical brother, to whom he was apprenticed, at seventeen. Came to Philadelphia. Started a successful printing and publishing business. Launched the first public library and fire brigade. Worked with the Assembly against the Penn family. Discovered electricity. Was the only man to sign all four founding papers: the Declaration, the Treaty with France, the Accord with Great Britain and the Constitution—”
“No, no. I mean, what did he do for fun?”
“For fun?”
“Yeah, for fun.”
“He was quite a swimmer when he was younger. A real athlete. Most people think of him as just being bald and fat, with bifocals—which he also invented, by the way.”
“What about when he was older?”
“For fun? I don't know. He liked to play cards. He liked his scientific experiments. He was certainly fond of the ladies, and they of him, even when he was married. But most of the time, he was working. Before moving to Europe as colonial ambassador, Franklin spent hours and hours in the Assembly, listening to the Quakers battle on with the Proprietors and their puppet governors. In fact, he got so bored that he used to make up little games to amuse himself.”
“What kind of games?”
“Mathematical games. Puzzles. You know. He made up these things called magic squares. They were…”
“Were what?”
Koster pounced on the pad. “Three by three,” he repeated. “I forgot all about magic squares. I used to make them up too, when I was a kid.”
“What's a magic square?”
“Look,” he said, starting to map out another diagram on the pad. First he drew two lines going down one way, then two going the other, creating nine boxes in one larger square.
“One day, in order to keep himself awake in the Assembly, Franklin drew up a box just like this. He filled it with a random collection of numbers.” Koster did so as well.
“Franklin noticed,” said Koster, “that when he added the numbers in the first row, they equaled fifteen. And when he added the numbers in the first column, they also equaled fifteen. So, he wondered if he could fashion a square where the numbers in any given column or row would add up to fifteen, even diagonally. ‘On any path,’ as Franklin says in his letter to Mme. Helvétius.”
Koster erased the numbers in the box he had drawn. Then he replaced them with new ones. “After a while, he figured out how to do it—the pattern. He called it his ‘magic square.’ See.”
Koster looked up excitedly. “The journal Nick gave to me. The lines in it were clustered in long sets of three.”
Sajan came around the desk and looked over his shoulder. He could smell the scent she was wearing. It was earthy yet delicate, like a whisper of jasmine at midnight. Then it was gone.
“But Franklin's letter,” she said, “the one that he sent to Madame Helvétius—didn't it say, ‘Sums of twelve,’ not fifteen?”
“I know,” answered Koster. “But if you use twelve as the total, it's still the same pattern. The transposition of numbers is identical. You simply start with a zero. ‘To eight from naught.’ Look.” And he drew a new square.
“By corresponding each block of numbers to the letters in Ben Franklin's journal, and by leveraging the same transposition, the lines should start to make sense. Did Nick send you a copy?”
“He said he was afraid to make copies.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?”
“Who knows? The competition, perhaps. Other publishers.”
“Well, I have the original,” said Koster. “Let me get it.”
He went back to the guest room and retrieved Franklin's journal from his computer bag under his bed. Once again, the music and lighting and temperature toggled as he moved through the house. Even the length of the shag in the carpeting shifted, each nylon strand slithering just under his feet, like synthetic worms. As he left the room, he hesitated for a moment in the doorway. Then, with a sigh, he plucked the small metal pin from his jacket and tossed it back on the bed.
SAJAN WAS ASKING FLORA TO PREPARE A LIGHT LUNCH WHEN Koster returned to the living room. The housekeeper bustled off and Sajan sat down at the desk, waiting for Koster to join her. As he approached, as he saw her silhouetted against the view of the valley, as he looked into her almond-shaped eyes, he felt a stirring inside him. But that, of course, was absurd. It was just his excitement, he told himself, over unraveling the letter to Mme. Helvétius. It was the Masonic code that compelled him. Nothing more.
He put the journal on the desk and Sajan leaned over to read it. He watched as her eyes scanned the lines, as she flipped through the pages, one by one. He studied the tips of her slender brown fingers. And there was that perfume again.
“In long sets of three,” she exclaimed. “As you said.”
“Except for this reference to the Gospel of Judas.” He showed her the page.
“No, wait. Start at the front. Use the magic square transposition.”
Koster flipped to the front of the volume. He studied the first page. He blocked out the first nine letters in his mind and began flipping them. The one at the top in the center, where the sequence began, he moved down to the lower right box. He worked in this way for a minute or so, following the defined transposition, jotting his transcription on a pad. I… H… A. As he translated each letter, he grew more and more excited. It was starting to form into words. And the words into sentences. He sat back and read what he had.
“‘I have been forced to rend my Map into three, and to hide the three pieces away…’” Koster looked up at Sajan. She was beaming.
“It works,” she said, reaching out suddenly and kissing his cheek.
Koster blushed, pulled away. “I… Thanks to you, I guess. You're the one who made me think of Franklin's magic squares.”
Flora suddenly reappeared with some sandwiches. “Shall I set up the table?” she asked them.
“No, we'll eat here,” they both answered in unison. Then they looked at each other and laughed. Flora set down their sandwiches on the desk.
Koster took one bite of his BLT—one of his predefined preferences—and then got back to work. He took the next block of nine letters. He ran through the same transposition. Slowly but surely, the words tumbled out. He worked in this manner for hours, until the late afternoon. It was nigh onto five when he got up and stretched.
“What do we have so far?” Sajan asked, reappearing beside him. She must have stepped away for a moment without his realizing it.
“It's a little bit convoluted, but the best I can make out is Franklin's talking about the Gospel of Judas. He says it will help ‘open a doorway’ to some higher truth. Sometimes he refers to it as the ‘heart of the God machine.’ I'm not sure. It's confusing. One thing I'm certain, though—there was a robbery in his house in Philadelphia by an agent of a group called the Knights of Malta.”
“The Knights of Malta! You're sure?”
“That's what it says. They're a Catholic order, dating back to the time of the Crusades. The twelfth century. They're some sort of charity now, I believe. You know—running hospitals and homes for the blind. That kind of thing.”
“I know who they are,” Sajan said. “They used to serve as shock troops for the Catholic Church. They did so for hundreds of years. They were soldiers.”
“Well, that was then.”
Sajan didn't reply. Then she added, “What else does it say?”
“It reveals that Franklin apparently created something that he called his ‘Map,’ but that—due to his fear of its discovery by the Knights of Malta, set upon him by the religious right of the time, and the Penn family—Franklin tore the map into three pieces, and hid the three pieces away.”
“Where?”
“According to what I've translated so far, the locations of the three pieces are ‘My three homes’—somewhere in the United States, in France and in England, places where Franklin lived during his career. The journal doesn't identify them specifically, but it does say how to locate the first piece of the map.”
“How?”
“There's a reference to Pierre-Charles L'Enfant, who was a Freemason, and who laid out the governmental center of Washington, D.C., back in 1791. According to Franklin's journal, certain Masonic symbols embedded in the plan of Washington, D.C., reveal the location of the first piece of the map.”
“And the map? What does it lead to?”
“To the hiding place of the Gospel of Judas, I assume. It's not clear. But what else could it be? It says that the Knights were after Franklin's copy of the Gospel of Judas. After him. He must have hidden it someplace, then drawn up his map. And this is where it gets really weird. Since he already knew the location of the gospel, why did he require a map? It says, ‘For those who would follow and extend what Abraham of El Minya, what Leonardo da Vinci and I have begun.’ As if he were afraid that something might happen to him.”
“Who is Abraham of El Minya?” asked Sajan. “And what does Leonardo da Vinci have to do with this?”
“I have no idea. According to Nick, Franklin's version of the Gospel of Judas featured a curious illustration, which Nick called schematic number one. He also said Masonic historians have documented the presence of two similar schematics, one allegedly created by Leonardo da Vinci, schematic number two, and another by Franklin himself, number three. And they're all connected somehow.”
“What are these schematics?”
“Nick didn't know. He called them ‘Masonic curiosities.’”
Sajan reached across her desk and picked up the telephone. She pressed a three-digit code and said, “Ravindra, it's Savita. We need the Hawker immediately. We're going to Washington, D.C.—”
“Tonight?” Koster said, interrupting her.
“We can sleep on the plane. It's quite comfortable. Don't worry, I don't snore. Really, Mr. Koster, I can't just sit here now, not when we know what to look for. Can you?” Then she turned back to the phone. “What's that? Now? Very well.”
“What's wrong?”
“I don't know. Ravindra's on his way over.”
Minutes later, the small Indian pilot appeared in the doorway. He seemed sheepish as he entered the room. “I just don't understand it,” he said. “Mr. Koster,” he added, with a nod.
“Captain,” said Koster.
“She just had her inspection two weeks ago,” the pilot continued as he came up to Sajan. “The avionics were fine.”
“And you're sure it was something intentional,” Sajan said.
“The way it's been rigged, I don't see how it could have been accidental. It's possible, I suppose. Just highly unlikely.”
“What's wrong?” Koster asked.
Sajan turned toward him with a shrug. “We'll have to drive to the airport tomorrow, and fly commercial into Washington, D.C.”
“What happened to your plane?”
“Nothing serious. An avionics malfunction. Nothing that would have caused a major disaster. Just a delay.” Then she smiled, adding, “It would seem, Mr. Koster, that you'll be spending the night after all. I guess I should start calling you Joseph.”
ARCHBISHOP DAMIAN LACEY STOOD IN THE CONFERENCE room at the heart of the WCC complex in Los Angeles, drinking his second cup of bad coffee, staring at the portrait of Thaddeus Rose on the wall. Senior Pastor Rose had an impressive demeanor, with a broad ready grin, sparkling blue eyes and a well-shaped bald crown whose glow the artist had rendered with unusual aplomb. He was sitting on a low wooden bench against a pale golden wall, with a small wooden crucifix just off to the side and above him. He wore a simple white shirt and gray slacks. Lacey took another sip of his coffee and sighed. Rose looked like a basketball coach at a large university—Notre Dame or Loyola. From his expression, it appeared as if he held the answer to the question just beginning to form on your lips. It was priceless. No wonder the voice of the Heart of the Family had risen from nowhere to become the most powerful Evangelical leader in America.
The archbishop looked down at his watch. It was almost three o'clock. His appointment with Thaddeus Rose had been scheduled for two. Lacey had flown all the way in from Rome through New York, and this Protestant talk-show host couldn't even be bothered to greet him on time. But the journey was necessary he decided. Now was not the time for old squabbles.
He looked back at the portrait. Lacey had initially learned of Thaddeus Rose when the Arizona-based preacher first hit the airways with his Heart of the Family radio show, back in the mid-seventies. It was billed as a simple call-in program with homespun Bible-based advice on family affairs. Correspondents answered letters and phone calls from listeners on a wide range of subjects, from philandering husbands to kids high on drugs. The ministry got more than ten thousand letters a month, an impressive beginning. Interestingly, Thaddeus seldom talked about politics. And it was this that gave his political diatribes strength. He would interrupt some regularly scheduled programming—some show on adolescent angst or teen pregnancy—to do commentary on a piece of extraordinary legislation that he just had to talk about, and because his rants were so rare, they somehow had more credibility. In no time, his mailing list grew to over three million.
In '83 he founded the Heart of the Family Research Council, a Washington-based lobbying group. It sputtered along until Barry Glazier joined the organization six years later. Leveraging the skills he had honed working for Reagan, Glazier set the organization on fire. By the time he left to run for president in 2000, the Council's budget had ballooned to ten million, ostensibly supplanting the Christian Coalition as the premier Christian Right special-interest group in America. And that was just the beginning.
Thaddeus Rose employed an all-or-nothing strategy when it came to politicians. Instead of supporting multiple candidates, like Ralph Reed of the Christian Coalition had done, Rose honed in like a missile. There was a lesson to be learned from Reed's fall from favor after supporting the moderate Dole. Rose went to the opposite extreme. He announced that Reed had been ineffectual on key issues like abortion, and he threatened to leave the Republican Party unless his candidates toed the Evangelical line.
Soon, Rose created a series of state-based organizations called the Heart of the Family Policy Councils. They worked hard to elect Republican favorites, including President Alder. In the end, Ohio had been won by only two hundred thousand votes. Evangelical votes. They had pushed Alder over the top. The Heart of the Family Research Council injected over two million dollars into the election, thereby ensuring a constitutional amendment against gay marriage on the ballot. Rose labeled gay marriage their “D-Day.”
The Council for National Policy met in Phoenix in '98, and then a few months later in D.C. The group set up Values Action Teams within Congress, designed to promote key Evangelical issues. But now that another presidential election was looming, the Council was fractured. Most felt the leading Republican candidates weren't sympathetic enough to their issues. Some wanted to rally behind Michael Huckabee, a conservative former governor, but others wondered if he were truly electable. Some favored Mitt Romney, even though he was Mormon and had been a social liberal in the past. If Rudy Giuliani or John McCain got the nod, Evangelicals wouldn't come out at all. It was a difficult time, uncertain and fluid. One quarter of the electorate in 2006 had been Evangelical; now the Democrats were managing to peel many away. It was that damned Values vote against the Republicans for their sordid corruption—the Mark Foley and Tom DeLay scandals.
If the Republicans were to win the White House again, they desperately needed the Evangelical vote. But it was tattered and frayed, due to internal strife. Only Rose could pull it together. Only Rose, with his database of millions of loyal listeners, with his Heart of the Family Policy Councils, could prevent a bold swing to the left. The last thing they needed now was a seismic distraction, something to fragment the Christian community further.
The door to the office burst open and a large man with thinning blond hair barreled into the room. It was Michael Rose, Thaddeus's lieutenant and son. He strode toward the archbishop.
“Your Excellency,” he exclaimed. “It's a pleasure to meet you at last. How was your flight?”
They shook hands. “Uneventful,” replied Lacey. “Is your father…”
“My father's out of town. On retreat. He won't return for some days, I'm afraid. But when we got your message, he empowered me to act in his absence. This is a historic occasion, your Excellency. Our two churches coming together in this way. A minor Camp David, as it were.”
“Indeed. I mean no offense, Pastor Rose, but the things I have to discuss with your father are of an extremely sensitive nature.”
Michael looked down at the archbishop. He smiled thinly, scratched his face. “I find it interesting,” he said finally, with a chill in his voice, “that you're chasing a man who was once instrumental in toppling Archbishop Grabowski from power.”
Lacey took a step back. “Excuse me?”
“You work for the Vatican Bank, do you not? And this Joseph Koster was personally responsible for the political fall of your former employer, Grabowski. Some might consider that a conflict of interest, or at best a… personal distraction.”
Lacey smiled. The man might be manic and strange,the archbishop considered, but Michael Rose was no idiot. “My personal feelings on this issue are irrelevant,” he said evenly. “I am fully qualified to represent my Church in this matter.”
“As am I,” Michael answered firmly. Then he smiled. “I suggest we don't let anything distract us from designing a uniform strategy that will help protect both of our Churches. When we received your message about the Gospel of Judas, I knew instantly that it was of the utmost importance, something I should address personally. The Gospel of Judas must be found. Koster and Robinson must be stopped. The allegation that Judas may have been murdered is more than just troubling, for who would be the most likely suspects but the apostles themselves? But the notion that Christ manipulated Judas into engineering His betrayal is beyond incendiary. It would cast doubt on the legitimacy of the Synoptic Gospels, on the Bible itself.”
“I'm glad we're on the same page,” Lacey said, “when it comes to the gospel's importance. I put it to you, Pastor Rose, that if we are not successful, the Catholic and Protestant Churches—indeed, Christianity itself, and all that it stands for—will be irreparably damaged. Overcome, perhaps, by alien creeds.”
“Or worse,” countered Michael. “By some new Gnostic hybrid, some blasphemy.” He reached suddenly into his herringbone jacket and pulled out a photograph. He gave it to Lacey. “You know who this is?”
The snapshot had been taken at some formal affair, for the woman in it was wearing a scarlet evening gown, Indian bracelets of gold and a long strand of luminous pearls. “Yes, of course,” Lacey answered. “Savita Sajan.”
“The Mystery Babylon. Revelation seventeen makes it clear: Arrayed in pearls and scarlet, adorned with gold. It's possible that if this gospel is discovered and published, it could usher in a new kind of Christianity, a Gnostic Christianity, based on gnosis, self-knowledge. A new world religion.”
“You can't be serious?” Lacey exclaimed. “It's just a photograph. She could have worn anything to that function.”
“She could have, but didn't. You think it's a coincidence she's working with Koster and Robinson?”
The archbishop took a deep breath. He had to be careful not to get bogged down in dogma and ecumenical differences. There was too much at stake here.
“While I completely agree we have to be unified in our efforts, Pastor Rose, I'm less inclined to view the Bible so literally. It used to be that the Catholic Church thought the New Testament Gospels were actually written by Luke and by Matthew and the rest of the apostles. But back in '64, the Pontifical Biblical Commission officially defined three basic stages through which the teachings of Jesus have come down to us. The first is represented by the actual words and deeds of Christ. The second is that of the Apostolic Church, when the apostles gave testimony to Christ's vision. And the third stage is recorded for us by the evangelists—‘in a way suited to the peculiar purpose each one set for himself.’ These are the exact words the Commission used, and they imply that the ‘gospel truth’ is not to be found in a naïve, literal interpretation of the Bible.”
“Naïve!” Michael spluttered.
“What I mean is,” said Lacey, “the Synoptic Gospels were written ‘in the spirit’ of Luke and Matthew, sometime within the first hundred years or so after Christ was crucified. We know this from physical evidence—carbon dating and the like—and from a technique of analysis called form criticism, which studies the themes and literary forms of early manuscripts. One such theme or Gattung is the use of sayings. The Logoi Gattung for example, is extremely primitive, dating back to the Logoi Sophon of the Jews. Long before anyone began to write anything down, groups of these sayings were passed from generation to generation. Eventually they were placed into a narrative framework, like the Beatitudes in the context of the Sermons on the Mount and on the Plain. What we have in the Synoptic Gospels is not a tradition of the first or second stage, but only of the third—the words and deeds of Christ, yes… but colored by the early Church's experience of Easter, after several decades of apostolic preaching, the words the Holy Ghost empowered them to keep.”
“The horns are blowing, Your Excellency, whether you hear them or not.”
Lacey winced. It was so distasteful to be joining forces with this Evangelical toad. Michael Rose looked like a junkie, the way he stood there and scratched at his face, his manic demeanor, his fidgeting. Lacey thought about Sister Maria and the flotsam she had picked up here in the States, the Cuban mercenaries arranged by Senator Santiago Fernandez of Florida, the first-ever Cuban senator in the United States, who was a member of the Knights. What was the organization being forced to resort to? The Knights had protected the Church for uncounted generations, functioning as the shock troops of Catholic reaction. First, in the wars against the Saracens. Then, the Protestant heresy. Against the Evil Empire of the Soviet Union. And now, once again, against Islam.
“Let us not squabble,” Lacey told Michael Rose. “The reference in Franklin's journal was written in Mishnaic Hebrew. If the Gospel of Judas is as old as it appears to be, it might be the most ancient set of Logoi ever discovered. Think of it, Pastor Rose. The very words Christ spoke. Think what it would mean if we had a historically valid collection of His sayings! And then think what would happen if those sayings turned out to be Gnostic.Can you imagine the headlines? ‘Christ Uncovered as Heretic!’ It would mean anarchy, mayhem. The New Testament would no longer be viewed as the Word of God, but only as one set of truths out of many. Who could possibly cause more damage to Christianity than Jesus Himself? Such a thing must not be allowed to transpire. It would fracture your audience base, throw the Christian right into chaos. It would help rally our enemies in the East, embolden Islamist extremists. Whether we like it or not, we have a common interest in locating the Gospel of Judas, if only to prevent its premature publication before it can be… studied by experts.”
“I thought I could spin cotton candy. You take the cake. Frankly, I'm amazed you even bothered to seek out our assistance,” said Michael. Then he added, “But, with the Pope's failing health, and your tenuous connections in Washington, I suppose it makes sense. You can't afford another scandal right now, can you? Not with your candidate trailing. You need the air cover only we can deliver as your people hunt about for the gospel. You need us, Archbishop.”
“We need one another, Pastor Rose. Christ needs us.” Lacey paused. Should he tell him about Turing and Boole, about the El Minya and the da Vinci schematics? Should he tell him what was really at stake here? No, he decided. Why show his cards when it might not be necessary?
“We have more in common than we have differences,” said the archbishop. He laid a hand on Rose's shoulder, then pulled it immediately away. There was something… something cold and reptilian about Michael Rose. No, something vacuous, void. It brought him in mind of Sister Maria. They both seemed to emanate the same sense of emptiness.
“Our interests are inexorably intertwined,” he continued awkwardly. “I suggest that we pool our resources.It's uncertain what Robinson knows. But I've already set things in motion to help recover the gospel.”
“Your infernal agents of Malta, I suppose.”
“By any means necessary.” The archbishop looked down at his watch. “Indeed,” he continued, “a part of our problem may already be solved.”
KOSTER COULD DO NOTHING BUT WATCH AS THE LARGE MAN approached Mariane, as he wrestled the gun from her hand. “Silly girl,” said the man, as he struck her. On the side of the face. With the butt of his pistol. She fell to the floor. “This is how it's done,” the man added. He lifted her up by the hair. He brought her head close, in a sickening kind of embrace, pressed the gun to her temple and the gunshot resounded like thunder.
For a moment, Mariane seemed to climb to her feet. Then the strings in her legs came undone. She toppled, she fell like a puppet, revealing that blossoming hole in her head, rimmed by tender pink petals of freshly hewn brain. As she rolled away, her face swung into view, but her features were blurred, indistinct.
Koster slid to the floor on his knees. He lifted her head, brushed the hair frantically from her face, and as he did so, for the first time, he realized—it was not Mariane. He wiped the blood from her skin with his fingers, revealing the features beneath. The delicate nose. The curve of the lips. The cloudy blank stare in the almond-shaped eyes. The woman with the hole in her head was Savita Sajan.
Koster awoke.
For a long time, though he attempted to move, he felt frozen in place. The night terrors had seized him again. Koster tried not to struggle against them. Indeed, he clung to his fear, like a shipwrecked man to the side of a lifeboat. In the end, it was all he had left. His guilt was the only road back to his memories. But, this time, his dream had been different. It had been Savita Sajan in his arms, not Mariane.
Koster breathed hard and steady, trembling. That's when he felt the presence of somebody else in the room. He looked up. A figure was standing alone in the doorway.
“Are you all right?” asked Sajan. She wore a white satin nightgown under a light golden robe. Her hair was twisted up in a bun. She leaned against the doorframe, pulling absently at the belt round her waist.
Koster lifted himself up in the bed, bewildered. For a moment, he had completely forgotten where he was. “I'm fine,” he replied. But he wasn't. As soon as the words left his lips, he felt the memory of his dream start to fall out of sight, to descend into nothingness, like a coin down a wishing well.
“I heard screaming,” she said. “Were you having a nightmare?”
“I guess so,” was all he could say.
Sajan finished tying her belt. Her eyes had faint circles beneath them. She looked small and somehow defenseless in her pale saffron robe. “Time to get up, anyway,” she said with a shrug. “Our flight out of SFO is at ten. You have an hour or so to get ready before Sam drives us up to San Francisco.” She started to leave. Then she turned and said, “Flora's making breakfast, so I suggest you at least pretend to be hungry.”
Koster showered and shaved, and slipped on a pair of black Levis, a white button-down shirt and his blazer. He packed quickly, finishing with Franklin's journal, which he bundled in bubble wrap and stuffed back into his computer bag.
He rendezvoused with Sajan in the dining nook just off the kitchen for breakfast. The irrepressible Flora fed them fried eggs and chorizo, with homemade tortillas, black beans and white rice, assuring them that it was absolutely required to have such a large meal before traveling. Especially by plane. “Ay, Dios mio,” she said, rolling her eyes. It was clear she found the idea of flying distasteful.
Samuel, the driver, a tall lanky black man from Haiti, put their bags in the limousine and they were off, in a cloud of white dust, down the long tree-lined driveway. At first, Koster found it hard to relax. Sajan told him the history of the valley and he struggled to pay attention, but his thoughts kept being pulled back to his nightmare. He had had similar dreams for at least fifteen years now, but it had been weeks, perhaps months since the last one. Koster stared out at the vineyards and orchards, trying to suppress the feeling of foreboding that seemed to spring up from somewhere inside him. He counted the vines as they passed, attempting to estimate the number of grapes per square hectare, trying to settle himself.
As they headed northward, Sajan began to inquire about the journal again. Why had Franklin first searched for the Gospel of Judas? Why was it so important to him? Sajan had always thought Franklin didn't care about organized religion. He was a deist, but not much of a churchgoing man. Why, then, she inquired, had he gone to all this trouble of hiding it and making his map?
Koster tried his best to respond. “I don't know,” he said truthfully. “The journal's not clear. And I haven't finished translating it all.” He noticed a minibar in the back of the limousine and plucked out a soda. “You want one?” he asked her.
“No, thanks. Help yourself, though,” she answered.
Koster poured out his ginger ale into a fat crystal tumbler. “He talks about his son Franky a lot,” he said, adding some ice. “He died of the smallpox when he was a child. It's almost as if Franklin thinks finding the gospel will bring his son back to him. He seems to feel guilty for the boy's death for some reason. As if he's somehow responsible.”
“Perhaps he was using the Gospel of Judas as a lever to ward off his religious and political enemies. You said he mentions Church Elder Andrews.”
“And Tom Penn. Yes, that's true. His antipathy toward the Proprietors is well documented. He traveled to England on a number of occasions where he actively worked to transform Pennsylvania into a Royal Colony. And the Penns used their considerable influence to have Franklin politically isolated. The Privy Council never did move to alter the Charter, or to divest the Proprietors of their holdings. Later, when the British enforced the Stamp Act, it was Franklin who was chosen by the colonists to make the case before Parliament to repeal it. In one afternoon, he became the most powerful spokes man for the American cause. As a result of his testimony, the Act was rescinded, but by then it was already too late. The colonists remembered what had happened to General Braddock when the British sent him out to defend them against the Indians and French. He had been unceremoniously trounced, and a young Colonel George Washington had suffered the loss of two horses, shot out from directly beneath him in a last-minute getaway, with four bullets passing right through his clothes.” Koster leaned back in the plush leather seat. “It would be a very different world today if he had shifted right instead of left on his saddle.” He took another sip of his soda.
“You certainly know your American history,” Sajan said.
Koster shrugged. “I've been boning up on Franklin since Nick showed me the journal. And Franklin was a kind of childhood hero to me. His scientific experiments. His insatiably curious mind. If we're going to unravel Franklin's journal, we're going to need to understand what was happening in his life when he wrote it.”
Sajan smiled. She started to say something, and instead, laughed.
“What is it?” asked Koster. “What's so funny?”
“It's just that… I don't know. Usually I'm the one babbling on.” She reached out and touched the back of his hand. “It's refreshing, that's all. Generally, everyone thinks I'm the nerd.”
“You're saying I'm a nerd? And this from an electrical engineer, with degrees from Columbia and Princeton?”
“I'm just a tinkerer.”
“Well, you tinkered your way into one of the most successful chip-manufacturing businesses in the world.”
“I have a number of very smart partners. Anyway, you were saying. After Braddock's defeat…”
“The point is,” Koster said, trying to pick up the thread, “after Braddock's defeat, the colonists realized they couldn't count on the Crown to protect them. But Franklin still believed in a possible compromise with Great Britain, if only he could wrestle the colony away from the Penns. Many were not so forgiving. The Stamp Act sparked a dramatic change in the colonial landscape as a new crop of leaders came to the fore. Young Patrick Henry stood up in the House of Burgesses in Virginia, decrying taxation without representation. He soon found an ally in Jefferson. In Boston, the Sons of Liberty attacked the home of the Massachusetts tax commissioner—men like John Hancock and Sam Adams, who soon after became embroiled in the Tea Party. It was they whom the redcoats came to arrest on the night of April eighteenth, 1775, which sent Paul Revere on his famous ride through the streets. By the time the redcoats reached Lexington, seventy American minutemen had gathered to meet them. Within minutes, eight lay dead. Of course, more than two hundred and fifty redcoats were cut down or wounded on their day-long retreat back to Boston.”
“You're rattling on again, Joseph. Where was Franklin in all of this?”
“With blood in the streets, revolution became almost inevitable,” said Koster. “Franklin returned home from Europe. He became a member of Congress. He moved to his new house on Market Street, where Deborah had been living for the past decade without him. His daughter, Sally, took care of his housekeeping needs. He was named America's new Postmaster General, and president of Pennsylvania's defense committee. Indeed, when Congress ordered the removal of all royal governments in the colonies, Franklin supported the motion—even though his bastard son, William, was the governor of New Jersey, and the ruling resulted in William's arrest. He was even appointed to the committee responsible for drafting some sort of document explaining the colonists' decision to seek independence from Britain.”
“The Declaration?” Sajan said.
Koster nodded. “Thomas Jefferson was chair of the committee. He composed the first draft by himself in a second-story room of a small house on Market Street, just a block from Franklin's own home. But Franklin suggested some pretty telling amendments.”
“Like what?” asked Sajan.
“In the famous preamble, Jefferson wrote, ‘We hold these truths to be sacred and undeniable.’ Franklin changed it to, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident.’ While Jefferson favored such thinkers as John Locke, it was Franklin's mathematical mind that led him to the scientific determinism of Newtown and his friend David Hume. To Hume, the great Scottish philosopher, there was a difference between so-called synthetic truths, describing matters of fact, such as you're younger than me and this is the road to San Jose, versus analytic truths that are self-evident by virtue of reason, such as the angles of a triangle add up to one hundred and eighty degrees. Jefferson's use of the word ‘sacred’ implied that the equality of men was a religious assertion, ascribed by some deity—”
“While Franklin's phrase turned it into a matter of rational thought,” Sajan cut in.
“Exactly. Franklin bore the stamp of the Enlightenment, the notion that Man was not doomed to live a life predefined by his class or lineage. He bridled at the European feudal system. Given his own humble beginnings, it was not surprising he embraced the values of the so-called middling classes. The confines of original sin… subjugation by hereditary rank… all the representatives of traditional power, from Church leaders to the Proprietors—these were anathema to him. No wonder he became a Freemason.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Freemasonry is a meritocracy. Once you join, anyone who applies himself can rise through the ranks. Members come from all over the world, from all faiths, in all colors. According to the Countess de Rochambaud, the one thing all Masons share is their fundamental belief in one God; they're deists, as Franklin was, but to them it doesn't matter particularly what you call Him. Buddhists can be Masons. So can Muslims. In some Lodges, the Koran is used just as much as the Bible. Yet a lot of Masons harbor special feelings for the Gnostics not only because they share a common heritage, but because they hold a sympathetic point of view. The Gnostics didn't believe in hierarchical systems. No deacon or priest, no cardinal or pope, was required to validate their religious experience. The search was within, just as the values of the Enlightenment were predicated on the merits of each individual—his luck, pluck and virtue, his own native skills and intelligence—and not just his family lineage.”
The search was within, Koster said to himself. Nothing was predefined or determined. He took another sip of his soda. Then he added, “Ironically, Franklin's journal barely speaks to the historic events he helped shape. In the passages I've translated so far, he focuses more on his scientific experiments, and keeps referring—again and again—to the mysterious schematic of El Minya, presumably from the Gospel of Judas, and the one drawn by da Vinci. He even talks about the one he created himself. But exactly what he created, and why, is—”
It was then, as he was finishing his sentence, that Koster first noticed the black van approach, then swing toward them. He barely had time to react when he realized it was not going to stop. They slammed into each other and the limousine shook. Koster's drink spilled all over his chest. He started to say something when the van struck them again.
SAM STAMPED ON THE BRAKES. KOSTER'S GLASS FLEW OUT OF his hand, tumbling as if in slow motion toward the Plexi glas partition between the chauffeur and the passenger section. It smashed into pieces as the van struck them again. The car started to spin. Samuel compensated and the limousine fishtailed. The rear of the vehicle slammed into the guardrail and bounced back to the highway.
Koster and Sajan were flung into each other. Their belts cinched them together as the limousine roared. They were out of control. The car began spinning again and the highway and fields, distant hills, other cars swung around them. Koster reached out unconsciously and threw his arm up against Sajan's chest, trying to keep her from pivoting forward.
The car kept on spinning. It struck the guardrail again. There was a terrible sound of rending metal as sparks flashed by the window, and then a loud pop as the air bags inflated. Sajan screamed. So did Koster. The air was crushed from his chest as the air bags enveloped him. The guardrail tore open and the limousine seemed to hover for an instant before it lunged off the highway, plummeting down the embankment.
They hit the ground with a spine-jarring thud. The car hurtled forward, nosing up dirt and debris as the limousine slid down the hill. They burst through a barbed wire fence. Then another. The car kept on going.
Koster managed to catch a glimpse of Sajan as the airbags began to deflate. She appeared strangely calm, with a kind of half smile on her lips. The car struck a bump in the ground. It bounced as it tore past a drainage ditch. They kept hurtling forward. A truck carrying vegetables was puttering along, directly ahead of them on a secondary road, completely oblivious. And a station wagon, sweeping in from the opposite side.
The limousine braked. Both Koster and Sajan twisted forward, despite the crush of the air bags. Koster heard something tear in his shoulder. The limousine hurtled over the lip of the access road, only inches away from the station wagon. They skidded as the truck brushed the tip of their bumper. Then, miraculously, the limousine straightened. It started to slow. Both the truck and the station wagon pulled over to the side of the access road as the limousine finally lurched to a stop. Their drivers spilled out, yelling.
Koster looked over at Sajan. “Are you all right?” he asked her.
She didn't answer. She was trying to push the air bags away.
Just then, Sam opened the door. He had a bloody welt on his forehead, above his right eye, but otherwise seemed uninjured. “Ms. Sajan,” he said, helping her out. “Are you hurt?”
Sajan slithered out of the car. The vegetable truck driver ran toward them along the side of the access road. He looked terrified, and Koster wondered at this. He could feel his heart pound in his chest. And yet, strangely enough, he was no longer afraid. He felt, on the contrary, completely at peace, though admittedly giddy. Must be the adrenaline, he thought. They had barely escaped with their lives, and yet he felt as if he had just stepped off a carnival ride.
The truck driver approached them, huffing and puffing. He was short and bald, and wore a light blue wind-breaker and jeans. “I saw the whole thing,” he gasped breathlessly. “He came up from Bailey, I saw him. The black van. Up the ramp. As you approached the Sports County Park. He started to pass you. Then, he suddenly veered. Just like that. I don't get it. Right into you. Did he have a flat tire or something? Never even seemed to slow down.”
“It was just a car accident,” Sajan told him. Her face was impassive, a blank slate. Then she put on a smile. “We're late for a flight. Could you give us a ride to the airport?”
“You're sure you're all right?” Koster asked her.
Sajan began to examine Sam's forehead. The skin wasn't broken. It looked burned from the hot gases that had inflated the airbags.
“Guy must be nuts,” the driver insisted.
“If it was a him,” Samuel said.
Sajan took a step back. “What does that mean?” she asked him.
“You'll probably think that I'm crazy,” he answered. “But the driver. The one in the van.” He looked up at the highway. “I could have sworn that it looked like a nun.”
KOSTER AND SAJAN ARRIVED IN WASHINGTON, D.C., AT dusk. They were met by a driver who took them by town car along the Potomac, across the river to Georgetown. Sajan had booked them into the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. They checked in and Koster asked for a map of the city which the concierge handed over with an exuberant grin. Sajan's name must have triggered some flag in his database.
Koster's junior suite featured an imposing view of Georgetown with its tattersall brownstones and checkered brick dwellings. The stone tapestry dotted with garden courtyards, put him in mind of Greenwich Village. The large suite was certainly more deluxe than he was used to but, since Robinson was footing the bill, Koster hadn't put up a fuss. After their experience that morning in California, he was looking forward to spreading out on the bed.
As he finished unpacking, Koster heard a knock on the door. It was Sajan. She had changed into a pair of black pants and taupe turtleneck. “Beware of Indians bearing…” she said, raising the bottle of wine in her hand. Then she slipped in beside him. “You may want to chill that a bit,” she added, plopping down on the sofa and putting her feet up on the coffee table. “It's a rascally rioja.”
Koster strolled to the bar in the corner. “How's your room?” he inquired.
“Just like yours. They're identical. Listen,” she said, “I'm exhausted from what happened this morning, and the long flight. Why don't we just eat something light in your suite here while we work? A salad or something?”
Koster agreed. He called down to room service and they ordered a pair of chilled artichokes with a lemon-caper dipping sauce, and a Caesar salad for two. To Koster's delight, Sajan volunteered to add anchovies.
As Koster fussed with a wine bucket, he watched Sajan. She had taken her shoes off—a pair of simple black flats—and sat with her legs curled up underneath her. She looked tired and worried, though she still sported a smile. But it felt unnatural, forced. A photograph smile.
“Did you get any sleep on the plane?” she asked him. “How's your shoulder?”
Koster popped into his bedroom to fetch Franklin's journal. “Couldn't sleep,” he replied through the door. “Too wound up. But the shoulder feels better now, thanks,” he said, stepping back into the room.
“I'm sorry I passed out on you like I did,” she said. “It's always that way. As soon as the plane leaves the ground, I'm out cold. Must be the drone of the engines.”
“I'm surprised you still wanted to go.” Koster placed the journal and map of the city on the coffee table.
Sajan shook her head. “I had to,” she said.
“Had to? Why? We were in a car accident.”
“Nick's counting on us.”
Koster smiled. “Oh, I see.” How well does she know Nick? he wondered. She said they had just been good friends, but how good?
“So, did you make any progress?” she asked him, pointing down at the journal.
Koster studied Sajan for a moment. Then he picked up the journal. “Like I told you, L'Enfant was a Freemason. According to Franklin, when L'Enfant laid out the governmental center of Washington, D.C., back in 1791, he planned more than just streets, roads and buildings. He embedded a pattern of hidden Masonic symbols in the layout of the city, a kind of quasi electrical grid, pulsing with mystical properties, designed,” he concluded, looking down at the journal, “to ‘influence the political, economic and military powers of the land.’”
“What kind of symbols?”
“Like the Pentagram,” said Koster. He leaned over and opened the map, holding the edges in place with Franklin's journal at one end and a small stack of magazines at the other. The map featured downtown Washington, with the Mall at the center.
“Beginning with the top left of the figure,” he said, “right here, at Dupont Circle. Moving down to Scott Circle.” He traced Massachusetts Avenue with his finger. “Then back up to Logan. These three circles form the top points of the pentagram. Washington Circle forms the extreme left-hand point. Mount Vernon Square marks the extreme right-hand point. And the fifth and last point, the bottom of the pentagram, is right here…” He jabbed at the map with his finger. “At the White House.”
“Yes, I see it. The pentagram points downward. Isn't that a Satanic symbol?”
“Some Fundamentalist Christians believe Freemasons really worship the devil. Babylonian gods and all that. In occultic doctrine, the upper four points represent the four elements—Earth, Fire, Water and Air.”
“And in Satanic doctrine, this figure would be called a Goathead, and the fifth point at the bottom of the pentagram would symbolize Satan,” said Sajan, bending over the map. “Does the placement of the White House at the foot of the pentagram mean Satan will influence the White House?”
“That's what the enemies of Freemasonry have been saying for years. They also point to other evidence. Look at the top three circles on the map. Each has six streets coming into it, from all angles. Six, six, six. To them the Satanic objective of Freemasonry is the creation of a new global order, and a new world religion, and Franklin speaks to this in his journal. I'm sure it was this kind of thinking that contributed to the Church's enmity toward him. But, in reality, it's no secret why the Masonic architect L'Enfant chose to use circles. The circle is the most important of all units in mystical symbolism, and nearly wherever it's used, it represents spirit or spiritual forces. It's also a symbol of the All-Seeing Eye, like on the dollar.” Koster reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet and removed a crisp dollar bill. “It's the same icon as in the Great Seal, designed by one of Franklin's committees—the eye hovering over the pyramid.” He showed it to Sajan.
“I've seen it before. But what does it mean?”
“The earliest known history of the All-Seeing Eye dates back to Babylon. It was worshiped as the Solar Eye, the eye of Baal. To Freemasons, it's the all-seeing eye of the Grand Architect. The Illuminati—a secret society which deeply influenced Freemasonry—adopted as their seal a thirteen-layered unfinished pyramid with the capstone missing. Hovering above is a sun-rayed triangle, as if waiting to be lowered to complete the structure. According to Franklin's journal, the unfinished pyramid with the thirteen steps represents the work assigned to Freemasons. The symbolism suggests that the Freemasons have been given the task of building a Novus Ordo Seclorum, as it states on the seal, a new ‘order of the ages,’ under the watchful eye of the Priory of Zion. Of course, the pyramid is nothing more than a triangle.”
“Wait a minute,” Sajan said. “Look again at the triangles formed by the pentagram. Four out of five of them have a circle at the top.”
“Representing the All-Seeing Eye,” Koster said.
“But why did he choose a square as the pentagram's anchor point, over there, on the right? Why not a circle?”
“L'Enfant had a problem with the triangle at the right. The solution was to place Thomas Circle at one of its corners, thus giving that triangle an All-Seeing Eye. The pentagram was placed so that the southernmost point—the spiritual point, as you noted before—is centered precisely on the White House.”
Koster reached into his jacket and took out a pen. Then he drew two lines on the map. “You see? The White House is at the precise point where the two lines formed by Connecticut Avenue flowing from Dupont Circle, and by Vermont Avenue flowing from Logan Circle, come together. Now, look at the pentagram again. You'll notice Scott Circle is located precisely at the middle of the diagram. Interestingly, when you look further north up Sixteenth Street, you come across the Supreme Council Thirty-third Degree Temple. That's the North American headquarters of Freemasonry, exactly thirteen blocks north of the White House. Count them yourself, beginning with the first city block north of Lafayette Square.”
“In Isaiah fourteen, Satan vowed, 'I will ascend to Heaven; I will exalt my throne above the stars of God; I will sit upon the mount of assembly in the uttermost north.' Spiritually,” said Sajan, “this would mean that control of the White House emanates from the Supreme Council Temple.”
“It's not as far-fetched as it sounds. Many American presidents have been Freemasons, and each swore an oath to obey his Grand Master. The most famous is George Washington, but the most influential was probably Franklin D. Roosevelt, who did more to advance the cause of world government than anyone else in American history. In total, sixteen presidents have been Freemasons, including Ronald Reagan.”
“I find it curious that L' Enfant would choose a square—Mount Vernon Square—as the anchor, when the rest were all circles. Why'd he do that?”
“I'm not sure,” Koster said. “The symbol of the square is composed of two vertical lines and two horizontal. According to various books on mystical symbolism, vertical lines generally represent spirit. This spiritual force may move either from Heaven to Earth or from Earth to Heaven, or even from Heaven to Hell. The horizontal lines symbolize matter and movement from west to east. They also describe movement in time. That's important when you consider some people speculate Freemasons are committed to taking America in the direction of some new global order. Since the square combines the vertical with the horizontal, it becomes a symbol of the material realm interlaced with both spirit and time. In this instance, the United States is the physical realm, which is moving in time toward the desired direction of the new order. Also, Mount Vernon Square is the easternmost point of the pentagram. In mystical terms, east is the direction from which a person receives spiritual knowledge and guidance.”
There was a sharp rap on the door. Sajan looked up with a worried expression. A moment later she visibly softened. She smiled and said, “Room service.” And it was.
It took only a few minutes for the waiter to set up their dining table, complete with starched linen tablecloth and a vase of red roses, waxflower and caspia. When he had gone, Koster popped open the wine. It was delightfully chilled. They sat down and started to eat. Koster watched as Sajan removed the leaves of her artichoke one by one, dipping them into the sauce before shredding the flesh off with the tips of her teeth.
“Tomorrow we'll need to get some supplies,” Koster said. “This map isn't nearly accurate enough, and I need to take several exact readings of the position of the various circles. The number of degrees in the angles. That sort of thing.”
Sajan kept on eating.
“I've already noted several numbers that appear with some frequency—like three, five, seven and nine. There are others as well. But what they mean is beyond me. We're no closer to identifying the location of the first part of the map than we were when we started.”
Sajan still didn't respond. She had finished the leaves of her artichoke and was removing the heart. He watched as she carved into it with the tip of her knife.
“According to the journal,” he continued, “in addition to the pentagram, L'Enfant defined a Compass, Square and Rule within the layout of the city—the three major symbols of Masonry. And somehow or other, the first piece of Franklin's map is linked to these physical landmarks: the points of the pentagram, the three symbols of Masonry and their relation to one another in distance and degree. Still, I'm not sure…”
“Joseph,” Sajan said, glancing up. “Let's give it a rest, shall we? I'm exhausted. I guess that accident this morning took more out of me than I realized.” She paused for a moment, then added, “You're doing that thing with your hand again.” She pointed down at the tablecloth. Koster was rapping the edge of the table like the keys of a concert piano. As soon as he noticed her staring, he stopped.
“Why do you do that?” she asked him.
“I told you, it's a tic. Nervous habit.”
“It looks like you're playing piano. Is that what it is? Are you practicing scales?”
He looked down at his lap. “No,” he said.
“Then what are you doing?”
“Counting.”
“Counting what?”
“Everything. In this case, the threads in the tablecloth.”
“The tablecloth?”
He nodded without looking up.
“How many?”
“Two hundred twenty-five thousand, at seventy-five threads per ten square centimeters, and a cloth of three meters square. I have a mild form of Asperger syndrome,” he said. “It's an autism spectrum disorder.”
“Oh, I'm sorry! And here I was making fun of you. I'm so sorry. How long have you had it?”
“As far back as I can remember. Although I was diagnosed only recently. My parents simply thought I was… quirky.”
“What are they like?”
“Who, my parents? Mom's still kicking about, in New Mexico now. Taught high school physics when I was a kid. She's what you might call rather precise. Although she did enjoy being the wife of a concert oboist for a time. All those evening gowns. All those nights at the symphony. My dad died about three years ago. Three years ago this Christmas. He was hardly ever around. Can I ask you something?”
“That depends.”
“How come you know so much about the Bible? I thought you were born in Mumbai?”
“I was,” she replied. “But my parents were Christian, not Hindu. My dad worked for a large pharmaceutical company and we moved to England when I was just three. I grew up there, in a small town near London. Then, when I was thirteen, he was transferred to the States and we moved to New Jersey. That's what brought me to Princeton.”
“So your dad was a scientist too?”
“A chemist,” Sajan said, helping herself to a small plate of salad. “Do you want some?” She made a plate for him, too. “Then, after grad school, I moved to Europe for a while where I met my husband and—”
“Your husband!” Koster had been reaching out for his salad when she said this and he stopped in midair. “I didn't know you were married.”
“For a time,” she said cryptically. “What about you?”
“What does that mean?”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“I'm in my mid to late forties,” said Koster. Why was he on the defensive? She was always doing this to him.
“That's rather imprecise for a mathematician.”
“And yes, once. Long ago. I'm divorced.”
“Any children?”
“A boy.”
“Oh, how wonderful. How old is he?”
Koster felt the air catch in his throat. No matter how much time had slipped by, the wound still felt fresh. “He's dead. He died as a baby. Crib death. They call it SID syndrome these days. No one really knows why it happens.”
For a moment Sajan didn't speak. She simply sat there with that same brittle smile on her face. Then she murmured, “I'm sorry.”
“It's all right.”
She put her napkin back on the table. “No, it's not. Not for you, at least. What happened to you, Joseph?Was it your wife or the French girl? Your mother, your son?”
Koster didn't know what to say. He looked down at the plates on the table. He studied the clawed leaves of her artichoke. Who died on that basement floor? “I don't know what you mean,” he replied.
Sajan reached across the table for his hand, but Koster pulled it away. “I guess it's getting late,” she said with a sigh, standing up. “And we've got an early start in the morning.”
Koster followed Sajan to the door. As she turned to say goodbye, she leaned into him, saying, “We're both a little like Franklin. We both have our Frankies. Just so you know.”
“Excuse me?” Koster could feel the warmth of her body right next to him. He watched her lips move. He heard her, but he didn't know what to do with the words.
“I had a son, too, Joseph. Long ago. Just like you. You're not the only one.”
“What happened?”
“It was my husband Jean-Claude's turn to drive him to school that day. I was at a conference in Monaco. His name was Maurice—our son. He was four. He had beautiful brown eyes and the softest black hair. It was raining that morning. That, I remember. The car must have skidded, they said. They died instantly.”
For a moment, the memory of their mishap that morning made him dizzy. Koster felt the car spinning again. He heard the snap of the barbed wire fence. It was just a car accident, she had told him. He stared down at Sajan, filled with a new sense of wonder. She had insisted on proceeding to the airport. Without hesitation.
“I moved back to the States after that,” she said with a shrug. “Just so you know.” Then she reached out and kissed him—once, on the cheek.
Koster wasn't expecting it. Again, he pulled back instinctively. “I'm—” he started but she put a hand to his lips.
“Don't say it,” she whispered. “It is what it is. And I'm sure they're in a far better place, as silly as that may sound to you.” She squeezed his hand gently and opened the door.
“I wish I had your faith,” Koster told her.
“No, you don't. Not really. If you did, you couldn't worship your demons.”
Later that night, Sajan knelt on the floor of her suite, trying to pray in a halo of candlelight. She was surrounded by small bowls of oil—pine, orange, lime and juniper. “I acknowledge one great invisible God, the Un known Father, the Æon of Æons,” she whispered, “who brought forth with His providence: the Father, the Mother and Son…”
But no matter how hard she tried, Sajan couldn't quite shed the memory of that morning's events, the way that the car had sailed off the highway, and then plunged down that embankment. She thought about Koster, his face and his odd way of lecturing her, as he peeked out from behind his intelligence. He counts, she thought. He sees numbers in everything. And she pictured him as a small boy, precocious beyond understanding, a mathematical prodigy. And his mother, Katrina, trailing after him to all of those conferences, feeding off his fame. Until he had faltered.
Sajan pressed her hands to her face. Concentrate! she scolded herself. What are you doing?
She prayed and she prayed, but she kept seeing his face, his sandy blond hair, his pale eyes. He still grieved for his son, just like her. And for his Mariane, too. He was so wounded, so broken that she longed to protect him,to tell him the truth. But she couldn't. For his own sake. She couldn't!
“Almighty God,” she prayed, “whose footstool is the highest firmament: Great Ruler of Heaven and all the powers therein: Hear the prayers of Thy servant who puts her trust in Thee…”
Sajan shook her head. What is wrong with me? She had to stop worrying about Joseph Koster. She had other more pressing concerns. She reached for the locket which hung from her neck. The Gospel of Judas—that's what was important. Revealing the logoi of the Æon to the world.
“Hail Sophia,” she prayed, “filled with light, the Christ is with Thee, blessed art Thou among the Æons, and blessed is the Liberator of Thy light, Jesus. Holy Sophia, Mother of all gods, pray to the light for Thy children, now and in the hour of our death.”
THE NEXT MORNING, KOSTER AND SAJAN MET IN THE MAIN dining room for breakfast. As Sajan made arrangements for another town car, Koster put together a short shopping list of essentials. Twenty minutes later, the driver arrived, a taciturn Russian named Petrov with a bullet-shaped head and a nose that had been broken more than once.
They made their way in the black town car to a row of electronics stores just a few blocks from the hotel. Koster picked out a Canon ELPH digital camera and a Garmin Rhino GPS radio and personal locator. He also selected a measuring laser, some memory sticks and a few extra batteries, just in case. It took them longer to find the right geographical software. Then they were off.
They headed up to Dupont, then to Scott and to Logan. At each circle, Koster made Petrov pull over and stop as he took precise readings with the locator.
“Why bother?” Sajan asked him. “If you already have the city laid out in your software, why take your own measurements?”
“I'm programming the Garmin to measure each way-point. That way we can calculate the exact number of degrees in each angle of each triangle in the pentagram. Then, I can superimpose the figure onto the map on my laptop to verify.” But the truth was, thought Koster, it just made him feel better to capture his own data, rather than relying on someone else's calculations.
It took them about forty minutes to record the first three points of the pentagram. When they were parked at Mount Vernon Square, as Koster was setting another waypoint, Petrov reached out and plucked at his sleeve.
“You have company, perhaps,” the Russian said.
“What do you mean?” said Sajan.
Petrov pointed his chin. A shiny black van was parked on the opposite side of the avenue. As soon as Koster spotted it, the van pulled out into traffic.
“What are you talking about?” Koster asked.
“Nothing,” said Petrov.
Minutes later, they cruised down New York, and the White House materialized before them. As he got out of the car, Koster wondered at the magnificent structure, remembering where it sat in the pentagram. Never again would he look at the White House as merely the seat of the Presidency. The structure, and its location, had taken on a completely new meaning. Koster worried about hidden cameras as he recorded his measurements. Then he dashed back to the car and told Petrov to head toward the Capitol.
“Why the Capitol?” asked Sajan.
Koster popped his laptop open. “The three most sacred symbols of Freemasonry are the Compass, the Square and the Rule, or straightedge. In Franklin's day, a professional compass had a round circle at the top. Now, look at the Capitol. You see how it's laid out? In the form of a circle?”
“You think the Capitol is the top of the Compass?”
“It must be. And the line running from the White House to the Capitol is one of the arms of the Compass. We're driving along it right now. Pennsylvania Avenue.”
They looked out the windows. The White House was receding from view behind them. Up ahead, the Capitol drew closer and closer, the impressive dome gleaming white in the early morning light. All along the avenue, work crews were beginning to set up for the Fourth of July celebrations, only two days away. The city would soon be impassable.
Sajan turned back toward the laptop. “If Pennsylvania is one arm of the Compass, and the Capitol is the top, then…” She ran her hand along the map. “… then Maryland Avenue must be the other. Except that Maryland doesn't go through.”
“That's true. But if you follow it down along the old Southern railroad track, and out past the Tidal Basin…”
“Yes, I see it,” Sajan said. “All the way to the Jefferson Memorial. That's the tip of the other arm of the Com pass.”
“And if that's the Compass, then the Square must cross over it. In most pictorial representations, they're laid on top of each other, pointing in opposite directions, with the angle of the Square positioned directly on the line bisecting the arms of the Compass.” He used the software package to draw lines along both Louisiana and Washington Avenues, extending them far beyond the suggestion of the streets on the map. When he had finished, they could clearly see the form of the Square. “And the Rule or straightedge?” Sajan asked.
“Franklin's journal suggests it begins at the Capitol. Draw a line back from the Capitol until it intersects the perpendicular line coming down, north to south, from the White House. Right there.” He pointed at the map on the screen. “At the Washington Memorial. You can even continue the line from the Capitol west all the way to the Lincoln Memorial.”
“And if you go north past the White House,” Sajan said, sounding excited, “the line runs up Sixteenth Street…”
“… directly to the Supreme Council Thirty-third Degree Temple,” Koster finished for her. “Thirteen blocks north of the White House.”
“It fits, Joseph. What's next?”
“We need to drive east to mark the arms of the Square, and then round to the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials. We'll end at the Washington Monument. That will give us our waypoints.”
It took them the better part of an hour and a half to reach each point on the map. The further they traveled, the more Koster became convinced of his figures. The Masonic symbols matched the layout of the city exactly. Sajan was right. It fit. It had to be more than coincidence.
By the time they got to the Washington Monument, it was noon. To the right, the obelisk glistened in the sunlight as they swung up Constitution Avenue and crawled to a stop in the parking area. Even though it was a weekday, the lot was crowded. Petrov stayed with the car while they made their way across the field to the tower. The memorial was surrounded by a circle of flags representing each state of the union. Each flapped in the breeze, vibrant and colorful against the pure granite of the obelisk and the crystal blue sky. Dozens of tourists gathered around the monument, snapping pictures, staring up at its peak. Koster picked up a brochure someone had tossed to the grass.
“‘The cornerstone was laid in 1848,’” he read. He looked up at Sajan. “Long after the death of Ben Franklin. And yet,” he continued, looking back at the text, “it says here that the original architect set the height of the tower at six hundred feet, but then it was reduced to five hundred fifty-five, so that the Egyptian proportions of ten times base to height could be maintained. And check this out. It was built using thirty-six thousand separate blocks of granite. The number thirty-six is derived from multiplying three by twelve. The capstone weighed exactly thirty-three hundred pounds. It has eight windows that together total thirty-nine square feet—three by thirteen. That's odd,” he added. “I know this was built much later than Franklin's day, but all of these numbers and dimensions are extremely significant in Masonic numerology. It even says that thirty-five of the memorial stones at the three-hundred-thirty-foot level were donated by Masonic lodges from all over the world. That's seven times five. I've been seeing these numbers again and again, all day long—thirty-nine, seventy-five.” Koster used the brochure to shield his eyes as he looked up at the obelisk. “Let's go up.”
They made their way to the main entrance on the other side of the obelisk. Several groups of tourists languished outside. There were Germans and Japanese, French and Australians, but mostly Americans. Come in for the Fourth of July, no doubt, Koster thought. There were families with small children, a cluster of veterans with their WWII badges, a nun and a troupe of elementary school students.
Koster had to stop and have his computer bag searched even though he put the whole thing through the metal detector. No one was taking any chances after 9/11.
The lobby's walls were covered with thick panels of glass, protecting the stone surfaces. There was a statue of George Washington in one corner, carved out of wood and so shiny with age that it looked to be made out of caramel. He was holding a cane in one hand and was resting the other on his coat on a pillar. There was a great brass relief of his likeness directly over the doors, his head poised above branches, with his huge florid signature just underneath.
They moved to the elevator. A noisy group of schoolchildren spilled out, and they squeezed in with a small knot of tourists from Belgium. Or was it Holland? Koster couldn't be sure. It seemed to take forever to reach the Observation Level. The elevator emptied out onto a small narrow room, a corridor really, that ran around the shaft of the elevator, circumscribing the obelisk.
The walls felt like they were the paper thin at this height, though he knew they were solid granite. They arced in at the top, so that Koster and Sajan had to bend at the waist to avoid hitting their heads as they walked single file down the corridor. After a moment, they rounded the corner and came upon one of the rectangular windows.
There, far below, was the White House. It seemed tiny, like a toy, from this height. Koster stared out at the city to the north. It appeared to go on forever. He turned to Sajan. “You know, if you continue the east-west line from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial, the Rule becomes an inverted T. One leg points toward the Supreme Council Temple, and the other two legs point toward the Capitol Building and the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Is that significant?”
“It could be. According to Masonic symbology, this is known as the Triple Tau. Tau is the nineteenth letter of the Greek alphabet, with a value of three hundred in the Greek system of numbers. The lower T is sometimes used as a symbol for the Golden ratio, though most people use the phi. The Triple Tau is also one of the premier symbols of Royal Arch Masonry. And it has a specific meaning in English, but I don't remember the cipher. Hold on a second.” He pulled out his computer and propped it up on the shelf of the window. “I'll figure it out.”
Other tourists were trying to see past his screen. They clucked, hemmed and hawed, but Koster was far too engrossed to be thwarted. In a minute the crowd started to thin, and soon they were all by themselves in the corridor.
Koster laid out the phrasing. As usual he began with a simple substitution cipher. Nothing. Then he started to count up the letters and… He stopped. Wait a minute, he thought. He was using English. What if the words were in Hebrew or Greek? He started again.
“What was that?” Sajan asked.
Koster didn't look up. Hebrew was probably the most likely, he decided. It could be the Atbash. “What's what?” he replied.
“That noise,” Sajan said. “That banging?”
Koster couldn't hear anything. “I don't know…” Then he heard it. It sounded like the slamming of doors.
“I'll go see,” said Sajan.
Koster turned back toward his screen. The Atbash was a simple substitution cipher for the Hebrew alphabet. It worked by substituting aleph, the first letter, for tav, the last; beth, the second letter, for shin, the one before last; and so on and so forth, in essence reversing the alphabet.
In the meantime, Sajan moved down the corridor. It was strangely empty now. Before it had been jam-packed with tourists. Koster glanced up as Sajan ambled further and further away. At the end of the corridor, she stopped.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Something's jammed in the elevator. It looks like a newspaper.” She stepped out of sight.
If you used the Hebrew alphabet, Koster considered, the Triple Tau was decoded as the words, “I am that I am.” He waited and watched but Sajan didn't reappear at the end of the corridor.
“Savita,” he said. Then he realized it was the first time he had used her first name. “Savita, where are you?”
“The newspaper's caught in the elevator doors,” she called. “Just a minute. I'm getting it out.”
The Triple Tau signified the Clavis ad theosaurum, the “key to a treasure,” or the Theca ubi res pretiosa deponitur, the “place where a precious thing is concealed.” Or a symbol for the Golden Ratio, he thought. And it hit him.
“Savita,” he cried out again.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I think that there's somebody else—”
“Savita, come back here. Right now!” Koster was suddenly filled with a grim sense of foreboding. Cold fingers clawed at his heart. He pushed the laptop away. “Savita!” He dashed down the corridor, moving sideways to avoid bumping the walls. “Savita!” he shouted, and she suddenly reappeared round the corner. She looked up at him with surprise in her eyes.
“What's the matter?” she said. “What's wrong?”
“Just come here.” He motioned her forward.
Sajan made her way down the corridor. “Did you figure it out?” she inquired.
Koster looked closely at her. He started to reach for her hand, then thought better of it. “I'm not sure,” he replied. He felt silly, embarrassed. “I think so.” What had come over him? He couldn't explain it. He had suddenly felt a great urge to protect her. Slowly, he made his way back toward the window.
“Well?” she said.
“The Tau is sometimes used as a symbol for the Golden Ratio, a mystical figure leveraged in the design of the Notre Dame cathedrals in France, the ones built by the Masons.” He swiveled the PC screen toward her.“It's also used at Monticello, the house that Jefferson built. Anyway, when I run the ratio against the numbers we've been tracking, the angles of the triangles of the pentagram, plus the Masonic symbols of the Compass, Square and Rule, I end up with the same series of numbers: three times thirteen, or thirty-nine; plus seventy-five. But they're also associated with other numbers: fifty-six, fifty-two and ninety-five; and then eight, fifty and six. I can't figure it out.”
“Let me see,” said Sajan. She moved closer to the screen. There they were. The same numbers, over and over again: 39, 56, 52 and 95; 75, 8, 50 and 6. They just kept repeating. Then she laughed. “Give me your Garmin,” she told him.
“What for?” Koster asked, though he handed it over to her.
She began inputting numbers. “One of the benefits of being in the telecom chip business. You obsess over these things. The invisible network around us. The electrical matrix. GPS, Joseph. Practically every cell phone manufactured today is equipped with some sort of geo-positioning system, even if it's only for emergency use. The numbers—they're coordinates, Joseph. Degrees, minutes and seconds. And then fractions of seconds. Look at the numbers.”
Koster stared down at the screen. She was right. He felt like an idiot. He had been able to remember the Atbash. He'd seen the shapes of the Masonic symbols in the streets of the city. He'd drawn connections between the tau and the phi. But he'd missed the most obvious of symbols—the straight interpretation of numbers. Some times, as Freud said, a cigar was just a cigar… and a number was just a simple coordinate. “Latitude and longitude,” he said flatly.
Sajan smiled. She looked down at the Garmin. By pressing in the coordinates, the system had pulled up a small map on the screen. “The City of Brotherly Love,” she said. “Where it started. Philadelphia, Joseph. In something called Carpenters' Hall.”
SISTER MARIA HAD BEEN WATCHING THEM ALL MORNING. She had flown in the night before, only a few hours after they'd landed. And while she had stayed at a different hotel, she had picked up their trail at the Four Seasons that morning, and kept with it—off and on—for most of the day. Except for that time they'd spotted her by Mount Vernon Square.
So she had called in a new car on her Nokia cell phone. She had picked up the gray Ford at the Jefferson Memorial, just before they had slipped north onto Constitution, and then turned toward the Washington Monument.
Sister Maria had followed on foot after that. She had watched as the pair entered the obelisk, as they gawked at the tourist curiosities, taking notes. Minutes later, they vanished into the chrome-colored elevator. That's when she had purchased a copy of that morning's Washington Post.
She had followed them up the white tower. And then she had waited, biding her time on the Observation Level,cajoling the tourists away. No one questioned a nun. Her long habit and veil nurtured a natural authority. She waited at the lip of the corner, the newspaper tucked under her arm, until all of the tourists—the flittering children, the old men with their military hats—had made their way back to the elevator. Then, she looked at her watch.
Almost time.
The Cuban with the National Park Service uniform would be approaching the obelisk now. She saw it all in her mind's eye. He was entering the lobby. She stared at her watch. Just a few seconds more. Six. Five. Four. He was standing outside of the elevator.
Sister Maria glanced up at the lights in the panel. The elevator was ascending again. It was on its way back to the Observation Level. A few seconds later, it arrived. And, it was empty. Exactly as planned.
The nun quickly stuffed the newspaper into the opening between the shaft and the elevator, blocking the door. She watched as it started to shut, hit the paper and bounced open again. She stepped back. She waited and listened.
Footsteps. Someone was approaching. She slipped off her rosary beads.
Slowly and methodically, the nun wrapped the beads round her fists. She pulled the cord tight. She froze when she sensed a sudden vibration in the folds of her habit.
Her cell phone.
Sister Maria hesitated. She stepped back and unraveled her beads. Then, she pulled out her phone. It was a text message. From Archbishop Lacey.
STAND DOWN, the note said., LET'S SEE WHAT THEY FIND. That was all.
The nun slipped the phone back into the folds of her habit. The elevator opened and closed with a bang. She cocked her head. The footsteps grew louder. Sajan was only a few feet away.
The nun spun about. She considered getting back into the elevator, then she noticed another corridor on the far side of the doors. It ran round the south side of the obelisk. Without pausing to think, she dashed past the elevator, slipped round the corner and pressed her back to the wall.
“What is it?” Koster shouted.
“Something's jammed in the elevator. It looks like a newspaper.”
Sister Maria could hear the footsteps of Savita Sajan as she rounded the corner and stepped up to the door of the elevator, only feet away.
The nun wrapped her rosary beads round her fists.
“Savita,” cried Koster. “Savita, where are you?” His words seemed to bounce down the corridor.
“The newspaper's caught in the elevator doors. Just a minute. I'm getting it out.”
“Savita.”
“Wait a minute,” she answered. “I think that there's somebody else…”
Sister Maria took a step closer to the edge of the corner. She lifted her hands, trying to gauge the right height, trying to imagine the neck and the hair, the flash of the rosary beads, the shocked look on the Indian girl's face.
“Savita, come back here. Right now!”
The world stopped for an instant. Sister Maria could practically feel Sajan around the corner, smell the scent of her perfume. Then, without warning, the elevator closed with a slam. The nun listened attentively as Sajan started moving away. “Savita,” she heard Koster shout once again.
Sister Maria unwrapped the rosary beads from her fists. She had tied the cord so tightly that it had left marks in her skin. She rubbed her fingers absently as the crackle of fear and excitement slowly faded. But she was not disappointed.
Eventually, she knew, despite this reprieve, it would all come to pass. In the end, they would both fall to her rosary. There was no amount of blood they could smear on their lintel that could ever keep her at bay.
FRANKLIN LOOKED UP AT THE SKY, AT THE PREGNANT BLACK clouds gathered above him, and realized with a start that, without even knowing it, he was praying for rain. Normally, he didn't pray for anything. What was the point, after all? God had more pressing things to attend to than to listen to the whining of men.
He wrapped his cloak more firmly about him and tugged his hat down. A few feet away, his bastard son William stood playing with a crimson silk kite in his hand. The young man had just turned twenty-one, but he fidgeted and fussed like a boy. Franklin had tried to connect with him over the years, but—much to his utmost regret—they seemed to be similarly charged. Per haps William reminded him too much of what he liked least in himself. William was just like his mother. He was easily distracted. He was too fond of the comforts of life, obsessed with material things, constantly worrying about how others considered him. Franklin couldn't understand it. The boy had none of his intellectual curiosity, none of his seething will to succeed.
One time, years earlier, when William had come upon his father working late at the press, the boy had asked him blithely, “Is it profit that drives you? Everyone says that it's so.”
Franklin had stood there, hands stained with ink, looking down at the boy, then a teenager. He felt overwhelmed by a sudden disgust, though he tried to suppress it. “While there is nothing wrong with the accumulation of wealth,” he had answered, staring over his spectacles, “it's what it provides you that matters, William. The freedom to study and learn. The time and the means to devote to the needs of your family, your community. In a world too often driven by unearned rank and prestige, wealth is what evens the playing field, William. That's all. In the end, it's what you do with your talents that matters. The world is crying out for improvement. Find a need, a practical problem that requires addressing, and solve it. And if you work hard enough, and diligently, wealth will come to you. ‘Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy—’”
“Oh, for God's sake, Father, I wish you'd stop quoting Poor Richard's to me.” The boy rolled his eyes. “Your aphorisms make my skin crawl, I've heard them so often.”
Franklin looked at his son. Yes, he thought. That's exactly what your mother would say.
A bolt of lightning creased the sky. A moment later, a thunderclap barked back. Franklin looked out across the open field, beyond the stone fence, beyond the trees to the distant smudge of the city. The storm was sweeping in from the south. Already, great sheets of water lanced down upon the roofs of Philadelphia. He could see the steeple of Christ Church, half built, encased in a beam of bright light, like a heavenly portent. Then the clouds closed.
Franklin turned toward his son. “Get ready,” he told William. “It's coming.” He looked up at the sky, and thought back to that afternoon, almost a decade before, when he had first seen Dr. Archibald Spencer, the traveling showman from Scotland, as he expounded on Newton's theories of light and performed electricity tricks, creating static charges by rubbing a tube made of glass. Franklin had watched the doctor's presentation with increasing excitement as Spencer drew showers of sparks from the glass, over and over again. He knew, at that moment, that he'd finally found what he'd been anxiously searching for—the pulse at the heart of the God machine.
A few years later, in 1747, Franklin's Library Company had received its own tube for generating static electricity from his agent in London, Peter Collinson. Franklin had worked many a long hour, devising numerous experiments, and had eventually discovered that electricity was not created by the friction generated by rubbing the glass with a cloth, but actually collected. Stranger still, a charge could be drawn into one person, A, and out another, B, and the electrical fluid would flow back again if the people simply touched one another. Until then, most people had speculated that electricity involved two types of fluids, vitreous and resinous, and that each type operated independently. But Franklin believed that the generation of a positive charge was always accompanied by an equivalent negative charge, in some mysterious conservation. This had led him to uncover the remarkable value of points. He electrified a small iron ball. Next, he dangled a cork right beside it, and was startled to find that the string and the cork were repelled by the iron ball's charge. Then, when he brought the tip of a poker to the ball, the charge was ushered away. It seemed as though electrical fluid was attracted to points.
One evening, on the banks of the Delaware, he had invited a few friends over for an electrical dinner. It had been a sumptuous affair, and much fun. They had dispatched a turkey by linking it to a series of Leyden jar batteries. After, they roasted it by electrical jack, before a fire kindled with an electrified bottle, whilst toasting the health of the most famous electrical scientists of the Continent using electrified glasses. The evening had been a fabulous success, though the bird had taken longer to cook than anticipated, and by sunset a storm had rolled in. In his carriage on the way back to Market Street, Franklin had watched the rain wash the countryside. It was then, as a lightning bolt—like the roots of some brilliant white tree—emblazoned the heavens, that he had first struck on the idea of the lightning rod. Electrical fluid was attracted to points.
For millennia, the devastating effects of lightning had mystified people. It was considered a supernatural phenomenon, an expression of God, or the Gods, depending upon where you were born in the world. But while church bells were rung to ward off the forces of lightning throughout Christendom, they had little effect. Lightning still struck church towers, burning many to the ground, and hundreds of bell ringers and rectors were killed in the colonies every year.
It was true that Newton and other scientists had speculated about the apparent connection between lightning and electricity, but none, until Franklin, had ever conceived of a practical manner to prove it. Franklin believed that if you placed a man in a sentry box topped with a long metal rod in a thunderstorm, and if you linked that rod to a wire, insulated with wax, which the man held in his hand, he could stimulate sparks from the clouds, steal fire from heaven, like Prometheus, just as Franklin had done from his tube. He had outlined his theories to Collinson in 1750, who in turn presented Franklin's letters to the Royal Society of London. They were published in London's Gentleman's Magazine, and translated into French. Indeed, they had caused such a sensation that King Louis had commanded a field test be mounted to plumb out the theory.
Meanwhile, Franklin had moved ahead with his own plans for an experiment. He had been waiting for the completion of the Christ Church steeple so he could make use of its vantage point, but decided to try something different instead.
Since childhood, Franklin had loved to fly kites. Indeed, he had never considered kites playthings. Their grace and their aerodynamics amazed him, and the fact that he could control something that seemed to laugh at the confines of gravity filled him with glee. He had even used a kite once while swimming to help pull him across a small lake near Boston as a boy. Impatient to prove his theories, Franklin had recruited his reluctant son, William, and snuck out to the field where they stood.
Franklin looked at the boy. A sharp wire protruded from the top of the kite William held. “Get ready,” he told his son. “The storm's getting closer. The string.” He held out his hand.
The boy gave him the string. It was wrapped around a peg, like a bee's nest around the branch of a tree. Franklin uncoiled several yards, letting them fall to the ground, and then patted the key in his pocket. “Go ahead, then. Start running.”
With a frown, William started to walk, then to trot across the field. He was facing the wind, and as he ran his hat suddenly flew from his head. He hesitated.
“Keep running,” shouted Franklin. “Let her out.”
William allowed the kite string to slip through his fingers. The kite shuddered and wheeled. He tightened his grip. It sailed through the air. He opened his fingers again and the kite slowly slipped back behind him, climbing higher and higher. William turned and faced it. He let go of the string and the kite shot up toward the heavens.
Franklin watched as it shivered and climbed. A moment later, he felt the sharp tug as the string tightened against the peg in his hand. It climbed and it climbed, closer and closer to the cinder black clouds.
William had recovered his hat. He stood off to the side, one hand still gripping the brim, his cloak billowing.
Franklin had come near to the end of the string. He held the peg with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other, removing the key. It was linked to a small metal pin which he hooked directly over the string until the key dangled just inches away. He held tight as the kite spiraled upward. Then, out of nowhere, a lightning bolt fell. In truth, it seemed to rise up out of the ground rather than to descend from the heavens. The string, soaked by rain, seemed to stiffen. Franklin reached out. He touched the knuckles of his free hand to the key. He felt a small shock. Another charge rose from the key. He watched as the blue spark collected. It seemed to jump in slow motion from the key through the air, across the divide to the tip of his finger. It surged through his hand, through his arm and his chest, to the heart of his being. And he laughed.
It's so simple, he thought.
For more years than he cared to remember, he had languished at his desk late at night; he had sat there and stared at that drawing, with his pen in his hand. There was something about it, something… as if he had seen that schematic before.
But it was like trying to remember Franky's face, once so familiar that it had become practically invisible. Try as he might, he couldn't possibly render it—the fine lines of his eyes, the curve of his lips. So too the schematic. It was gone. Simply gone.
Until now. Franklin pulled his hand from the key. Now, it was glaringly obvious. It is simple.
When everything is a symbol, everything is equally distant… or close. It was like standing in the map of a place, a chart so acute that there was no way to distinguish it from the thing that it symbolized.
“Father. Father, are you all right?”
Franklin looked over at William but he was no longer there. He was standing beside him, and tugging his coat.
“Franky?”
William frowned. “No, it's me. William.” He released Franklin's sleeve. “Your other son.”
Franklin's eyes fell into focus. He smiled at the young man and said, “It worked.”
William took a step back. He folded his arms. “That's wonderful, Father. Another success for you.”
“I'll call it that when we save a few churches from burning.” He pointed at the Leyden jars clustered nearby. “Now, let's see if we can store some of this electrical fluid. I'll wager whatever you will that it's the same charge I create with my glass tube back home.” He started to turn away, then suddenly tarried. He looked back at his son. “Tell no one of this, William. No one. I want your most solemn oath on it.”
“I thought you were planning to patent these points—unlike your stove. How will you sell any if no one knows of them first?”
“Your oath, William.”
“But why, Father? Tell me. I don't understand.”
“There are some people I'd prefer to keep in the dark. At least for a time.”
“You're usually never so shy about your scientific discoveries. This could earn you a Copley in Britain.”
“That's not why I'm doing this. Though keeping from peril my Fire Brigade is a worthy endeavor. Your oath, for the last time.”
“All right, then, I promise,” said William. A lightning bolt flashed and the sky seemed to suddenly open. Rain fell in torrents around them. “It's for him, isn't it?” William said.
“For whom?” Franklin asked, although he knew. It was then he remembered what had happened to Prometheus after stealing the secret of fire from heaven. Zeus had chained him to the side of a cliff, where an eagle had picked out his liver each day, though it grew back each morning. Is that the grim price of being immortal?
William looked up at the heavens, his young face drenched and bleak. “Your ‘obsession.’ That's how Deborah refers to it, when you're not about. And your midnight experiments. Those mysterious drawings you study in your office at night.” He pointed up at the kite, fluttering crimson against the black clouds. “The world should know about this.”
Franklin stared at his son. A great sadness washed over him. It was neither William's ambition nor his avarice which fueled the young man's conviction. It was jealousy. Franky had been dead for more than fifteen years, and yet his spirit still lingered, still haunted his older brother… as it still haunted him. “If only the world were ready,” he said. “In truth, I didn't do it for this world.” Franklin turned away, pulling the kite string behind him. “I did it,” he said, “for the next one.”
KOSTER AND SAJAN TRAVELED BY PLANE TO PHILADELPHIA the following morning and headed straight for the Four Seasons Hotel. Sajan checked in with her office and then joined Koster for coffee in his suite as he verified the coordinates they had discovered in Washington. For some reason, though he checked them again and again, they seemed slightly off. When he ran the numbers against a more precise map on his laptop, the coordinates were actually a few meters distant from Carpenters' Hall. But this, Koster realized, was probably due to the less accurate instruments of the eighteenth century. He had spent several hours the previous evening in D.C. reading up on the building, its history and construction. He was ready, he told Sajan, as he stowed Franklin's journal in the safe in his closet. Then they packed up their gear—Koster's laptop, the Garmin and camera, a flashlight and drawing pad—and headed downstairs to the lobby.
The streets were jammed for the holiday weekend. A doorman hailed them a cab and they rounded the Square, heading eastward on Vine. Philadelphia was in the midst of a face-lift. City workers patrolled every thoroughfare, festooning lampposts with flags and colorful banners and pennants. Dozens of “minutemen” in authentic period costumes clustered on street corners preparing to practice a bold reenactment of the Battle of Germantown. Extra cops were stationed to ensure that the revelers didn't get out of hand. Koster and Sajan cut right onto Eighth Street, and then left onto Chestnut. Independence Hall came into view up ahead, with its tall pointed spire. Originally the State House of Pennsylvania, the structure was completed in 1756, Koster told Sajan, and served as the seat of Pennsylvania's government until 1799. There, in the Assembly Room, the Second Continental Congress had adopted the Declaration of Independence. There, the Federal Constitutional Convention had first framed the Constitution. And there, he concluded, from 1800 to 1802, the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania had used the west room on the second floor as its temple.
They passed the Second National Bank. “It's on the next block,” Koster said, and the driver pulled over.
As they got out of the cab, Koster noticed a cut in the wall on the south side of the street, framed by two solid brick pillars and a wrought iron gate. The gate was open. A red-brick and cobblestone walkway stretched back one hundred and twenty-four yards from the street, flanked by two-story brick buildings, and a small tree-lined courtyard. At the far end of the alley stood Carpenters' Hall. Sajan and Koster strode down the walkway, by the New Hall Military Museum in one of the flanking brick buildings.
Carpenters' Hall was a huge Georgian affair, built in a squat cruciform shape of dark brick with white shutters and trim, and a classical triangular pediment. A small wooden cupola on the roof was topped with a brass ball and weathervane. Three flagpoles jutted out from the front of the Hall directly over the entrance, bearing period flags.
They crossed the small courtyard and moved round the hall down a narrow brick path toward the rear of the property. The building ran thirty feet deep, and the arms of the cruciform wings added another ten feet on each side. Koster stopped for a moment and pulled out his Garmin. As they circled the structure, he kept halting and spinning about, looking down at the screen. It was difficult to get an accurate reading. In truth, he could be off by some feet.
“You look a little like Spock with a tricorder. Why don't we go in?” Sajan asked.
Koster shook his head. “The coordinates say it's right here.” He pointed at the brick paving just south of the Hall. A wooden fence marked off the property a few yards away. Beyond it, Koster could see a stretch of lawn leading down to Dock Creek, and some period row houses and gardens at the end of the block.
Koster sighed. He looked back at the Hall: at the three Palladian windows on the second floor; at the belt course between the two stories—outlined in wood, instead of brick; at the pedimented rear doorway with its Doric details. Sajan was right, he thought. They were wasting their time here.
They returned to the front of the Hall. There was a small wooden sentry box on one side of the courtyard, and some sort of raised plaques which they stopped to peruse.
“The Hall was built in 1770 by the Carpenters' Company,” Koster said. “As it notes here, the Company was the oldest trade guild in America. Robert Smith was one of most successful architects of his day. He designed not only Carpenters' Hall, but the Christ Church steeple and many other celebrated buildings, including Ben Franklin's house up on Market Street. What they don't tell you here is that Smith was also a Freemason, like Franklin and Washington. The Hall hosted the First Continental Congress in 1774 and was home to Franklin's Library Company.” He stared up at the building, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “The Hall's part of the Independence National Historic Park. But, unlike most monuments, it's still privately owned and maintained. I called McKenzie and Voight yesterday. My firm has contacts down here in Philly, members of the Carpenters' Company. We've got permission to poke around pretty much where we want. Within reason, of course.”
“Good thinking,” Sajan said.
He pointed up at the walls. “Notice how the black-colored bricks, called ‘headers,’ are turned on their ends, tying together several courses of bricks, which otherwise might come apart at the mortar joints? Apparently, the foundation is equally sturdy, consisting of random-sized pieces of stone mortared together in what is known as a ‘rubble foundation.’”
“Fascinating,” said Sajan. “Can we go in now?”
Koster glanced down at her, pursing his lips.
“Just a suggestion,” she said mildly.
The main entrance was flanked by white pilasters, crowned with a glass fanlight transom and triangular pediment, echoing the one at the top of the building. As they passed through the door, Koster noticed a stairway leading up to the second floor to his right, blocked off by a small metal gate, and a door leading down to the basement. Then they entered the main hall itself. It was huge, with a lustrous stone floor made up of black and white diamond-shaped tiles. There was a concession stand on the opposite side selling postcards and books. The walls near the ceiling were crowned with a white dentil molding. Bright light poured in through the numerous windows, giving the expansive chamber a luminous feel.Smith's plan was straightforward and simple—a two-story, fifty-foot-square building with ten-foot cutouts at each corner.
There were no steel supports in those days, Koster told Sajan, so the weight of Carpenters' Hall was borne mainly by the exterior walls, which appeared to be at least a foot thick. They studied the fireplaces—made of black and white marble—at each end of the room. Above each mantel was a flag in a glass-covered frame, adorned with the words Carried in 1788, with the logo of the Carpenters' Company. Clearly, much had been added to the building since its original construction. Even the beautiful tiled floor had been laid down almost a hundred years later, Koster said, after the Civil War, by the same British company that supplied tile for the Capitol. The only articles from the period were eight green Windsor chairs used by members of the First Continental Congress.
They headed back toward the stairway. Although it was blocked by a low metal gate, Koster straddled it easily and started upstairs.
“Just a minute. You, there.”
A small corpulent black man with a bald head and mustache bustled toward them. He was wearing a lavender polo shirt emblazoned with the seal of the Carpenters' Company—three compasses and a square. “Where do you think you're going?”
His badge read: Redding, Arnold.
“Upstairs. To the Library,” Koster said.
“Upstairs is off limits.”
“Someone from my office called yesterday. They gave me permission. If you check your files, I'm sure you'll notice my name. Koster. Joseph Koster.”
The guard raised his eyebrow. “This ain't no club, mister. And there ain't no guest list tonight.”
“Just check your files. We're only going up for a minute.”
“Like I said, no one told me nothin' about no Joseph Koster.”
“Look,” Koster said, drawing himself up to his full height. He tried to look bold and commanding. He stared down with an imperious eye. “Mr. Arnold—”
“That's Redding.”
“Mr. Redding. Someone called yesterday.”
“Yeah, you said that. And I said no one goes nowhere without no permission.”
“I'm Savita Sajan.” Sajan stepped between the two men. “We don't want to cause any trouble, Mr. Redding. What my friend here is—”
“Savita Sajan?” The guard held out his hand. “Well, why didn't you say so? Sure. The boss got your message. It's a real pleasure to meet you. I read all about you in People.”
“I hated those pictures. I think they made me look fat. Don't you?”
The guard chuckled. He patted his belly. “Are you kidding?” He pulled out a keychain, and unlocked the gate at the foot of the stairs. “Let me know if there's anything else I can do, Ms. Sajan.” Then he gave Koster a wink, turned and waddled away.
Koster stood there, staring down at Sajan.
“What?” she said.
“You called Nick last night, didn't you?”
She just stood there and smiled.
“Didn't you?” he persisted.
“We needed permission to scope out the place. I didn't know you were planning to call McKenzie and Voight. What's the big deal?”
“Before, when I told you about my arrangements, you didn't say anything.”
“I learned long ago that when you're part of a team,it's important to make everyone feel like they're… making an impact, contributing.”
“Especially men.”
Sajan laughed. “Yes. Especially men.”
The sight of her laughing completely undid him. He had planned a rejoinder about the value of honesty, but he suddenly felt petty. So what if Sajan had called Nick without telling him? They were friends, after all. Koster counted the number of steps on the stairs, and multiplied by ninety degrees.
“Can you imagine Ben Franklin climbing these stairs,” Sajan said, “with his hands full of books? I always used to picture him old and fat. Suffering from gout.”
“And from kidney stones,” Koster added. “In fact, by the time the Second Continental Congress rolled around, he was in so much pain that he had to be carried here in a sedan chair.”
At the top of the stairs, glass-covered bookcases lined the walls. The second floor of Carpenters' Hall was divided into two main rooms—to the east and the west—and several smaller chambers to the south, occupied by a caretaker. In Franklin's day, the east room hosted the Library Company, and was where the Board of Directors assembled for their fortnightly meetings. The west room, in contrast, had once been a handsome apartment, although cluttered with Franklin's apparatus and instruments, such as telescopes and air pumps and electrical devices. Today, a replica of the original boardroom and library had been set up in the west wing.
Compared to the great hall below, the Library boardroom felt intimate, cozy. Here too, every square inch of the walls had been padded with bookcases. A massive wooden table—clearly not from the period—stood at the center of the room.
“Franklin rented out the whole second floor for his Library Company,” Koster said. “Books were pretty hard to come by in those days, and extremely expensive. Too much for most private collectors. So the Library Company was formed. This is also where Franklin met with Bonvouloir, the French secret agent. You don't generally think about Franklin as some sort of spy.”
“More of a Smiley than a Bond,” Sajan said with a laugh. “Ben Franklin—a spy. How did that come about?”
KOSTER WALKED AROUND THE BOARDROOM, STUDYING THE books on the shelves. “As war loomed over the colonies,” he told Sajan, “King Louis and his cabinet felt they had a rare opportunity to undermine Britain, their traditional rival. But before they could act, the Comte de Vergennes, France's foreign minister, recommended they gather some firsthand intelligence. So, the French Ambassador to the Court of St. James, a fellow named Guines, came up with a candidate: Julien-Alexandre Achard de Bonvouloir.”
Koster turned away from the bookcases. He looked back at Sajan. “Guines described Bonvouloir as a retired officer of the elite Regiment du Cap, a gentleman recently returned from America. But, in truth,” Koster said, “Bonvouloir had only been a volunteer in the regiment. He was actually the black sheep of a family of minor nobility. Twenty-six, poorly educated and physically handicapped, he'd spent most of his life wasting his family's fortune. Vergennes warned Bonvouloir that if he were caught and exposed, he could expect no assistance from France.”
“Undercover,” Sajan said.
“Exactly. He was to carry no written instructions, nor was he ever to present himself as an official ambassador. Given his checkered background, Bonvouloir agreed.” Koster moved to the south side of the room. He stared out the window at the common below.
“How was he received in America?”
“By the fall of '75, the Second Continental Congress realized defeat was inevitable if they failed to secure arms and supplies from abroad. France—Britain's rival—seemed the logical choice. Congress appointed a Committee of Secret Correspondence. Ben Franklin was on it. As was John Jay. Later it was renamed the Committee for Foreign Affairs, and as such became the forerunner of today's State Department.”
Koster paused. Then he shook his head. “But it was a difficult time. Franklin was suffering from kidney stones, as I said, and even if they were successful in procuring new arms and munitions, a long war seemed inevitable. Plus, Deborah, his wife, had died the previous February, while Franklin was living in England. At our meetings,' wrote Bonvouloir in his report to Vergennes, ‘each one of us took a different route through the darkness to the indicated rendezvous.’ Indeed, the only record of those meetings is Bonvouloir's report to Vergennes since, for obvious reasons, no one took notes. Let's not forget that what the colonists were doing was treason, pure and simple. The colonies were in revolt, but not yet at war. Independence wouldn't be declared until July the next year. Franklin was convinced Bonvouloir was an agent of France, but due to his instructions, Bonvouloir couldn't confirm it. For all Jay and Franklin knew, he could have been a double agent.”
Koster stepped behind the large Victorian writing desk in the far corner of the boardroom, crowned with a vase of white lilac blooms. He leaned over and smelled them. They were delightfully sweet, though well past their prime.
Trained as he was to keep secrets, Koster continued, a Freemason versed in codes and clandestine gatherings, Franklin was a good choice to spearhead the endeavor. Despite the great risks, despite what he was going through personally, he and the members of the Committee of Secret Correspondence held three lengthy meetings late at night between December 18 and 27.
“Right here. On this floor,” Koster said. “Soon after, Bonvouloir returned to France with his ebullient assessment. ‘Everyone there is a soldier,’ he proclaimed, ‘the troops are well clothed, well paid and well armed. They have more than fifty thousand regular soldiers and an even larger number of volunteers… Independency is a certainty.’”
“Was that true?”
“Not at all.” Koster continued to circle the room. “But Bonvouloir's report persuaded the French. King Louis gave Vergennes approval to set up a commercial firm, Rodrique Hortalez et Compagnie, to provide munitions for the Americans, or to give them money to buy them. They promised a million livres, and said they'd persuade Spain to deliver another million.”
“That was a fortune in those days. Did they actually do it?”
“Franklin had been a newspaperman his whole life,” Koster said. “He was a master propagandist. As a result of the intelligence he spoon-fed Bonvouloir, the French initiated a massive shipbuilding campaign, adding more than two hundred warships to the cause. In 1778, when Franklin secured a formal Alliance, the French granted open support to the colonies. Some historians estimate that ninety percent of the gunpowder fired by American troops during the war came from France. Ninety percent! Later, with John Jay and John Adams at his side, Franklin signed the Treaty of Paris in September 1783, granting the colonies full independence. Of course, it didn't turn out so well for the French. Financial support for the American war undermined the French treasury, already in debt. The bankrupt nation imploded in '89. Louis and Marie Antoinette were beheaded three years later.”
“The democracy genie was out of the bottle,” said Sajan.
“That's right. There was no turning back. The ideals of the Enlightenment, reflected in Freemasonry; the rise of the middle class, in both America and France; what started here, on this floor, during those three nights of whispering between Franklin and Bonvouloir, changed the world.”
Koster waved at the room. “Franklin was more than intimate with this place. When he wasn't at his print shop, he spent hours here in this Library. And he knew the architect well. If he indeed hid his first piece of the map here, it could be practically anywhere. But I have a feeling…”
“What?”
“We won't find it here, on the surface. Too much has changed through the years.” He turned toward the stairs.
Sajan followed him and they made their way slowly back down the steps. As they moved, Sajan started to whistle and Koster had to stop and laugh as he recognized the tune—“Secret Agent Man.” “They've given you a number,” she sang, “and taken out your gall stone.” And her voice wasn't bad.
At the foot of the stairs, Koster moved toward the door leading down to the basement. There was a man at the concession stand across the main hall, but he didn't seem to be watching. He was helping some Spanish tourist pick out a postcard. And Redding, the guard, was nowhere in sight. Koster opened the door.
“Power tools were nonexistent in the eighteenth century,” he said, as he flicked on the light and descended the steep wooden stairs. “Picks and shovels were used to carve out the basement.” Sajan followed behind him.
The basement, though as large as the main hall above, felt cramped due to the height of the ceiling. Koster had to duck a little as he entered. There were a washer and dryer at the foot of the stairs, behind which a door led up to the gardens in back. A bathroom had been constructed at the southernmost flank of the basement. To his left, Koster noticed a kind of caged area full of files. Two safe rooms had been built under the northern wall, to the east, where bullion had once been kept when the Hall was a bank. The room was lit by a line of sixty-watt lightbulbs dangling down from the girders. Work tools were stacked in one corner, some paint cans and rags and a ladder and what looked like a few pieces of furniture draped with tarps.
Koster pointed up at the ceiling. “Those two girders support the first floor. Each is forty-five feet long and squared off roughly with an adze. Apparently no saw mill at the time was large enough to accommodate them. They were carved out of eastern white pine, which is hardly available today. To provide maximum support, the timbers were reversed.” He pointed to each end of the building. “You see. The base of that one is at the basement's west end, and the stump end of the other one lies at the east. As a result, carpenters had to custom-fit each joist to the taper of the timbers.” Koster moved through the basement, across the brick floor.
“I didn't tell you that story about Bonvouloir as an historical curiosity,” he said, “or because of my Asperger syndrome.”
“I didn't think you—”
“Franklin chose this place for his rendezvous for a reason,” Koster interrupted. “They could have met anywhere. At a friend's home. The Tun Tavern. But Franklin chose Carpenters' Hall because he felt safe here. No matter how heated the discussions became, they would not be disturbed. He knew this. From experience.”
“What do you mean?” Sajan asked.
Koster didn't answer. He walked toward the south wall and turned left. As he moved, he ran a hand along one of the cross beams above him. “Look how the supports just continue. They're all about the same length. You can see that as they run to the cross beams. But these here. They just seem to stop at the wall.”
“Perhaps they were cut short,” Sajan said.
Koster frowned, shook his head. “That doesn't make sense,” he replied. He reached into his bag and took out his Garmin again. “Here,” he said, pointing. “According to the coordinates we uncovered in Washington, what we're looking for should be just beyond this wall.” He put his instruments and his bag on the floor. Then he ran the flat of his palm down the wall. “Can you see the shape of the arch? Look closely. These bricks are different. Not just their color, but the feel of them. These were added much later. There once was a door here.”
“You're certain?”
“Only one way to be sure.” Koster moved to the corner. He scanned through the work tools and picked up a pick and a handful of rags.
“What are you doing? You can't just start digging up the place. They'll hear us.”
“Perhaps.” Koster wrapped the tip of the pick with the rags. Then he heaved it over his shoulder and smashed it against the brick wall. The bricks shuddered, but held. He struck them again. Several bricks seemed to buckle. Koster got down on his hands and his knees. A small hole had opened up at the foot of the wall. He reached into the opening. His arm passed all the way through! He peered in. There was something there, he was sure of it. A room of sorts. But it was dark and he couldn't see more than a few inches inside. Using the tip of the pick he cleared away more bricks, enlarging the opening. “Hand me that flashlight,” he said to Sajan. “And the digital camera. In my bag.”
Sajan did so. Again, Koster thrust his hand in the hole. He turned on the flashlight and the beam split the darkness beyond. It was a room, Koster realized. And it stretched back a fair distance. He slid the camera in his pocket and crawled through the opening. The beam of the flashlight picked up the intricate black-and-white tiling of the floor, and then a dais at the opposite end.
“What is it?” Sajan said, following him.
“A Masonic temple. I've seen something like this once before. Under the cathedral at Chartres,” Koster said. He swung the flashlight about. The dais was an altar, he realized. On its top lay a Compass and Square. But where is the sacred text? he wondered. For a moment he had hoped to discover the Gospel of Judas laid out on the surface.
“But why would they build a temple here?” Sajan wanted to know.
“The Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania moved its headquarters from building to building. The Tun Tavern. Independence Hall. Why not here? It's secluded and private, and yet at the center of things. And with the Library upstairs, it was certainly convenient.”
Koster circled the dais. Then, he stopped. What was that? It looked like a crack in the limestone. He pointed the flashlight. The fissure seemed to run down one side, just a few inches from the altar's edge. And then across, too. “Here, hold this for a second.” He gave her the flashlight. “Point it here.”
Koster ran his fingernails along the line. It was a crack. And it moved! He pushed and the surface silently gave way, swiveling off to the side. He'd opened some sort of cabinet, hidden right in the stone.
“A reliquary?” Sajan asked, stepping closer.
“This may have once housed sacred objects—like the Compass and Square. And documents, too.”
“Like the Gospel of Judas.”
“Perhaps. But it's empty.” Then he caught sight of something way at the back. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Shine the light in.”
Koster reached into the opening and felt about with his hand. The inside of the cabinet was covered with grime and he wondered just how many centuries it had been since someone else had stood where they stood, in this spot. Had it been Franklin himself? It was like dipping a hand into the river of history. For a moment, Koster thought he felt something move. He pulled back instinctively, when his fingers brushed some object within. It felt like a small wad of paper or cloth, about the size of a handkerchief.
“What is it?” Sajan said.
Koster placed it carefully on the surface of the altar, right beside the Compass and Square. Sajan took a step closer, fixing the object in the beam of the flashlight. It was vellum or sheepskin. It was certainly too thick to be paper, Koster thought. And it had been folded, over and over again. Carefully, he picked at the edges. He started to pull it apart. One rectangle at a time, it slowly unraveled. Koster's heart quickened as he realized what he might hold in his hands. Franklin's map. Or at least the first piece of it. He stretched the sheepskin out with his hand.
It was a map. But it was like no map Koster had ever seen before. While the surface was covered with curious illustrations and drawings, they didn't seem to match any landmass he knew. Perhaps because it wasn't complete. Perhaps, Koster realized, they required the other two pieces to really see what it was. “Do you recognize it?” he asked. “It's more like a schematic than a map.”
“Or a piece of one. Look at the edge.” Sajan pointed.
“It's been torn.”
“And look there, at the writing. That's the same Masonic code we saw in Franklin's letter to Madame Helvétius.”
Koster whipped out the digital camera. He snapped a few pictures of the map. For a few seconds the chamber exploded with light. Then, he pulled out his pad and began to translate the text. Slowly but surely, the sentence slipped out: 'Twas twenty-two in Dashwood's time. He read it aloud.
Sajan shook her head. “Who's Dashwood?” she asked.
“The only Dashwood I know is Sir Francis. He was Britain's Postmaster General and Chancellor of the Exchequer for a while. Franklin's counterpart. They were friends while Franklin lived in Great Britain. Any way, Dashwood started this secret society. Some say it was mostly a drinking club. It certainly didn't push moderation, as so many other Masonic groups did at the time. They called themselves the Brotherhood of Saint Francis of Wycombe. From West Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire. He had an estate there. But most people knew them as the Friars of the Hell-Fire Club.”
“In England?” Sajan said. “‘My three homes.’ Isn't that what Franklin wrote in his journal? That's where we'll find the next piece of the map, Joseph.”
Koster turned toward Sajan and snapped her picture. For a moment, the flash glared, and he caught her, mid-smile. But when he looked at the camera display, she wasn't smiling at all. She was staring at something behind him.
FRANKLIN WAS RETURNING HOME FROM A NIGHT ON THE town—following the King's Coronation at Westminster Abbey—when it finally happened, as he knew that it would. He'd been waiting for years.
It had been a splendid event. The Sovereign had entered Westminster to the blowing of horns, wearing the red Robe of State. He had taken his seat on the Chair of Estate, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Chancellor and the Earl Marshal had moved off to the four corners of the Abbey. Facing each corner in turn, the archbishop had called for the Recognition of the Sovereign, with the words, “Sirs, I here present unto you, George the Third, your undoubted King.”
As the archbishop administered the oath, the king had dropped to his knees. He looked like a brand-new gold coin, freshly minted, dressed in a gold damask coat and gold breeches, with white stockings, white shoes with gold buckles and cherry-red heels. His blue velvet mantle had been lined with white ermine, edged with gold, over a surcoat lined and edged with more ermine, cinched by a great silver belt from which dangled his sword.
In truth, Franklin would never have noticed these sartorial details were it not for the fact that he was seated next to a Mr. Edward B. Ravenscroft of Ede and Ravenscroft, haberdashers to the Crown. It had been the busiest year ever, the merchant confessed with the grin of a weasel. The company had made clothes for no fewer than sixteen dukes and forty-six earls, and when you factored in the other degrees of peerage, Ede and Ravenscroft was supplying well over a hundred peers. An astonishing figure. Ravenscroft's tailors had spent countless hours at their premises in Holywell Street, tirelessly working through the night to ensure everyone's robes were ready in time for this momentous occasion.
Ravenscroft pointed out several participants in the ceremony. Peers' robes were made of full-length red velvet, he explained, with a cape of ermine. Rows of sealskin spots on the cape designated the peer's rank. Peeresses' ranks were designated not by sealskin spots, he continued, but by the length of their trains and the width of the edging. For duchesses, the trains were two yards; for marchionesses, one and three quarters; for countesses, one and a half; for viscountesses, one and a quarter; and for baronesses and ladies, one yard…
Normally a staunch advocate of the middling classes, Franklin had ducked out of the ceremony early to avoid the gregarious Ravenscroft. He had rendezvoused with his boss, Sir Francis Dashwood, Britain's Chancellor of the Exchequer, Postmaster General… and founder of the Hell-Fire Friars.
The two men had spent the next several hours at some local apartments Sir Francis had procured especially for the event. The place had been packed with low women, some of whom Franklin had met on previous occasions in the caves of Sir Francis's estate in West Wycombe. But, in truth, Franklin's heart wasn't in it.
He had been sitting with a pretty young bawd in his lap, when he had noticed, to his utmost surprise, that nothing was happening. Not a thing. Perhaps, he considered, it was because of what had recently transpired with his bastard son, William.
So Franklin had bid his adieus and refused when Sir Francis had urged him to borrow a carriage. He preferred walking, he told Lord le Despencer. He needed some air.
And he did. He felt foggy and too full of sherry. Franklin continued down Westminster Bridge Road until it straddled the Thames. Along the river flourished trades linked with shipping: sugar-refining, rubber and soap; chemicals, paint and tobacco. The early evening air was thick with their fumes. Franklin stopped for a moment on the bridge and stared out at the Thames. Only a handful of vessels could tie up on the north bank of the river. Most of the ships lay at anchor, in the heart of the flow, side to side. They were forced to unload onto barges. From there, all the imports were brought to the Custom House, which collected more than half of the taxes paid to the realm every year. One hundred ships came and went from the docks every day. Franklin loved to watch them swoop in with their lighters, the sloops and the barges, trying to negotiate the river amid a deluge of shouting and cursing. Coal-whippers and stevedores sweated and sang as they unloaded the colliers which brought hillocks of coal from north England to London each day. A tangle of rigging seemed to girdle the sky. Ships were anchored in two tiers as far as the eye could see, and barges and wherries wiggled between them, trying to get their last cargo ashore before sunset. They carried sugar and rum, tobacco and cocoa and coffee from the Americas. They bore palm oil and ivory from Africa. And in turn, they were loaded with cases of Birmingham metalware, and with goods made of cotton from Manchester. Like his brand-new blue velvet suit.
There was a time, as a child, when Franklin would have given practically anything to have lived the life of a mariner, to have traveled the world, unfettered and free. But his father had suggested a different apprenticeship. And the tide had departed without him.
Franklin sighed. He crossed the bridge and headed toward Parliament. As he walked, he stared up at Westminster Hall. The building dated back to Edward the Confessor. Once used as a law court, the structure had hosted several notable trials through the years, including those of Sir William Wallace, the Gunpowder Plot conspirators of 1606 and King Charles I in 1649.
Franklin quickened his steps along the Embankment. One day, perhaps, he too would end up in that hall. Things were not going well.
He had returned to London at the age of fifty-one, in 1757, almost thirty-five years since his first visit there as a teenage printer apprentice. Initially, he had thought he would stay for five months, but that had turned into almost five years. He'd found lodging on Craven Street, between the Strand and the river, not far from the ministries of Whitehall. His landlady was a sensible widow named Margaret Stevenson. She had an agreeable disposition and an eighteen-year-old daughter named Mary, known as Polly, who had become a kind of surrogate daughter to him, a counterpart to his real daughter, Sally.
With 750,000 inhabitants, London was the largest city in Europe, second only to Peking—which boasted 900,000. In contrast, Philadelphia, the largest city in America, had only 23,000 residents. In London, Franklin had quickly found favor with the intellectual and literary elite. Collinson, the merchant with whom he had corresponded about electricity some years earlier, had introduced him to the Royal Society. They had recently elected him their first American member.
Franklin spent most of his days in the coffeehouses—London had more than five hundred of them—in the company of writers, journalists and intellectuals. Fellows of the Royal Society tended to meet at the Grecian coffeehouse in the Strand, not far from Craven Street. In deed, despite his relationship with Sir Francis Dashwood, a Tory, Franklin preferred the company of untitled intellectuals and artists, of merchants and tradesmen. Well, generally, at least. Franklin thought back to the tedious Ravenscroft and shuddered.
Basically, he had little to do. He had tried, in the summer of '57, to work with the primary Proprietor, Thomas Penn, and his brother, Richard. But no matter how much he compromised, Franklin simply couldn't accept the Proprietors' demand to be exempt from all taxes. Franklin equated the Assembly in Pennsylvania with Parliament in Great Britain, claiming it had derived identical legislative powers through the royal charter bequeathed to Thomas's father, the great William Penn. The Proprietors, of course, disagreed. But it wasn't until the fall of '58 that they formally replied to his numerous complaints. Snubbing Franklin, they instructed their attorney to write directly to the Pennsylvania Assembly—with a copy to Franklin. They claimed that the instructions to their governors were inviolable, and that the royal charter “gives power to make laws to the Proprietary.” In other words, the Assembly had no real authority. Its members could provide “advice and consent.” Nothing more.
In protest, writing anonymously in the London Chronicle—a standard gambit of Franklin's—he had lambasted the actions of the Penns, calling them contrary to the interests of Britain. But no one had listened.
The truth was, he had failed as a diplomat. He had let his personal animosity toward the Proprietors get in the way of his mission. He had tried, again and again, un successfully, to take Pennsylvania away from the Penns by turning it into a Crown colony, but—in all of its rulings—the Privy Council in London never showed any interest in altering the charter to deprive the Proprietors of their power.
Defiantly, rather than going home, Franklin had begun entertaining the notion of importing his family to England. He embarked on a series of journeys. In America, the French-Indian War was finally coming to an end, with Great Britain and the colonies capturing control of Canada and many of the Caribbean sugar islands belonging to France and to Spain. But in Europe, the Seven Years' War between England and France was still raging. So he had traveled to Scotland instead, where he met and befriended the economist Adam Smith and the philosopher David Hume. Next, he ventured to Holland and Flanders.
In truth, Franklin admitted to himself, he had gone abroad not simply to distract himself from his failures as a diplomat, but because of his faults as a father as well. William, his bastard son, had followed in his father's footsteps by siring an illegitimate son, William Temple Franklin, known as Temple. The boy's mother, like William's own mother, was a woman of the streets. But instead of accepting paternity, as Franklin had done with William, instead of promptly procuring a wife and taking the baby boy home, William had sent the child away to be raised by some surrogate family—in secret. It seemed William had inherited all of Franklin's worst faults, and none of his virtues.
So Franklin had traveled, trying to occupy his mind. And now, returning for the King's coronation, he had been distressed by further bad news. That very morning a letter had arrived from the Netherlands. His friend Pieter van Musschenbroek, the inventor of the Leyden jar, had died mysteriously during some unnamed experiment. Franklin had recently visited the scientist on the continent—just a few weeks before—and although nearly seventy, van Musschenbroek had seemed perfectly healthy, clearheaded and active. Franklin had sent him a letter about his research on electrical fluids and the Dutch mathematician had responded with remarkable clarity. Musschenbroek's passing was a terrible loss, and quite unexpected.
As he slipped through an alley near Hungerford Lane on his way home to Craven Street, a pair of young ladies approached him. Franklin stepped back, giving them room. One was dressed in a damask court mantua, low-cut and crimson, with an elaborate train. She had round, chestnut brown eyes and a mischievous smile. Franklin bowed as they passed.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said with a grin.
The girl in the red frock let out a small laugh, then he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
Someone swung him about. He lifted his cane as a figure stepped out of the shadows.
Franklin froze.
That man! With the dark eyes and dark eyebrows. With that wispy black beard, now streaked gray, and long nose. That frock coat. A clergyman's coat.
It had been more than thirty years, but he still looked the same. Franklin lowered his cane. “You?” he said in a whisper, just as the point of a blade nicked his throat.
“WHAT'S THE MATTER? WHAT'S WRONG?” KOSTER SAID. HE spun about, trying to make out some movement in the shadows around him. But the underground temple was empty, preternaturally still.
Sajan took a step closer to him. “I thought I heard something,” she said. “There. You hear that?”
Then Koster heard voices. One was Redding's.
“That's off-limits,” the guard declared. “You can't go down there.”
“Why not?” a man answered. “Other people go down.” He had a slight accent.
“Off-limits,” the guard insisted. A door slammed. Then nothing.
Koster looked over at Sajan. She widened her eyes, staring back at him. They waited a moment longer. Finally, Koster said softly, “Time to go.” She nodded. They started back toward the hole in the wall. Moments later, they had returned to the basement.
It took them about ten minutes to replace the bricks in the wall. Luckily, none had been smashed by the tip of the pick. By the time they were done, unless someone were actually looking for it, it would be nearly impossible to discern where they'd slipped through the wall.
Koster put the piece of the map they had found, plus the digital camera and the flashlight, back into his shoulder bag. He replaced the tools and they headed upstairs. Redding, the guard from the Carpenters' Company, was standing across the main hall by the concession stand. Sajan thanked him again.
“Anytime, anytime,” he repeated.
Perhaps because they had spent so much time underground, the sun seemed unreasonably bright as they passed through the door, and the sky an almost alien blue. They were about halfway down the front steps of the Hall when Koster spotted a man in the courtyard.
There was something about him, he thought. He looked strangely familiar. And then he remembered. He pulled Sajan to the side.
“Don't look now, but that man, right behind us. Don't turn around!” Koster reached into his bag and removed the digital camera. He snapped a few pictures of the building's façade. “I could swear that I saw him before, in D.C.”
Sajan frowned at him for a moment, confused. Then, in a leisurely fashion, she started to move toward the brick path that led round the Hall. Koster followed. As they walked, he glanced back—for a moment—behind him. The stranger was moving, too. He was coming straight at them. Koster pointed his camera toward the courtyard. The man stopped, turned his head. Deliberately, Koster clicked off a shot, but the man's face was lost in the shadows.
Koster stuffed the camera back in his pocket. He gripped Sajan's hand and led her casually toward the corner of the house. As soon as they were out of sight of the courtyard, Koster quickened his pace. “Come on,” he urged. They started to run down the narrow brick path. When they came to the rear of the building, another man stepped out of an arbor a few yards away. He was dressed in the same navy windbreaker and impeccable chinos as the guy they had seen at the front. Even his military buzz cut was identical. Koster glanced over his shoulder. The first man had rounded the corner behind them.
Koster squeezed Sajan's hand. Then they veered abruptly right, paralleling the Hall, toward an opening in the fence at the rear of the building. The man from the arbor dashed after them. Koster picked up the pace. They were sprinting as they reached the fence. Sajan squeezed easily through the opening. Koster looked back. The two men had converged, one on either side of the fence. They were only a few yards away now.
Koster charged after Sajan. The path led across a great lawn toward some gardens and a line of brick houses at the end of the block. “The gardens,” Sajan said, glancing over her shoulder. The men were crossing the common. They would soon be upon them.
Koster was panting by the time they reached the old cobbled road that bisected the common. For a moment he considered taking the road, but he knew instinctively that if he and Sajan tried to veer off in either direction, one of their pursuers would surely vector off and thwart their escape. So they continued due south, running along the walkway that led to the gardens off Walnut Street, fenced off by a low-slung brick wall.
Moments later, they slipped through a gate in the wall. There was a great hedge of holly, at least ten feet high, to their right, and a half-hidden gazebo. Beyond that, Koster spotted a colonial garden, made up of four formal quadrants, each anchored by trees. And past that, the street. Koster could see it ahead, just beyond that brick wall. Cars whipped by on Chestnut. They were almost there! They tore up the pathway, when Sajan inexplicably stopped.
“What is it?” he asked her. Then he, too, noticed a figure standing off to the side. Right there, in the shade of a tree. Koster had to look twice to be sure he was seeing correctly. A nun. A young nun in a long navy blue habit, grey tunic and veil. He tugged Sajan's hand but she seemed anchored in place.
“Come on,” he insisted, trying to lead her away. The gate to the street yawned before them. And she was only a nun, after all. “Come on,” he repeated.
Koster started to move toward the street, hoping Sajan would soon follow, when he looked up and saw the nun's face. She was smiling at him. She shifted into the light and he could finally make out her features. Brown-eyed and brown-skinned, her face was disturbingly beautiful. No, not just beautiful. Somehow erotic and sensual… and predatory. It was then he remembered what Sajan's driver had said after the accident on the way to the airport. “You'll probably think that I'm crazy. But the driver looked like a nun.”
An unreasonable panic swept through him like a cold blast of air. The nun started toward him. He could not take his eyes off of her. He felt like a rat mesmerized by the dance of a cobra. She started to trot down the path and yet he still couldn't move. She started to run, and the sight of her tearing along seemed so oddly incongruous, so unreal, that she was practically upon him before he woke from his reverie.
The nun lunged through the air, catching him full on the chest with her feet. Koster felt himself spin to the ground. His computer bag slipped from his shoulder, scuttling away like a crab. He rolled and turned over. He leapt to his feet, wheezing. The air had been knocked from his chest. The nun; she was nowhere in sight. Then that sound, like the rush of an insect.
Something flashed by his face. Something curled round his neck.
He reached up to pull it away when he felt the full weight of the nun on his back. Koster stumbled and fell to his knees. He couldn't breathe. Try as he might, though his fingers clawed at the cord round his neck, he simply couldn't dislodge it.
THE KNIGHT GRIPPED FRANKLIN, THE KNIFE AT HIS THROAT. Franklin, though larger, was powerless in the dark man's embrace. His cane slipped from his grasp.
“The Gospel of Judas?” the Knight said. “Where is it?”
For a moment they struggled. Franklin tried to twist himself free, but each time he moved, the Knight pushed the blade further, deeper into his skin. His neck started to bleed.
“In a safe place,” Franklin said. Then, he laughed. “I fail to see the humor of your predicament,” said the Knight.
“Of course you do,” agreed Franklin. “The problem with relying on the physical realm is that it has such limited boundaries. Muscles fail. Tendons tighten. Bones grow brittle with age. But the mind…” He drifted off. “The mind's limitless.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” “Who sent you?” Franklin asked. “Was it the Penns?” The Knight laughed. “This comes down from Pope Clement himself. Do you think we don't know what Voltaire is saying? In a letter to Helvétius—which we just intercepted—your friend writes, ‘When we have destroyed the Jesuits, we shall have easy work with the Infâme.’ Not so easy now, it appears.” He pricked Franklin's neck. “Where's the Gospel?”
“I'm an ambassador to the Court of St. James. I have powerful friends.”
“Fewer each day, Mr. Franklin. They've grown tired of you. And your meddling. You are no longer welcome in England. Even Lord le Despencer has withdrawn his protection.”
Franklin felt the blade slit his skin. “No, wait!” he said. “I've left specific instructions. If I'm murdered, my publishing network will publish the Gospel of Judas, reveal the Logoi to everyone. Release me. Let me go. Let me go!” he commanded.
Franklin's voice was so strident that the Knight stepped away. He lowered his blade. Then he raised it again.
Franklin straightened his wig. “This will bring on a bout of the gout, mark my words.” He bent down and picked up his cane. “Pass this along to your masters,” he said. “It's my last proposition. If I, or anyone in my family, is ever attacked by your agents again, if I die of mysterious causes, if I fall to an accident, to the dirk of a reveler on the King's coronation or some other occasion, my partners will publish the Gospel of Judas.
“But…” he continued, removing his glasses. He wiped them carefully with a kerchief which he plucked from his sleeve. “… if you stop chasing me, if you leave me alone, I swear I will never reveal what it says. I'll keep the Logoi a secret.” He slipped his bifocals back on his nose. Then he smiled. “To the grave.”
“Van Musschenbroek was confident too, till the end,” said the Knight. “You all are.”
Franklin hesitated. “Van Musschenbroek? What does he have to do with the gospel?”
“You brought him into your scheme when you sent him your letter. We know of the God machine. We know what it does. But you'll never build it.”
Franklin stared at the man with the wispy black beard. “My proposition is fair,” he replied. “Pass it on to your keepers.” Then he turned. “And I never want to see you again.”
KOSTER FELT THE WORLD START TO CLOSE IN AROUND HIM. He watched as one of the men rushed in to attack Sajan. She stood there for a moment without moving. It was as if she were waiting for him. And then, at the last second, she turned. She twisted her body while taking his hand, and the man seemed to climb through the air, to simply roll past her hip. Carried by the force of his charge, he flew into the great wall of holly. Before he could possibly recover, she stood over him. As he scrambled upright, she stomped down on his knee. There was a sickening brittle snap, then a scream.
Koster tugged at the cord around his neck. He tried to swivel away but the weight of the nun on his back kept him pinned on his knees. His fingers clawed at the cord, at some object attached to it. It was some sort of crucifix. She was strangling him with her rosary beads!
The nun reached for the cross. She pinched it between her fingers, and the body of Christ fell away to the ground, revealing a short silver blade underneath. She brought it up to his face. He could see it, though his vision grew cloudy. He let go of the cord. He reached for her hand. The sight of the blade only inches from his eye filled him with unfathomable terror. Adrenaline roared through his veins.
Koster watched helplessly as the second man ran up to Sajan. They circled each other. The man had a knife in his hand. There was a smile on his face. He was young, in his twenties, with brown eyes and a small thin mustache. Then he lunged. Again, Sajan stepped to one side. The blade sliced the air. The man brought his hand down, the point aimed at her face, but she blocked it easily between her forearms. Then she wrapped her right hand round his wrist. She twisted it down and around, and the young man rolled, cursing, trying to straighten his elbow. The knife spun from his fingers. Off balance, he punched wildly at her face. What followed happened too fast to see clearly. Sajan flattened the palm of her left hand and struck her attacker's face. His head snapped backward. Blood burst from his nose. Then she twisted her hip, shaped her hand like a point and thrust it with great speed and precision directly into his jugular notch. The man crumpled before her, grabbing his throat. She wrapped her right foot round his ankles and pushed him hard to the ground. As he fell, she smashed the point of her elbow directly on the back of his neck. Then she turned. She looked over at Koster.
The nun's blade was still poised at his eye. Try as hard as he might, using all of his strength, he simply couldn't push it away. It was drawing still closer. He felt his arms weaken, grow heavy. He couldn't breathe. It grew suddenly dark, as if a cloud were covering the sun. This is it, he realized, and he wondered what it would feel like to have a knife pierce his eye. Were there nerve endings there? Would he feel the cold steel as it sliced through the membrane? Without warning, the silver blade vanished, and the pressure on his neck went away. It was suddenly gone. Koster spat and coughed and fell forward, wheezing. Then, he looked up.
The nun was approaching Sajan. Sajan stood her ground, simply waiting, poised in some sort of fighting stance—left foot forward, right back. She waited when the nun unexpectedly ground to a halt. She looked over her shoulder. At first, Koster thought she was staring at him. Then he realized she was looking at something behind him.
Koster climbed to his feet. A dozen figures, dressed in minuteman costumes, strolled down the sidewalk, just beyond the stone fence. More weekend soldiers, for the Battle of Germantown. Koster waved, tried to shout, but nothing came out. “Hey,” he croaked. “Over here.” It was hardly a whisper.
The men turned and looked over. They waved back.
Koster glanced over his shoulder. The nun and the two pursuers were moving away. One was hobbling badly. The other carried Koster's computer bag. Sajan stood off to the side, simply watching as the trio retreated.
“Hey,” someone called. “You guys okay?”
It was one of the minutemen. He was dressed in a long dark blue coat faced with scarlet, a white waistcoat and trousers and a tricornered hat.
Koster nodded. “Okay,” he managed to say. And then, as if a switch had been flipped, he felt pain. Terrible pain, as though a necklace of fire had been wrapped round his neck.
“We're fine,” Sajan said. She was suddenly standing beside him. “You are, aren't you?” She reached for his hand.
The minutemen strolled away, smiling. “My computer bag…” Koster rasped.
“Yes, I know. They took everything. Including the first piece of the map.”
Koster reached into his jacket. “Not everything.” He held up the digital camera. Then, he suddenly coughed,buckled over and spat. “And I left Franklin's journal back at the hotel.”
“Then we're still in the game.”
Koster looked up. Sajan had a hand on his shoulder. She was smiling at him. “You call this a game?” he said, wiping his mouth. “Who were those guys, anyway?”
Sajan stared out across the lawn, back toward Carpenters' Hall. The nun and the two men had vanished. “I don't know. Thieves, I guess.”
“Thieves! Are you kidding me? Since when do people dress up like nuns so they can mug you for a laptop?” He rubbed at his neck. “This happened to me once before, you know.”
“What? Being mugged by a nun?”
“Being strangled,” he said. “Back in Amiens, France.” Without warning, he started to laugh. Perhaps it was all the excitement. Perhaps it was just the adrenaline coursing madly through his veins. But despite the searing pain in his neck, Koster couldn't stop laughing. “Did you see the way she jumped up and kicked me? Jesus Christ! If you can't even trust a nun in this world… Thank God I didn't go to Catholic school, or I'd really be traumatized. And you! What was that all about?” He started to wiggle his hands in the air. “That Jackie Chan shit.”
“I used to take martial arts classes. For years, as a girl. My father thought a woman should always know how to defend herself.”
Koster shook his head, grimacing. “Well, you saved my ass. Did you see that fucking knife in her crucifix? What kind of nut job hides a knife in a crucifix? No, don't tell me—editors at a rival publishing company.” He laughed. Then the euphoria left him. He stood there, rubbing his neck.
Finally, after the silence had become unbearable, Sajan sighed. “Knights of Malta. The same people who were after Franklin's map in his day. After the Gospel of Judas, Joseph. Just like us.”
Koster looked over at the colonial garden, at the blossoming iris and fruit trees. “Not me,” he replied. “I was doing this as a favor, for Nick. Just like you, right? But now this has happened… I mean, you're not going to continue, right?”
“Continue?”
“To look for the Gospel of Judas.”
“Why did you keep searching for the Gospel of Thomas, even after you were attacked in Amiens?”
Koster started to answer. Then he stopped, shook his head. “I don't know,” he replied. “To solve the puzzle, I guess. To unravel the labyrinth. But that's different. I didn't know what I was up against then. Not really.” He paused, trying to come up with a reason. “Plus, I had a cop at my side. Nigel Lyman.”
“You should look him up, then,” she said. “Once we touch down in England. We need to find the second piece of the map, Joseph.”
“You're out of your mind,” Koster said. “Let me tell you something. The last time something like this happened to me, it didn't end well. I saw the woman I loved with a hole in her head.”
“What are you saying, Joseph?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. And I'm flattered you're worried about me. But I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. As you saw.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Sajan was silent, staring off at the gardens.
“Answer me, Savita. What if we actually find the gospel, what then? What if it actually undermines the Bible and the Church? If it undermines Christianity? I don't particularly care, mind you, but I know that you do.”
“If the Gospel of Judas reveals Christ's true words, Gnostic or not, they need to come out. They need to be heard. And…” She faltered. After a moment, she added, “Look, if you want to come, come. If not… then give me the camera.” She held out her hand.
Koster stayed where he was.
“The camera, Joseph.”
After a moment, Koster reached into his pocket. He gave it to her.
“Thank you,” she said, softly.
“You say that now, of course. But later,” he grumbled, “when your throat's been slashed by some deranged Catholic nun, you may feel somewhat differently.”
Sajan started back down the path toward the gate leading out onto Chestnut Street.
“I'm not going with you,” cried Koster. “You're on your own, do you hear me? If you want to kill yourself, that's your business.”
Sajan kept walking.
“I'm on vacation,” Koster called. “Don't look to me to come rescue you. I'm not going to England. I'm done. I've had it. I'm through.” He sighed. He rubbed at his neck. “I'm not going to England,” he repeated, as he followed her.
Sajan never even looked back.
MICHAEL ROSE SAT AT THE HEAD OF THE CONFERENCE ROOM table at the offices of the Heart of the Family Research Council, clicking the top of his pen. Beside him, staring out the window at the National Museum of American Art across the street, squirmed Archbishop Lacey. The Catholic prelate had just been reprising the continuing failure of his Knights at Carpenters' Hall. The whole thing had been an unmitigated disaster. Rose clicked his pen. And now Michael was being forced to bring in the cavalry. He clicked and he clicked; he picked at a dead piece of skin by his ear.
“What time did Linkletter say he was coming?” the Archbishop asked.
Michael glanced at his Rolex. The Vice President was late. As usual. “Any minute now, Your Excellency.” Somehow he had found the exact amount of irony to stuff into that one appellation. It was as if he were really saying, “You incompetent fool. You Papist anachronism.”
In actuality, the Vice President had invited them to rendezvous at his office in the West Wing, but Michael had politely declined. These days, the White House was the last place to gather, what with the unpopularity of the war in Iraq, plus the party's various scandals: Justice's firing of those U.S. attorneys; that promotion at the World Bank; Mark Foley; Tom DeLay; Larry Craig. The list seemed endless. With the primaries looming, the last thing the Republicans needed was to lose the Christian Right vote, Michael thought, but they were doing a pretty good job of it.
Michael had met Robert Linkletter on several occasions. They had gone shooting a few times in South Texas, played poker together in Nevada. That night in Nevada… Michael smiled. Before Linkletter had become the Vice President.
He liked the VP's no-nonsense approach to getting things done. Linkletter was a real man of action, though tactless and not much of a churchgoer. He was not, in the end, a believer. But the President was, and that's all that mattered.
Just then, the door to the conference room opened and Vice President Linkletter stepped inside. He was a large man, with hatchetlike features. He wore a dark pin-striped business suit, gold wire-rimmed glasses and a bright crimson tie. It was sprinkled with game birds stitched in silk, Michael noticed. The Vice President turned to his associate and told him to wait in the hallway. Then he closed the door and headed straight for the head of the table. “Pastor Rose,” he began in a sonorous voice. Michael got up to greet him. They shook hands. “How's your father?” the Vice President asked. “I was hoping to see—”
“He's still on retreat,” Michael cut in. “A spiritual journey.”
Linkletter turned toward the archbishop. “Your Excellency.” He nodded, but he did not shake the prelate's hand. Instead, he headed over to the side table and helped himself to a large glass of water. He squeezed in a lemon before turning and saying, “So, what can I do for you, Michael?” He plopped himself down in a chair.
It did not take long for Michael to bring the VP up to speed. Linkletter already knew most of the background. When he had finished, the Vice President turned to Archbishop Lacey. “And these were your people, in Philadelphia?”
“They came highly recommended, Mr. Vice President.”
“By whom?”
“Your own Senator Fernandez. Of Florida.”
“Santiago Fernandez is a fool. Useful to get the Cuban vote out on election day, but an idiot.”
“I beg to differ—” Lacey began.
“You can beg all you want,” the Vice President said icily. He turned toward Rose, giving the archbishop his shoulder.
Linkletter was being particularly churlish this morning, Michael thought. The VP obviously hadn't forgotten the Catholic Church's spaghetti-soft stance during the last presidential election. They had been urged to excommunicate the Democratic contender for his stand on abortion, but after the press had turned up the heat, they had suddenly wilted.
“What do you want me to do, Michael, arrest them? For what? They haven't done anything.”
“They're a threat to national security, Bob.”
“How is that?”
“Think what will happen if they find what they're looking for and this gospel is published. If the Bible is called into question, what will become of the Church? You know the polls. Eighty-three percent of Evangelicals think the Bible is literally accurate. Sixty percent of all Christians believe the events described in the Book of Revelations will transpire. Perhaps soon. That climbs to seventy-seven percent for born-again, Fundamentalist,and Evangelical Christians. Seventy-one percent of all Evangelicals think the world will end at the battle of Armageddon, and somewhere between forty-two and forty-six percent of all Americans claim, like President Alder, to be ‘born again.’ We can't afford the chaos that the discovery of a historically accurate Gospel of Judas would provoke in the West. It would be like pulling the moral rug out from under our feet. Already too many are godless and drifting, and prey to the latest new world religion.”
“Thanks to the ongoing war in Iraq,” the archbishop cut in, “Abu Ghraib and Haditha, in the eyes of most nations, the United States has already lost the moral high ground. And now with all of these ethical scandals in Washington…”
Linkletter swiveled about in his chair. He stared at Lacey with lizardlike eyes, like a gecko ready to pounce. “And this from a man whose entire organization has come to symbolize buggering boys. Don't lecture me about moral authority, Excellency. Take care of the plank in your own eye.”
Michael smiled. One of the largest scandals plaguing Washington concerned the billions of dollars unaccounted for in the reconstruction of Iraq, managed in large part by the company of which Linkletter had been chairman before coming to Washington. It was no wonder he was touchy. “Gentlemen, let's not bicker,” he said. “The very existence of Christianity is at stake here. I'm talking about the collapse of Christ's Church. And with it, the commensurate elevation of Islam. Of Islamist fundamentalism. Of Jihadism. For what else will fill the spiritual vacuum? Or something far worse, some new Mystery Babylon based on Gnostic Freemasonry. Think how this will embolden our Islamist adversaries when they see the heart of our religion implode. Is that what you want? Is that what the President wants?” And now,the coup de grâce, Michael thought. “Not to mention what it would do to world markets and oil prices.”
Linkletter pouted.
“Remember Ohio, Bob. What would have happened if my father and I hadn't delivered? Alder would never have taken the White House. You know it, and I know it. And soon there'll be another election.” Rose paused to let his words have their desired effect. “The End-Times are upon us, Bob. The prophesies. The Apocalypse. For get, for a minute, what a Democratic victory will do to the President's legacy. Forget about what will happen to our nation's international reputation if we just crawl home, licking our wounds, waiting for the next terrorist onslaught. Set all that aside. I tell you Iraq is the staging ground of something far bigger. Something far more important, Bob.”
“The President is aware of what you're doing,” the Vice President said, “and while he can't be seen to be supporting you, he is. He believes in the… prophesies.” He licked his lips.
It was his tell, Michael realized. He had seen it before around the poker table.
“He, too, feels we're on the brink of the End-Times,” the Vice President added.
While you don't, Michael thought. You arrogant fool.
“And he wants to ensure that nothing destabilizes the Christian community before the next presidential election. The war in Iraq means far more than anyone realizes.”
“Precisely,” said Michael, smiling.
“But what do you want me to do, Michael? I can have the FBI pick them up, but Sajan is a well-known executive. The press will go nuts. Not to mention what it could do to our relations with India. Still, with what's going on in Pakistan these days, we could probably sell it on the six o'clock news. She's a woman of color, after all.A FISA court could tie them up for a while. In a pinch, we could extraordinary rendition.”
Michael leaned forward, resting the tips of his elbows on the table. “At this point we could use some support in surveillance,” he said. “Nothing more. I think we should see where they lead us. After all, why should we do the digging when they'll do it for us? Then, when they've found what they're looking for, we'll simply take it away. His Excellency has assured me that his people will not fail again. Of course, if they do …”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, ROSE AND LACEY HEADED OUT onto G Street. The Vice President's entourage had long since departed. Michael was pleased with the meeting's outcome. He had gone into the bathroom right after to celebrate and now felt particularly buoyant. Philadelphia had just been a setback, a bump in the road. It would all soon be settled. And then he would present his victory to his father. And Thaddeus would finally have to acknowledge that it was time for him to step down, time for him to take on a more circumspect role. An advisor, perhaps. He'd have to finally say something—and not simply respond with that cool glassy stare.
Michael stopped in his tracks.
“Ah, there she is,” Lacey said. The archbishop waved his right hand. “Sister Maria. Over here.”
The young nun looked at him from under her veil and Michael Rose felt her eyes bore into the depths of his soul. It was like being spiritually violated. Like an extrasensory rape. As she approached, she looked down, in the guise of a supplicant. She paused at his side. Then she lifted her head again and she smiled, and Michael felt a bolt of pure pleasure creep through his groin.
Oh, my God, Michael thought. She's exquisite. But it was not her cocoa brown skin. Or the delectable curve of her lips that compelled him. He felt as if he were being sucked into the well of her eyes. He drowned in their emptiness.
“Be careful, Michael,” the archbishop warned. “She stings.”
Sister Maria looked down at her feet. “I have news,” she began.
“What is it, my child?” Lacey answered.
“Koster and Sajan left the country this morning. I'm booked on the next flight to London.”
THE BLACK JAGUAR XK COUPE PURRED UP THE WINDING country road, racing round corners toward West Wycombe, Buckinghamshire. Inside, Koster checked his seat belt again. He was uncomfortable sitting on the wrong side of the car. It just didn't seem natural. And his neck hurt every time the Jag took a turn.
“You might want to slow down just a tad,” Koster said. His hands were clenched round his knees. “I can't believe you talked me into coming with you.”
Sajan smiled. She was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and an Hermès scarf decorated with blue and white scallop shells. “Oh, please,” she said. “I couldn't have kept you away if I tried.” Then she laughed. She picked up the map in her lap and started to scan it, glancing back at the road every few seconds.
“Let me do that,” said Koster. He snatched at the map. “We should be coming up on Medmenham Abbey soon.” They were traveling between Henley and Marlow, parallel to a beautiful stretch of the Thames. Then, suddenly, they were upon it. “There's the abbey, just after that sign. Up there, on the left.” Koster pointed.
Sajan swung the car onto the side of the road. Koster got out for a moment but try as he might, he couldn't get a decent view of the building. The abbey was on the same side of the river, and the walls were too high. He walked back to the car.
“We could cross the river and hike back for a view,” said Sajan, as he slid in beside her, slamming the door.
“Why bother? It's the caves that we're after.”
“Are you sure?”
Koster powered down the window. The river was teeming with wildlife. He could see grebes in the water, paddling about by the rushes, and kites flying high overhead. “According to what I've been reading, although the abbey was founded back in 1145, it wasn't until the mid-eighteenth century that Sir Francis Dashwood purchased the property and started to use it as a private club for his friends. Of course, they never actually called themselves the Hell-Fire Club. They referred to themselves as ‘The Order’ or ‘The Brotherhood of the Friars of Saint Francis of Wycombe.’ They have no documented history. It's been patchworked together using mostly hostile accounts from the period, one of them clearly fictional, and from clues left in poems and correspondence. Like that poem by Whitehead I Googled, quoted on the first piece of the map—'Twas twenty-two in Dashwood's time. Whitehead was the club's secretary-treasurer. There were many decadent societies of the period, but the Hell-Fire Club was unique. Its rituals included elements of a peculiar pagan revival, combining priapic decadence with the Eleusinian mysteries.”
“Priapic decadence?”
“Fertility rites. Orgies. More important, the club's members were plucked from the ruling elite. Dashwood was very rich. But unlike many of his peers—as the son of a middle-class businessman, who had married into nobility—he supported the values of an upwardly mobile bourgeois.”
“No wonder he and Franklin became friends,” mused Sajan. “They were cut from the same cloth.”
“And Dashwood, as postmaster general, was Franklin's boss in Great Britain.”
Sajan looked out the window at the tall walls of the abbey. “Are you sure you don't want to go in?”
Koster shook his head. “There are conflicting reports,” he replied. “Some say that the Hell-Fire Club was originally based at Dashwood's home in West Wycombe, in a special room decorated as a Masonic temple, and then later in the caves that he dug in his gardens. According to some accounts, it was not until either 1751 or 1752 that he purchased Medmenham Abbey and converted the monastery into the club's base of operations. Others say it was the other way around—that the club started at the abbey and was then moved, following a fire, to the caves. It's unclear. But wherever they started, according to legend, the club held Black Masses and hired prostitutes dressed up as nuns.”
“Another reason Franklin was interested. Didn't he cavort with ‘low’ women?”
“Some think that William was the son of a prostitute. But no one knows for sure. Apparently, members of the club at one point included the Prince of Wales, the son of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the prime minister, the earls of Bute and of Sandwich, John Wilkes and Franklin himself. Wilkes was a radical MP, Mayor of London and a British representative of the Sons of Liberty, a group actively involved in key events surrounding the American Revolution, although their precise role remains a mystery to this day. As I said, the club kept no written records. What papers they did keep,secretary-treasurer Whitehead burned just before he died.”
Koster looked over his shoulder. The road was finally clear. “Let's head on to West Wycombe,” he said. “If it still exists, what we're looking for should be there—in the caves. At least, that's how I interpret Whitehead's poem. Besides, it's where I told Lyman to meet us.”
IT WAS JUST A SHORT DRIVE FROM HENLEY TO MARLOW, AND then on to High Wycombe. As the Jaguar ate up the road, Koster filled in a few more details. The actual activities of the Hell-Fire Friars, he told Sajan, were unknown, though a mockery of Christianity in general and of the Pope in particular, combined with a good deal of sexual innuendo, seem to have set the tone for most of their ceremonies. Wilkes claimed they were Eleusinian mysteries, but who knows? Despite popular legends, said Koster, actual devil worship was not mentioned in any of the more trustworthy sources. Certainly, the local people at the time noticed nothing sinister—other than the periodic importation of women and liquor.
“It sounds like Hugh Hefner's grotto meets Skull and Bones,” Sajan said lightly.
They passed from village to village, and were soon tearing out of High Wycombe toward West Wycombe proper. Each time they hit a clear patch in the road, Sajan effortlessly accelerated to reckless speeds. She zoomed past a truck, swung back into her lane, and then finally slowed down. “What's that?” she said, leaning forward, pointing up at a building on a hill just ahead.
“The Dashwood Mausoleum, I guess,” Koster answered. It was a giant flint structure, like a small coliseum, tangled in ivy. With its classical arches and porticos, it looked more like a fortress than a tomb. Each corner of the structure was crowned with a series of massive stone urns.
They continued down the road for a short distance when something else caught his eye. It glinted in the bright morning light. The Church of St. Lawrence. Koster glanced at the map to be sure. Located directly inside the banked enclosure of West Wycombe Camp, an Iron Age fortification, Dashwood had built it on the ruins of an old Norman tower. Interestingly, the church was exactly three hundred feet above the so-called Inner Temple, the deepest cave in the network. There, according to legend, the ‘mad monks’ had performed their mysterious rites.
As they rounded a bend in the road, at the foot of a hill, Koster noticed a sign for the caves. Sajan slowed the car to a crawl.
A neo-Gothic structure loomed up ahead, an arch really, backing up to a hill, with a ten-foot black wrought-iron fence in front. The walls of the buildings seemed to be crumbling, as if they had burned down in some terrible conflagration long ago. Then Koster realized that in all probability, the whole structure had been designed to look like a ruin. The buildings were lined up in a V, with a large gate at the base where the caves opened up. Several cars were parked to one side. On one arm of the V was a tea shop, and on the other what looked like a store. Sajan and Koster got out of the Jaguar and crossed the courtyard toward the store. They peered through the window. The shelves were jam-packed with knick-knacks and plastic curiosities—swords and flashlights and bats. Mostly cheap Halloween crap. A few tourists lingered within. Sajan and Koster moved on toward the little café.
As soon as Koster opened the door, he could smell the sweet welcoming scent of brewed tea and buttered toast. Tables with plastic tablecloths were scattered about. There was a kind of a bar by the kitchen area. Nigel Lyman was sitting beside it, a mug in his hand. He was talking to a young girl with brown hair and a short tartan skirt. As soon as they entered, Lyman spied Koster and Sajan in the doorway. He climbed to his feet.
Koster watched as Lyman approached, as he smiled and threw out a wave. The former detective inspector looked good, Koster thought. The policeman had put on a few pounds, perhaps, but he still looked nimble and quick. He still walked in that grim, determined way that he had, as if pushing himself toward the future. His hair had grown grayer at the temples, and somewhat thinner on top, but otherwise he looked unchanged from the man he'd been more than fifteen years earlier. Suddenly, Koster felt old and decrepit. He stuck out his hand.
Lyman ignored it. Instead, he grabbed Koster by the shoulders and shook him. “Joseph,” he said with a broad smile. “By God, it's good to see you again. When you rang me…” He shook him again. He ran an arm around Koster's shoulders and squeezed.
“You look great,” Koster managed. “You haven't changed a bit. I hate you.”
Lyman laughed. It was good to see him laugh. In France, fifteen years earlier, he had not done a lot of laughing. And now, strangely enough, Koster laughed, too. It seemed to rise up out of nowhere. He hadn't expected it. He had feared that looking up his old friend would bring back dark memories. The last time they had seen each other, they had been standing outside Chartres Cathedral, watching Mariane's body being loaded into the back of an ambulance.
“And this must be Savita Sajan,” Lyman added, finally pulling away.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Koster. He introduced them and they shook hands.
For a moment, none of them said anything. Then, Lyman turned and motioned toward the tables. “How about a nice cup of tea?” he continued.
The girl came over and they all ordered tea and sandwiches. Lyman was starving, he declared. As soon as the waitress was gone, the detective inspector swiveled toward Koster. The smile fell from his face. “So, tell me, Joseph, what's wrong? What's going on?”
“AND YOU SAY IT WAS ROBINSON WHO GOT YOU STARTED ON this quest?” Lyman asked Koster. The British detective had listened patiently as Koster brought him up to speed.
“Yes, I told you. Someone sent him Ben Franklin's journal. The one that was written in code.”
“And you don't find that suspicious?”
“What do you mean?”
“Robinson's the one who sent you to France all those years ago, isn't he? To work on that book on the Chartres cathedrals.”
“So what?”
“You must admit, it seems a bit odd. Do you trust him?”
“Of course I trust him. We've been friends for thirty-five years.”
“Where is this journal now?” Lyman asked.
“In a safe. In our hotel in London.”
Sajan lifted her hand. Seconds later, the girl with the tartan miniskirt returned with their sandwiches. They waited until she had set up the table and gone back to the kitchen before continuing their discussion. “Why did you say that?” Sajan asked Lyman. “About Nick.”
“I was a policeman for almost forty years,” Lyman replied, looking down at the sandwiches. He took one, examined it closely and brought it up to his mouth. “I don't believe in coincidence.” He took a large bite. “I don't think he was honest with you—your publisher. I think he was involved from the start.”
Koster had suddenly lost his appetite. “Why didn't you say something before, if you thought this? Why now, after all these years?”
“It's not something you add as a postscript,” Lyman said, “on the flip side of a Happy Christmas card. We haven't exactly been the closest of friends, Joseph. You sent me those waders—which I still use, by the way. But, as you said, you and Nick… childhood friends. Who was I to call that into question? I'm just a policeman you met once on holiday. A retired policeman now, I might add.”
“Yeah, congratulations on that,” Koster said. His fingertips began drumming the tabletop.
Lyman smiled. “I wouldn't have said anything now, except that he seems to have dragged you into another one of his capers. The Gospel of Thomas. The Gospel of Judas. Honestly.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “I can't keep up. I'm retired now. I run a fishing-tackle shop outside Winchester.” He looked up at Sajan. “And what's your stake in all this, if you don't mind my asking?”
“I don't think you mind one iota. In fact, you probably miss it.” Sajan smiled her most luminous smile. “This art of the interrogation of yours. I'm Nick's friend,” she answered.
“That's what I thought.”
“All right, let me ask you something,” Sajan said.
Lyman kept chewing his sandwich. His gaze didn't waver.
“Do you think he ever got the Gospel of Thomas?”
Lyman smiled. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who, Robinson? Yes, I do. We never found it under Chartres, but the cement we were digging up seemed suspiciously fresh. I think someone got there before us. And if they did, you can bet that they sent whatever they found on to Robinson.”
Sajan didn't reply. She sat there, stirring her tea with a spoon.
“But you don't know for certain,” prodded Koster.
Lyman shook his head. “No, I don't. It's just a suspicion.”
“I thought so.” Koster leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “Anyway, it's all moot now. Ancient history. I asked you here to help me find the second piece of Franklin's map.”
“If there is one,” said Lyman. “These caves have been here for a very long time. Thousands of people have toured them. What makes you think that you'll find something that someone else hasn't already discovered?”
Koster smiled. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a piece of paper and dropped it on the table before them. It was a copy of the first piece of the map, a printout from his digital camera. “Because I know where to look,” Koster said. “The line of poetry we decoded from the first piece of the map was written by the Club's secretary-treasurer, Whitehead. The full verse is, ‘Take twenty steps and rest awhile/Then take a pick and find the style/Where once I did my love beguile/′Twas twenty-two in Dashwood's time/Perhaps to hid this cell divine/Where lay my love in peace sublime.’”
“What does it mean?” Lyman asked, frowning.
“Did you notice the Church of St. Lawrence, built over the cave system? The ceiling is a copy of the ruined Temple of the Sun at Palmyra. Dashwood wasn't just influenced by the ancient mysteries, but by the ancient sun cults as well. That got me thinking. Dashwood's library featured several books on the Kabala. In that tradition, the number twenty-two is linked to the number of paths between the various spheres of divine emanation in the Tree of Life. The poem talks about a secret passage rumored to be present near the number twenty-two. Such a cell in which a loved one sleeps is like the tomb of Venus, just like in the Rosicrucian literature. I'm sure that Dashwood was familiar with the story.”
“The Rosicrucians?” said Lyman. “I've heard of them. A kind of Masonic group, right?”
“Not exactly, though they certainly influenced various Scottish rite rituals.”
“The Order was created in the year 46,” said Sajan, “when an Alexandrian Gnostic named Ormus and six followers were converted by Mark, Jesus's disciple. Rosicrucianism was a kind of fusion of early Gnostic Christianity with the Egyptian mysteries. The mystery schools of Ancient Egypt date back to fifteenth-century B.C. under the reign of the Egyptian Pharaoh Tuthmosis the Third. One of the most famous pupils was the Pharaoh Akhenaten, who is best known for creating one of the world's first monotheistic belief systems.”
“How did you know that?” asked Koster. He looked at her quizzically.
“You're not the only one who's been reading,” Sajan said. She seemed genuinely embarrassed. “I spent some time on-line yesterday, while we were at the hotel.”
“Well, you're right. And some think there's an Islamic connection as well. According to the Fama Fraternitatis, in 1614, at the age of sixteen, Rosenkreutz—from whom the order gets its name—started on a pilgrimage to Morocco, Egypt and Arabia, where he came into contact with Eastern mystics who revealed to him the ‘universal harmonic science.’ Dantinne believes Rosenkreutz may have found his secrets amongst the Brethren of Purity a society of philosophers originally from Basra, Iraq. Their doctrine had its roots in the study of the ancient Greek philosophers, but it became more neo-Pythagorean over the centuries. They eventually adopted the Pythagorean tradition of envisioning objects and ideas in terms of their numeric values.”
“But what does all this have to do with Ben Franklin's map?” Lyman asked.
“I'm not sure. As a Freemason, Franklin was undoubtedly familiar with these legends,” Koster said. “The number lore of Freemasonry has its roots in the Pythagorean tradition. I guess we'll find out.”
Lyman motioned toward the waitress and she returned with their bill and a small plastic bag. Lyman and Koster both patted their pockets as Sajan dropped a twenty-euro note on the table. Then Lyman turned toward the waitress and said, “Remember, Victoria. No one's to come in while we're in there. And don't mind the row.”
The girl in the tartan skirt smiled. She had a large gap between her front teeth, Koster noticed.
“Don't worry,” she said with a wink. “I'll see to it. There's a lock on the door. And I have the only key. Good luck, Chief Inspector.”
They made their way from the tea shop across the courtyard toward the entrance to the caves. As they walked, Koster poked an elbow into Lyman's left side. “Chief Inspector! I thought you'd retired.”
Lyman laughed. “I swear I didn't tell her a thing. Just a few stories from the old days. She simply guessed the rest.”
“I'm sure.”
“Once a cop, always a cop. People sense it sometimes. Besides, I thought that we needed some privacy. Here.” He stopped for a moment by the gate to the caves and reached into the small plastic bag he was carrying, removing three flashlights. “We'll need these.”
THE ENTRANCE TO THE CAVES WAS AT THE FOOT OF THE FAUX Gothic arch. They passed through a gate to a small antechamber. “These tunnels aren't natural,” said Koster as he swung open the great wooden door. The passageway appeared as if it had been shaved out of flint. “As you get deeper,” he added, “you can see it's a chalk mine.” He pointed up at the walls and the ceiling above him. The flint had been replaced by a well-worn white sheen. “The system was greatly extended from 1748 to 1752 by Sir Francis to provide work for unemployed villagers after a crop failure.” He paused by a plaque on the wall. It illustrated the location of the various caves in the system. “Instead of digging a quarry, Dashwood opted to carve out a series of tunnels and caves. As you can see.” He pointed up at the plaque.
There were eleven major caverns in all. Just ahead, to the right, was a toolroom of sorts. At least, that's what it was called on the plaque. Then the tunnel turned sharply to the left. Next, came Whitehead's Cave, followed immediately by the Lord Sandwich circle, then Franklin's Cave, with the Children's Cave jutting off of it, and the Banqueting Hall. Finally, the tunnel passed through the mysterious Triangle, the Miner's Cave, across the so-called River Styx, eventually terminating at the Inner Temple.
As they reviewed the plaque, they were suddenly greeted by the disembodied voice of the most recent Sir Francis. “Welcome,” he bellowed, “to Hell-Fire Caves…” Apparently the caverns were equipped with a multi-channeled tape recorder, connected to speakers at various points in the system. No need for guides, Koster thought.
They ventured down the tunnel, shining their flashlights ahead of them. There were only a few other lights—mostly red—generally set in the ceiling. As they walked, they noticed white faces carved out of the chalk in the walls. Koster took out his digital camera and snapped a few pictures. Some of the etchings seemed genuinely ancient, but others looked like they had been made only yesterday. Distracted tourists, no doubt, Koster thought. Longing for eternity.
The tunnel wound on, each branch, every cavity, stuffed with some tacky life-sized wax mannequin of Francis or Whitehead. The figures seemed to pop out of nowhere. Franklin's Cave was no exception. It was disappointingly empty except for a bad, pasty waxwork of the American diplomat wearing a ridiculous wig. The deeper they traveled, the more idiotic Koster felt.
The tunnel suddenly parted and rejoined, and then changed direction for no apparent reason. Koster took more pictures. Then they entered the Banqueting Hall, a huge musty round cavern with moss-covered classical statues placed in alcoves around the circumference. But, apart from a few plaques on the wall, the chamber was basically empty.
Just before the end of the system they came to the Styx, a natural underground river that flowed through the network. It was modeled with false stalagmites and stalactites that seemed to have been imported from some other location; they certainly weren't natural. In Franklin's day, apparently, the Friars had been forced to cross over by boat. Since then, a bridge had been built.
When Koster shone his flashlight down into the mysterious flow, coins glimmered back. Moments later, they entered the Inner Temple.
Once again, they were met by a bevy of mannequins. There, to one side, was Sir Francis. He was wearing a turban and raising his glass in a toast. He stood by a tiny round table, surrounded by mannequin ladies and gentlemen in period costumes, and, off to one side, a stuffed monkey with creepy glass eyes. Once again the loudspeaker crackled. It was Dashwood, giving his toast to the devil. At the mention of Satan's name, there was a great crash of thunder and a bright flash of light. The effect was cheesy at best.
The loudspeaker droned on. “Who can say what mysterious ceremonies took place in this chamber?” Sir Francis intoned. They stood there and waited until the voice-over had concluded. Then Sajan turned toward Koster and said, “What now?”
Koster shrugged. He felt completely deflated. “Let's go back. I've seen nothing to suggest twenty-two. I've recorded the number of steps, the degrees in the turns of the tunnel, the… you name it. Nothing.”
“Except for that number, carved into the wall,” Lyman said.
“What? What number?” asked Koster.
Lyman hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there. Didn't you see it?”
“You were looking right at it,” Sajan said.
Koster rolled his eyes. “I must have been distracted by some rubber bat.”
They started back down the tunnel. “It was right before Franklin's cave,” Lyman said as they recrossed the Styx. He stabbed at the darkness with the beam of his flashlight. Slowly but surely from cavern to cavern, they retraced their steps. Then Lyman stopped short. He pointed up at the wall.
There it was: the Roman numeral XXII, carved right into the chalk in the wall. And now that he saw it, Koster couldn't understand how he could have possibly missed it. It was so glaringly obvious. Then again, he hadn't been expecting such a literal landmark.
As Koster examined the wall, Lyman went back to the toolroom. A short while later, he returned with a shovel and pick.
Koster ran his hand around the numerals. They had been etched with precision. But, try as he might, he could not discern any crack in the surface around them. They hadn't been carved on a tile and then placed there. “I guess the best way to begin—” he said, standing back. But he never finished.
The steel tip of the pick vanished right into the heart of the numerals. Lyman levered it out; a thick clot of chalk crashed to the floor.
“Or we could do that,” Koster added, as Lyman took another swing with the pick. He dug and dug, now with Koster's assistance, as Sajan kept them illuminated in the beam of her flashlight. The wall was amazingly soft. The chalk simply crumbled with each blow of the pick. It did not take long before they had carved out a hole almost two feet wide and a foot or more deep. Then Lyman struck something hard. They all heard it at once. The tip of the pick seemed to glance off the surface.Sajan shone the beam of her flashlight into the narrow opening. Inside appeared to be a kind of container, made of stone. Koster reached in. Slowly, with great care, he wiggled it free. It was a stone box. He placed it on the earth and they knelt down around it.
THE BOX WAS ABOUT SIX INCHES LONG AND FOUR INCHES wide. It was decorated with a pyramid, topped with the all-seeing eye that shone like a sun. Sajan lifted the lid carefully. There were no hinges. It just slid off, like the top of a tiny sarcophagus. And there, nestled within, was a small piece of vellum. She pulled it out but Koster could already see what it was. The second piece of the map. It looked much like the first one. Sajan unfolded it gently.
“Is it the map?” Lyman asked.
Koster nodded. Once again, it looked more like a schematic than a map, with that same distinctive pattern of circles and squares nestled in a maze of fine lines. He could see that immediately. And so could Sajan.
“I wonder,” she said, “if the map and the schematics Franklin mentions in his journal aren't somehow related—the ones by Abraham of El Minya and da Vinci. You know, I keep thinking…” She paused. “This reminds me of something.”
Koster took the piece of the map from Sajan. Once again the edges were frayed, as if the page had been torn long ago. “Franklin's journal mentions his going to Paris, to the house of the Marquis d'Artois. He was looking for something, apparently. A drawing he found on the back of a painting by Leonardo da Vinci. A study of Cecilia Gallerani. But, frankly, it seemed an improbable tale. And besides,” he continued, “what do these schematics have to do with the Gospel of Judas? I don't get it. They're related, but how?”
“And look,” Sajan said, pointing down. “More Masonic Code. Just like on the first piece. What's it say?”
Koster studied it closely. It took him a minute to translate the text. Then he said, “It's a series of letters. L-U-C-D-I-X-D-I-X-H-U-I-T.” He looked up at Sajan. “It's in French. Luc is Luke.”
“Luke, chapter ten, verse eighteen. From the Bible,” Sajan said.
“I don't know the—”
“‘Jésus leur dit,’” said Sajan. “‘Je voyais Satan tomber du ciel comme un éclair.’ Which means, ‘And Jesus told them: I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.’”
“You certainly know your Bible,” said Lyman. “What does it signify, though?”
“I have no idea.”
“And why is it in French?” Lyman added. “The first clue was written in English.”
“Because,” Koster said, “this clue refers to the third piece of the map. The one hidden in Passy.”
“That makes sense,” Sajan agreed. “The question is, where?”
Koster shrugged. “We'll figure it out. In the meantime—” He plucked out his digital camera, and gave it to Lyman. “Here,” he said, holding the second piece of the map up before him. “Take a picture.”
Lyman did so. Minutes later, after replacing the now-empty box in the wall and repacking the opening, they gathered their tools and began to head down the corridor, back toward the door to the caves. They had traveled a good twenty yards when Lyman came to a halt. He lifted his hand but said nothing. Someone was coming. Koster could hear the patter of footsteps reverberate up the tunnel. Then, the sounds stopped.
Lyman flicked off his flashlight. Koster and Sajan did the same. The tunnel was thrown into darkness, except for the feeble red glow of a light overhead.
Lyman motioned them forward. They crept through the semidarkness. A moment later, they reached a bend in the tunnel. There was someone or something ahead. Koster could make out a dim silhouette but he couldn't be sure if it was a person or another mannequin. He tried to remember what he had seen on their way into the caverns. Then, Lyman flicked on his torch. The light blazed in the darkness.
Koster breathed a shaky sigh of relief. It was a mannequin—a man in a period costume. Lord Sandwich, perhaps. They started to move down the tunnel again when Koster noticed another figure. A mannequin wearing a mask. The mannequin moved, Lyman cursed and behind him, Koster glimpsed the face of a woman. A cold fist clutched his heart. She was wearing a habit and veil. She lifted her hand—as if giving a blessing—and the lights in the ceiling went out.
Lyman turned off his flashlight and the tunnel was flung into darkness. They started to run down the corridor, away from the entrance. As they moved, Koster heard a soft popping sound. He felt the dull impact of bullets tear into the wall at his back. They were shooting at them. They were trying to kill them!
They coursed down the corridor. As they came to a bend in the tunnel, Lyman stopped abruptly. Koster almost ran into him. “Keep going,” said the British detective. Without warning, he fired a shot. The gun blast echoed and bounced down the tunnel. Lyman fired again and again. The sound was so deafening that Koster had to reach out and steady himself against the far wall. “Go, dammit, go!” Lyman shrieked.
Koster's eardrums felt shattered. The ringing—it just wouldn't stop. He ran down the corridor, one hand on the tunnel walls to keep himself steady. Sajan ran at his side. He could hear her harsh breathing and the sound of her footsteps as they charged up the corridor. They ran and they ran and then, suddenly, she was gone. One minute she was there, the next… nothing. There was no one beside him. She'd just vanished. The tunnel must have split, Koster realized, into two separate passageways. He staggered to a stop, trying to listen. Lyman had stopped firing, but every few seconds Koster could just make out the soft pop of small-caliber weapons. The shots barely seemed audible. Then, they grew louder. He lifted his flashlight. He aimed it behind him. He wanted desperately to turn it back on but he realized the light would betray his location. So he waited, panting, hoping to pick up the sound of Sajan up ahead. He couldn't hear anything but the chatter of gunfire. It was getting closer and closer.
I can't simply hide here, he thought. Sajan was in trouble. Koster lingered for a few seconds more, then started back up the passageway. He kept one hand on the wall. What was that? Something had moved, he was sure of it. Right there, up ahead. He reached out through the darkness and felt… someone's clothes! He jerked his hand back instinctively. Nothing happened. So he reached out again. He felt the cloth of a costume, and then wax at his fingertips. It was only a mannequin. Koster took a shaky breath. He must have traveled around Franklin's cave in some outer passageway, and then circled back to the cavern. He was about to continue when he heard it again. That sound. He lifted his flashlight. His finger came down on the button but he was too scared to press it. Footsteps. He could hear them distinctly now. Some one was coming. “Savita?” he said in a whisper. He pressed his back to the wall. “Savita, is that you?”
But no one responded. The footsteps drew closer. Koster stepped out and turned on the flashlight.
A man wearing night-vision goggles and a ski mask stood before him, transfixed in the beam of his light. He was carrying a gun. Koster turned. He started to run but he wasn't quite quick enough.
The man in the ski mask lunged after him, grabbed his shoulders and spun him about. The man lifted his weapon. The tunnel exploded in a blaze of white light. Then, everything vanished.
KOSTER CAME TO ON THE FLOOR OF THE CAVERN. HE WAS alone in the darkness. The man with the ski mask and goggles was gone.
He reached back reluctantly and put a hand on his head. The pain was excruciating. He gasped, bit his lip. He had a bump the size of an egg on the back of his skull. When he rubbed his fingers together, they were sticky with blood. Koster took a queasy breath and rolled to his feet. His head seemed to explode as blood pumped to the wound. Then he heard the soft pop of gunfire.
Savita! Koster dropped to his knees. He groped frantically for his flashlight. He crawled back and forth but he just couldn't find it. It was gone. Gone! Koster hesitated. He reached into his jacket, searching first one pocket, then the next, but somehow he knew it was pointless. The second piece of the map. That, too, was gone. But what had he expected? He was lucky to be alive. Then he remembered his camera. He had given it to Lyman, and if Lyman was okay… Koster climbed to his feet. A fierce, unexpected wave of anger swept through him.
He loped through the darkness, following the sound of the gunshots, one hand on the wall. The corridor curved right. Just ahead, he could make out the shape of a doorway. Franklin's Cave. Koster slowed. He crept toward the opening. There were lights shining within.
Sajan was standing on the far side of the cavern by the mouth of a tunnel, a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Koster ran toward her. She whirled about, raising the gun.
“It's me,” Koster said. “Hold your fire.” He held out his hands. “Thank God you're okay.”
Sajan put a finger to her lips and turned back toward the tunnel. Then she beckoned him toward her.
“Where's Lyman?” he whispered. “Is he okay?”
Sajan nodded. “He went back to try and turn on the—”
The lights snapped on suddenly.
“… the lights,” she concluded. She smiled. “I guess he found the circuit breaker.”
“What's going on?”
“Got a man trapped in the Children's Cave. The rest seemed to have gone. Pulled back maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. We thought we'd lost you.” She reached toward him suddenly, her fingers lingering on his arm. “Don't do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Disappear and leave me like that.”
“I thought you were…” He touched the back of his head and winced. “I didn't have much of a choice.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Sajan said. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I'm conscious.”
Just then, they heard something behind them. They turned toward the entrance to the cavern. Lyman appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. Sajan lowered her gun.
“Joseph, I'm glad you're all right,” Lyman said. “I didn't see you in the passage and we thought… Well, I thought…” He came up beside them.
“I'm fine. Did you chase them away?”
Lyman nodded. “Except for this one. But they stopped off at the tea shop on their way into the caves.”
“What do you mean?”
“The waitress is dead, I'm afraid. Strangled.” Koster gasped. “What's our friend up to?”
“Don't worry,” Sajan answered grimly. “He's not going anywhere. When the cops come—”
“No one's coming,” said Lyman.
“What? What do you mean, no one's coming?”
“I didn't call the police.”
“Why not?” Koster asked him.
“Give me the gun,” Lyman said to Sajan, holding out his hand.
She frowned, then handed it to him. “What are you doing?”
“I'm going in.”
“Shouldn't we just wait him out, if he's trapped?” Koster asked.
But Lyman had already entered the deep shadows of the corridor. He flipped on his flashlight. Sajan and Koster followed behind. Lyman crept to the edge of the doorway. Then he shouted, “Give it up, man! You're trapped. This is the only way out.”
For a moment, they heard nothing. Then, somebody laughed. It was brittle and false. “You think so?” the voice asked.
Lyman dropped to one knee. He lifted his weapon.
There was a low click, like the sound of a stick breaking.Koster felt his heart skip. Any minute now, the man would come barreling out of the cavern. He was sure of it. This was followed by a small, almost inaudible pop, like an air pistol firing, and Lyman rolled to the floor, aiming his weapon at the cavern within.
NIGEL LYMAN WAS MET BY A COLD, DEADLY SILENCE. HE climbed to his feet.
A man in a ski mask and night-vision goggles lay curled at the base of the wall near the entrance. Lyman shone the flashlight down at his face. The man had a gun in one hand, and a neat hole in his temple.
Lyman kicked the pistol out of the dead man's hand. He tore off the night-vision goggles and pulled up the mask.
Sajan gasped as she came up beside him.
“Look familiar?” asked Lyman.
The man sported a well-trimmed mustache and a buzz cut. “He's one of the men we saw at Carpenters' Hall. The ones who attacked us.”
Lyman started to search him. “What would make a man so desperate,” he said, “that he would take his own life rather than be captured? Just for this Gospel of Judas?”
As he rolled the body over, Lyman hesitated. Then he reached into the man's jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Shine a light here,” he said.
“What is it?” said Koster.
“It's addressed to someone named Robert Macalister, in New York.”
“That's Nick Robinson's man,” Koster said.
Lyman tore open the envelope, reached in and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “It's a letter.”
“Well, obviously, it's a letter.”
“It's from some fellow named von Neumann to someone named Turing. Alan Turing.” Lyman looked up from the letter. “Wait a minute. I've heard of him. Wasn't Alan Turing the bloke who cracked the German Enigma code back in World War Two? Some sort of a mathematician, right?”
“Let me see that,” said Koster. Lyman gave him the letter.
“Turing's famous,” Sajan said. “He invented the first true computer, called the Turing machine. Then he died—rather suspiciously, actually—after eating a poisoned apple at his lab outside London. Some think it was suicide. He'd been caught up in some sort of scandal. Others believe it was just an unfortunate accident.”
“Yeah, it's Turing all right,” Koster said. “And von Neumann.”
“Who's von Neumann?” Lyman wanted to know.
“John von Neumann. A Hungarian mathematician. He went to Princeton during the thirties and worked on the Bomb.”
“As well as computers,” Sajan said. “He saw parallels between the evolution of computing machines and the evolution of the human mind.”
“They're talking about Boole,” Koster said, looking up. “Turing and von Neumann.”
“George Boole?” Sajan asked.
Lyman rose to his feet. “Forgive me for not being a mathematical historian. But who's Boole?”
“About a hundred years before the invention of computers, an Englishman named George Boole was struck with a ‘flash of psychological insight’ that convinced him all human mental processes could be formulated in mathematical form.”
“Like your neo-Pythagoras.”
“Sort of, I guess,” Koster said. “I never thought of it that way. Anyway, Boole was training to be ordained as a priest in the Anglican Church, when he began to have doubts about the literal truth of the Bible. He was also a staunch advocate of religious freedom and tolerance.”
“Like Franklin,” Sajan said.
“Although Boole lived a century later. This led him to a career in teaching at Queen's College in Ireland, where he developed his mathematical synthesis of human cognition, published sometime around the 1850s. It's the basis of all Boolean logic.”
“Oh, wait,” Lyman said. “I have heard of that. For computers, right?”
Koster nodded. “A century ahead of his time, this self-taught Victorian academic developed a decision-making methodology that would prove perfect for digital machines.” He shook the pages in his hand. “Two of Boole's formulae are referenced in this letter: his famous x = x2, which only holds true for two numbers—0 and 1, the binary numbers—and his proof that God really exists.”
“There's a proof for that?” Lyman said, and he started to laugh.
“It's x (1 − y)(1 − z) + y (1 − x)(1 − z) + z (1 − x)(1 − y) = 1,” Koster said seriously. “Anyway, the letter also states that von Neumann learned—from studying some old papers of Boole's—that the Queen's College professor received his so-called ‘flash of psychological insight’ while working on a formula involving the phi.”
“The phi?” Sajan said. “Like the Triple Tau, back in Washington?”
Koster nodded.
“Wait a minute,” said Lyman. “You two have lost me again.”
“The Triple Tau,” Koster told him. “It's something we found in the layout of the streets in D.C. Tau is the nineteenth letter of the Greek alphabet. The lower T is sometimes used as a symbol for the golden ratio, although generally most people use phi. Phi is the twenty-first letter of the Greek alphabet. It's also used as a mathematical constant, like pi. It's around one point six one eight or so.” His fingers danced on his trouser legs. “In mathematics, two quantities are known as being in the ‘golden ratio’ if the ratio between the sum of those quantities and the larger one is the same as the ratio between the larger one and the smaller.”
“Forget I asked,” Lyman grumbled.
“You've seen it in art,” Sajan said, cutting in. “The golden mean. The golden ratio. Many Renaissance artists—”
“Like da Vinci,” said Koster, growing more and more excited.
“Yes, like da Vinci. They proportioned their works to approximate the golden ratio, believing it to be aesthetically pleasing.”
“Just tell me one thing,” Lyman demanded. “What does this Boole character and Alan Turing and your fee-fi-fo have to do with the Gospel of Judas and Ben Franklin?”
Koster shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“And don't you think it's awfully suspicious that a man like this”—he gestured at the dead man at his feet—“would come into battle carrying this letter?”
“I doubt he thought he'd be caught.”
“Perhaps so,” Lyman said. “But still. What do you think?” He looked at Sajan.
Sajan stood there in silence.
“Savita?” said Koster. “Savita!”
Sajan glanced up at Koster. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I was thinking.”
“What about?”
“About Boole. I've always wondered about him. He seems like such an odd aberration. How could he have developed something so vital to computing a full century before his algebra could even be used? It doesn't make sense.”
Lyman sighed. “Look, I'll poke around this Turing connection if you want, see if any of his papers might have gone missing. Unofficially. In the meantime, I think you two should get out of here. Head for Paris. Find the third piece of that map.”
“What about him?” Sajan said, pointing down at the corpse.
“I'll take care of him. It's you two I'm worried about.” He paused for a moment then he looked at Koster. “You don't know, do you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You're on the Interpol watch list. You're being monitored. And I don't just mean by the Knights and your nun friend. I mean the police.”
“The police? But what for? I haven't done anything.” Koster glanced back at the tunnel that led from the cave, half expecting the police to materialize.
“Suspicion of terrorism,” Lyman answered. “It comes straight from your Homeland Security. Which means that the Church and your government have formed an alliance. I can't help you any more, Joseph.”
“Don't you get it?” Sajan said. “Tell him, Lyman. You've got it all figured out.”
“I'm afraid you were being followed,” said Lyman.
“By the police?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Lyman reached into his jacket and pulled out Koster's digital camera. “By me.”
FRANKLIN WAS BORED. HE STOOD IN A CIRCLE OF MEN IN THE house of the Marquis d'Artois, on the rue Pérignon in the 7th Arrondissement. They had just finished dinner—a sumptuous affair, with oysters and pheasant and duck, plus a beguiling but insidious pudding—and were gathered in the gaming room, awaiting the ladies.
Dressed in a wig and his suit of blue Manchester velvet, Franklin was telling the marquis about his journey from London to Paris. It had been an unmitigated disaster. He and his traveling companion, Dr. John Pringle, had been forced to endure a miserable coach ride all the way from the coast. Cranky and travel-sore, Franklin had engaged in perpetual disputes with their innkeepers en route.
The marquis clucked and commiserated. But surely, he said, since coming to Paris, since Franklin's convert with King Louis XVI and Queen Marie, things had improved? Franklin had been feted as a celebrity wherever he went, especially by that strange breed of electrical experimenters called franklinistes, who swarmed around the American legend whenever he made an appearance in public.
Another French nobleman joined them. He was some sort of count, or was it a baron? Franklin couldn't remember. He was still thinking about his host's delicious new bride, the Marchioness d'Artois, Estelle de Dinard, with whom he had flirted quite shamelessly throughout dinner.
“And what did you think of the Court at Versailles?” asked the baron or count. He had a false mole on his cheek in the shape of a rabbit.
“Exquisite,” said Franklin. “We have nothing in all the colonies to compare.” He put on a smile. The palace had indeed been magnificent, though poorly maintained, with shabby brick walls and more than a few broken windows. “And Paris,” he added, changing the subject. “The streets are so clean.”
“Swept daily,” said the Marquis d'Artois.
“I hear that the water supply is purified by filtering it through cisterns of sand. Quite ingenious. I have to admit that Paris is far cleaner than London.” Franklin took another glance at the entrance to the gaming room. Where were the ladies? he wondered. If he had to endure another ten minutes with these gentlemen, he'd go mad.
“The marchioness tells me you're an art connoisseur,” said the Marquis D'Artois.
Franklin stiffened. He turned toward his host. “I would be hard-pressed to call myself that, sir. It's true, though: I like what I like.”
“So it appears,” quipped the marquis. “They say that you've shown quite an interest in my new acquisition.”
“What's that, sir?”
“Why, the portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, the mistress of the Duke of Milan. My da Vinci. Some call her La Belle Ferronière.”
Franklin smiled. “They say the word ‘belle’ is a gross understatement.”
“You realize, of course, that it's not the genuine masterpiece. The real portrait was rendered on wood. Mine is only an earlier study, done on canvas.”
Franklin felt his heart skip a beat. “Is that so?” he replied carefully. “And from whom did you acquire it, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“From the Comte de Saint-Germain,” said the Marquis. “Do you know him?”
“I've heard tell of his doings.”
“The comte's a remarkable gentleman, to be sure,” said the man with the mole on his cheek. “He speaks several languages, including Arabic, Sanskrit and Chinese. Apparently, he spent some time in the Court of the Shah, preoccupied, so they say, with alchemical studies.”
“An extraordinary violinist,” gushed the marquis. “And a painter of remarkable skill. I hear that he mixes mother-of-pearl with his pigments to help create that luster you see in the precious stones on his canvases.”
“He's a Freemason,” said another man, “and quite ambidextrous. I've seen him compose a poem with one hand while writing music with the other. And he recalls ancient events as if he actually lived them. My wife is convinced he was born in Chaldea, several centuries ago. He's in Russia now…”
“No, in Germany,” corrected the marquis. “He left Russia after helping place Catherine the Great on the throne. I heard his exploits recounted at his apartments at the Royal Chateau of Chambord, in Touraine, which the king gave to him after returning from India with General Clive.”
Franklin took a step back. “Yes, his exploits are known to me,” he said cryptically. The truth was, he had been corresponding with the Comte de Saint-Germain for years now. Working with the Duc de Choiseul, France's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Brother Saint-Germain had been instrumental in forging the Family Compact of 1761, a treaty between the Bourbons of France and of Spain. This had paved the way for the Treaty of Paris—signed by Britain, France and Spain—which had put an end to the Seven Years' War. He looked at the Marquis d'Artois with a smile. If only you knew just how familiar I am with your friend, he considered. But he was obliged to play along with this game. “You were saying,” he added, “about your new painting.”
The marquis turned toward the door. The ladies were ready, it seemed. They awaited the gentlemen in the salon. The marquis motioned toward his guests and they started to file from the gaming room.
At last, Franklin thought. He spied the Lady d'Artois at the center of the paneled salon. She wore a lavish pink gown, trimmed with diamonds and pearls, and her wig was twisted up into a great mound of curls on her head. She looked spellbinding. As soon as he entered the room, he headed straight for her. She was surrounded on all sides by well-wishers and sycophants, young ladies mostly, with twittering fans. Franklin swept in from the side.
“Have you forgotten your promise already?” he said, and a great sigh went up from the ladies.
“What was that, Monsieur Franklin?” said the marchioness.
He tugged at his wig. It had started to slip, just a little, down one side of his head. “Why, I'm heartbroken, Lady d'Artois. Remember? At dinner, you promised to show me your…” He hesitated. He stared at the young ladies around him. “Your…”
“Da Vinci,” the marchioness finished for him.
“Why, yes,” Franklin said, with the slightest of bows. “That, too.”
The ladies started to laugh. The marchioness took Franklin by the arm and led him away. “A hasty retreat,” she said privately, “before you ruin what's left of my soiled reputation.” Then she stopped, and she pointed, and he looked up at the wall.
There it was. He could scarcely believe it. The woman in the portrait stared off to the side with strong, vital eyes. Her luminous henna-red hair was parted in the middle, drawn over the ears and tied back. She stood behind a small parapet, her face modeled in light. The painting's name, La Belle Ferronière, stemmed from the fillet she wore—a jewel held to the forehead by a chain.
“Some say that it's the duke's other mistress, Lucrezia Crivelli,” the marchioness told him. “And, indeed, the finished portrait looks entirely different. The Comte de Saint-Germain believes that da Vinci altered the painting when the duke turned his attention to Crivelli. But look at the face,” she said. “Does it not look like the woman he painted years earlier, the one holding the ermine?”
“I've never seen it,” said Franklin.
“I have. Last year, in Milan. Although, of course, this one features a door in the background.”
Franklin couldn't tear his eyes away from the painting. What was she thinking, this Renaissance beauty? With her eyes looking off to the side like that, there was something sly, something devious going on in her mind, despite her bald look of innocence. And that door. The background was so dark that the portal was practically invisible. At least in this light. There was no doubt about it. This was the one. Saint-Germain had been right.
Franklin turned and stared down at Estelle de Dinard. He would have to be bold if he were to pull off this drama. Without warning, he leaned over the marchioness, until his face was only inches away from hers.
“Ambassadeur!” she cried out, pulling back.
“I was just wondering,” Franklin said, as he glanced to the side. Yes. The ladies-in-waiting were watching.
“About what do you wonder, Ambassadeur? I would say you're too certain by half about some things.”
“How the ladies of Paris rouge their cheeks so precisely,” he answered.
The marchioness smiled. It was clear she was greatly relieved. “Cut a hole of three inches in a small piece of paper,” she said. “Place it on the side of the face so that the top of the hole falls just under the eye. Then brush. When you take the paper away, all you have is…”
“Perfection,” said Franklin, and he started to laugh.
KOSTER STOOD ON THE BALCONY, WATCHING SWALLOWS gather insects off the Seine. It was a warm, sunny morning, almost too warm. Already, the embankments were swarming with those trying to take advantage of the breeze off the river. On the Île de la Cité, across the Pont Saint-Louis, Notre Dame glowed. From where Koster stood, he had a perfect view of the rear of the cathedral's choir, and the gardens, and the flying buttresses which jutted out of the flanks of the Gothic church like the legs of some gargantuan spider. Koster sighed. He rubbed the back of his head, where he had been struck in the caves of West Wycombe. The swelling had gone down, but the spot was still tender. So was his neck. Then he looked down at the quai d'Orléans and noticed a pair of young teenaged girls sunbathing topless on the embankment. Just a few yards away, a father and son were fishing with what looked like cane poles. And beyond them, a woman in black was performing tai chi. Everything looked so damned normal, he thought. It was just another morning in Paris.
It had been a short but grueling journey from London. Although he had been assigned to keep an eye on the pair, Lyman had urged Koster and Sajan to get out of Great Britain immediately. Apparently they were being watched, but there was no directive to hold them. He would give them three hours, he told them, for old times' sake, before reporting their absence. In the meantime, he would try to clean up the mess in West Wycombe.
Koster had urged Sajan to take a flight back to the States. He was fed up with being shot at, he said. He was tired of being strangled and struck on the head. For some reason, it didn't agree with him. But Sajan insisted on traveling to Paris. They were too close, too near the conclusion of their journey to abandon the quest.
“Who cares?” he'd retorted. “What good is the gospel to us if we're dead?”
But Sajan had been adamant. The only way they would ever be safe would be to complete Franklin's map and determine the location of the Gospel of Judas. That was their only insurance. Without the gospel, they were vulnerable. But with it, she said, they could, like Franklin, keep all their enemies at bay.
Koster had reluctantly agreed. He could see the price Sajan was already paying for the encounter in the caves. Ever since boarding the Eurostar at Waterloo Station in London, she'd been distant and anxious. Once he'd caught her standing alone between train cars when he had returned from buying some sandwiches. She stood there praying, her head bowed and her lips moving silently. When he had asked for whom she was praying, she had looked up in surprise and replied, “For that waitress, and the man in the caves.”
“The man in the caves! But he tried to kill us,” he'd protested.
“That's why.”
The train had arrived at the Gare du Nord in the 10th Arrondissement in the wee hours of the morning. The whole trip had taken less than three hours; it was faster than flying commercially. Sajan wanted to avoid taxis, so they had hopped on the Métro to the Île Saint-Louis. A friend had offered them the use of her two-bedroom apartment, just off the quai d'Orléans.
During the subway ride, Koster had asked Sajan if she thought it was safe. Could she trust her friend Emily? Sajan had smiled and replied, “With my life. My question to you is, can we trust Nigel Lyman?”
When they had arrived at the apartment on the Île Saint-Louis, Emily was waiting for them. She was a petite blonde in a flowery pink print and white sandals. Sajan said she had known her for years. They had belonged to the same club at one time, when Sajan had been living in Europe. Emily showed them the apartment and then handed Sajan the keys. “Be careful,” she said, kissing her twice on the cheeks. Then she had looked over at Koster and added, “You take care of my friend.” Koster had nodded, but she was gone before he could even say thank you.
They unpacked and Sajan disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up. Koster made a fresh pot of coffee as she bathed. Then he noticed the PC on the desk in the living room. Emily worked for some kind of art magazine, and she had several printers and scanners under her desk, plus a wireless network. Koster poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. A minute later, he was online.
“You were right,” he called as he scanned a few sites.
“About what?” Sajan answered. She appeared at the door to her bedroom. She was wearing a bathrobe and drying her hair with a towel.
“About George Boole. Apparently he influenced some scientist named Shannon.”
“Claude Shannon? He's the guy who worked out the problem of binary circuit design.”
“What problem?” asked Koster.
“How to design arrays of magnetic switches called relays so that they could switch on and off to add binary numbers. Today the repetitive task of designing computer architecture is a chore best left to computers, but back then there weren't any. Boole's equations for AND, OR and NOT operations, reduced decision-making to a set of dualities—yes and no, true or false.”
“Zero and one,” Koster said.
“Exactly.” She stopped drying her hair for a moment. “They say that after reading a treatise on Boolean logic, Shannon recognized these pairs could be represented just as well by the switching duality: on or off. In other words, the formidable task of designing binary logic circuits had already been done. A hundred years earlier. By Boole!”
“But what do Shannon and Boole have to do with Ben Franklin and the Gospel of Judas? And why was this letter being sent to Macalister? I never did trust that guy.”
“I don't know. It's a mystery.”
Koster peered over the monitor. “You'd better get dressed if we're going to make it out to Passy this morning,” he said.
As Sajan got ready, Koster had stepped out on the balcony overlooking the river and the great cathedral. A few minutes later, Sajan reappeared at his side.
“Taking in the sights of the city?” she asked him. She was drinking a large café au lait in a bowl, staring down thoughtfully at the topless sunbathers below.
“Did you know,” Koster answered, “that the Île de la Cité is where the Parisii were first conquered by Caesar in A.D. 52? Or, more accurately, by his lieutenant? It was here that Count Eudes, later king of the West Franks, first defeated the Vikings. During the barbarian invasions, Lutecia's inhabitants, galvanized by the young Sainte-Geneviève, took refuge on its shores. Then, Clovis, king of the Franks, made the island his capital, and it remained a religious and judicial center throughout the Middle Ages. On this spot, sacred since Roman times, Bishop Maurice de Sully first started the cathedral's construction in 1163, and—”
“You're doing it again,” Sajan said.
“Doing what?” Koster asked her, stuffing his hands in his pockets. She was wearing a long, free-flowing blue skirt and a white cotton blouse embroidered with flowers. There were little holes stitched into the material. He could see her brown skin underneath, her gold locket and chain.
“Never mind,” she continued, staring out at the river. Then she added, “Is Notre Dame your favorite cathedral?”
“I guess if you combined the stonework of Amiens with the glasswork of Chartres, you'd be just about perfect,” he replied. “I remember seeing the Amiens cathedral for the very first time. My parents had taken me on a train trip from London to Rome, and we stopped off for the day on the way. I was only eleven or twelve at the time. Anyway, I remember being in this taxi, riding through the streets of the city and seeing the spires of the cathedral as they appeared up ahead. In those days, mathematics was a kind of religion to me. Numbers seemed to belong to a world set apart from the everyday, a secret place that I could see and play in, one that was invisible and alien to everyone else. When I got out of the cab, when I saw the cathedral looming over me—the portico and tympanum, the rose window and towers—it was as if my secret world had come to life. It's hard to describe. I remember running over, just to touch the walls. I remember passing through the main entrance, seeing the arches unfold far above, the triforium and clerestory. It was… perfect.” He turned and looked down at her. “How about you? Which is your favorite cathedral?”
“I like the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, in New York.”
“In Harlem? Are you serious?” Koster grimaced. “But it's only half built. No transept. And it's part Romanesque and part Gothic—a weird hybrid design. The doors are okay, I guess, but the glass is pedestrian. By and large.”
“It has many faults, just like us, Joseph. It may be officially an Episcopal church,” Sajan said, “but it welcomes all faiths. There are Shinto vases and a pair of menorahs set right by the altar. And each of the apsidal chapels is dedicated to a major immigrant group, the whole strange mélange that gave birth to the city. On the outside, it may look half built. The skin may be torn. It may not be pretty, or perfect. But the heart is what matters. Not the stonework and glass.”
Koster stared down at the river, slithering and roiling to the sea. With a sigh, he replied, “We should get going to Passy, I think.”
IT WAS AROUND THREE IN THE MORNING WHEN FRANKLIN FINALLY made it back to the rue Pérignon. He had hired a carriage to take him, and told the coachman to leave him two streets away, so as not to have any witnesses. Then he walked the rest of the way to the home of the Marquis d'Artois.
He had taken great pains not to disturb his traveling companion, the good Dr. Pringle, who was sharing his apartments in Paris. Franklin chuckled. Pringle was always telling him not to imbibe to excess, with dire threats about gout and the like. If the physician awoke and found Franklin missing, he would simply assume that his friend had gone out for a walk to promote his digestion, exactly as instructed.
Franklin paused before the marquis's great house. Although there was no moon, the street was well lit, though practically deserted. He waited for a pair of revelers to pass by, and then climbed—with some effort—over the fence to the gardens. Franklin crept through the shadows of the shrubbery, and made his way to a window.He pressed his hands to the glass, held his breath, then pushed. The window swung open. Thank goodness, he thought. He had unlocked it earlier, during the evening's festivities, and fortunately no one had noticed.
It took Franklin a few minutes to climb in through the window, and he was out of breath when he finally made it inside. The room was quite dark. Franklin pulled out his tinder box and a candle. He lit the wick from a spill and the salon wavered before him, barely illuminated by the solitary flame. He crept toward the wall where the painting hung. Cecilia Gallerani stared down at him with those wounded brown eyes, as if he were late for this rendezvous and she was weary of waiting. And then, out of nowhere, it occurred to him: Da Vinci had painted this portrait in 1492, the same year Columbus had discovered America. Franklin smiled. How ironic. He lifted the canvas from the wall. It was actually far lighter than it appeared. The dark background and taut pose of the subject somehow made the painting seem far more substantial.
Franklin carried the portrait over to a side table. He propped it up against a bust of some marble aristocrat, and then placed the candle behind it. A rosy hue rose up from the painting, as if Cecilia were blushing. He brought his face close, straightened his spectacles and examined the canvas intently. There. Just as he'd hoped. Behind the door in the background. He moved the flame at the rear of the canvas just a little bit closer. It was there, after all. Just like the sketch in the Gospel of Judas. The same pattern of circles and rectangles. The same imbroglio of fine lines. And yet different…
Franklin reached into his jacket and removed a small bottle of ink, a quill and a square piece of paper. With great care and precision, he began sketching the pattern. It took him several minutes to get it all down. When he was nearly finished, he was jarred by a sudden noise in the hallway. Franklin froze.
For a moment the noise sounded like footsteps, then to his immense relief, it faded away. Heart hammering, he rushed to complete the schematic. Only a few lines remained, a few circles and… There was that noise again.
Franklin stuffed the paper, the quill and the bottle of ink in his pocket. He scooped up the portrait, almost knocking the candle to the floor in the process. Then he dashed toward the wall.
Someone was coming. He could hear footsteps clearly now. Franklin hooked the canvas back up on the wall. A halo of light appeared near the doorway. The painting was crooked. He tapped it once into place and turned just in time to see the Marquis d'Artois enter the room, followed by a servant carrying a candle.
“Are you phantom or real?” said the marquis. He approached through the shadows and, for the first time, Franklin noticed the flintlock in his right hand. It had an engraved ivory stock, a brass barrel and butt plate. And it was aimed right at his heart.
For a moment, Franklin said nothing. He stood there, mouth agape, as if the words had somehow lodged in his throat. They simply wouldn't come out. Then he started to giggle. He took a step forward. “My lord,” he said breathlessly. He lifted the wig off his head like a hat, and then dropped it back down again. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“The surprise is mine, sir,” retorted the Marquis d'Artois. “What are you doing in my home?”
“I was expecting another.” Franklin giggled again. He placed a hand on the wall and took a step closer. Then he pointed behind him, at the window. “You know, your hedges are in need of some trimming.”
“You're drunk, sir.”
“Indubitably.”
“Whom were you expecting… at this hour… in my home?”
“You'll have to tie stallions to each of my limbs and dismember me before I tell you her name.” Franklin put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he spluttered loudly. “Or, perhaps I should say that the stars will first fall from the heavens.” He laughed. Then he waved his arm, adding, “Oh, for God's sake, either shoot me or put that thing away.”
“Are you implying Estelle—”
“Shhh,” Franklin said, interrupting him. “Not a word. I'm a gentleman, after all.”
The marquis did not lower his weapon. But, after a moment, his lips curved in a smile. “Why, sir, I'm flattered,” he said, laughing.
“You are?” Franklin stammered.
“But of course, Monsieur Franklin,” the marquis replied. “I'm French.”
It had been a narrow escape. Franklin remained with the marquis for another hour or so, sharing a pear aperitif and a few sordid tales that he would have preferred not to hear. Apparently the marchioness was far less demure than she seemed to be, like the mistress of the Duke of Milan in the painting. Finally, Franklin had made an excuse and departed. The marquis had his tale of the lecherous American, a few juicy bon mots to share with his friends. Franklin had the sketch in his pocket.
It was almost dawn by the time he got back to his apartments. Dr. Pringle was still snoring in his room. Franklin went immediately to his suite where he lit a lamp and started to search through his luggage. Moments later, he found what he sought. It was bundled up in a few turns of oilskin. He unwrapped the volume with care.
It had been almost thirty years since that fateful stormy night, when Simon Nathan, the chief rabbi of Philadelphia, had knocked on his door. Thirty years, and yet the hair still rose up on the back of Franklin's neck whenever he saw the Gospel of Judas.
He placed the codex gently on the bed and flipped open the cover. Then, he plucked out the drawing he had copied earlier that night. He pressed it against the frontpiece, adjacent to the original schematic. The lines and circles conjoined. They folded together. They had seemed like such divergent structures, independently whole, and yet now they were obviously singular. One. Of a piece.
Franklin looked out the window, at the rooftops of Paris, rouged by the first blush of dawn. Finally, he thought, with a sigh. He was running out of time. If he didn't hurry, there would soon be no need for the God machine.
KOSTER AND SAJAN WALKED TOWARD MONTPARNASSE, hardly exchanging a word. Every once in a while, Sajan insisted on stopping abruptly. They would stall for a moment, duck down some alley or side street, or double back. When Sajan was finally satisfied that no one was trailing them, they jumped onto a train at the Montparnasse Métro station and headed west on the Six toward the 16th Arrondissement.
Back in the eighteenth century, Passy had been a small village outside Paris, Koster told Sajan as they traveled. American diplomats tended to gravitate there, or to nearby Auteuil, as that village, too, was but a short distance from Paris and en route to Versailles. When the seventy-one-year-old Franklin arrived in Paris in 1777, he was invited to stay with Le Ray de Chaumont, an international merchant who had made a fortune trading with East India, and who was supplying the colonies with gunpowder. De Chaumont owned the sumptuous Hôtel de Valentinois. Indeed, it was so opulent—with its eighteen-acre garden overlooking Paris and the Seine—that some called it a chateau. Franklin, who initially paid no rent to de Chaumont, first settled in an independent pavilion called the Basse Coeur. It was here that he lived and worked with the other members of the American mission to France—Arthur Lee, Silas Deane and, later, John Adams and John Jay. It was here, too, that he conducted experiments on electricity, and, in another building, set up a small printing press.
Franklin was astonishingly popular throughout his stay in France, Koster reminded Sajan. He was already well known in Paris from his previous visits in 1767 and 1769, and he had excellent contacts within the French intelligentsia, especially the Masons. He'd even received personal congratulations for his experiments on electricity from King Louis. Indeed, when he rode from Nantes to Paris in 1776, crowds lined the roads to acclaim him. John Adams was so amazed by France's admiration for him that he wrote: “When they spoke of him, they seemed to think that he was to restore the golden age.”
The Métro train slowed as they approached the station at Passy. “Thanks to Franklin and his negotiations with Bonvouloir,” Koster concluded, “France provided not only arms, ammunition and troops to the colonists, but also the diplomatic recognition that helped America win her freedom. When the news of Franklin's death reached Paris in 1790, emotions ran so high that, in the middle of the French Revolution, the National Assembly adjourned for the day. The following year, rue Franklin was named after him. Even the great Thomas Jefferson said that succeeding Ben Franklin as ambassador to France was a lesson in humility!”
The train came to a stop and Koster and Sajan disembarked. They climbed the stairs to the streets. But as they took the last few steps into the open, Koster realized that nothing remained of those times. In the centuries since Franklin had lived here, the city had grown up around Passy. All that was left was a plaque on a house at the corner of rue Raynouard and rue Singer. It mentioned that Franklin had once lived on this spot, but the original building was long gone.
Koster could see that Sajan was terribly disappointed. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Remember the code on the second piece of the map?”
“What about it?”
He pointed at the Hôtel de Valentinois, a massive stone structure built at the turn of the last century, with snug wrought iron balconies, six stories high. “This is the spot where Franklin mounted France's first lightning rod. This may be a relatively new building,” he added, “but did they change the lightning rod? Wouldn't they have preserved it if they could, as a historical curiosity? I tried to do some reading about it earlier online. As far as I can tell, it hasn't moved to some other location.”
Koster stepped toward the door. “Come on,” he urged her. “It won't hurt to look.”
A porter let them into the building. It was a private residence now, but the family was away for the summer. Sajan slipped the man twenty euros and they were soon climbing the last few stairs to the roof. The porter—an Algerian immigrant named Jamal—said he didn't know anything about any lightning rod by Ben Franklin, or by anyone else, for that matter. He was new, he insisted. They made their way out the door to the roof. It afforded them a breathtaking view of the city, with the river agleam to the south and the east, the Tour Eiffel to the northeast by the gardens of the Champs de Mars and in the distance, the dull smudge of Notre Dame. Between the cathedral's two towers, poking up near the easternmost flank of the Hôtel de Valentinois rose the lightning rod. Koster felt his heart miss a beat as he came up beside it. It was clearly quite old, but was it the one?
The lightning rod was mounted on a small granite base. Koster circled it slowly. A large chunk of stone had been gouged out of one side, as if it had been damaged in transport to this new location. On the side facing the street, the granite was carved with what appeared to be animal figures. “Come here,” Koster said to Sajan. She was still talking with the porter by the door. “What was that quote from the Bible?”
Sajan told Jamal to wait for a moment and walked over to Koster. “‘I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven,’” she said.
“No, I mean the whole thing. The whole passage.”
Sajan sighed. “‘I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you.’” she said. “‘However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.’”
Koster took Sajan by the hand. He led her around to the rear of the lightning rod, the side facing the parapet. There, carved into the stone, was the unmistakable shape of a scorpion. And completely surrounding it, a snake, with its mouth biting its own tail. Along the outer edge ran a series of stars, twelve in total. And at the top of the stars the initials: BF. “Ben Franklin?” he said softly.
“‘Written in heaven,’” she answered.
Koster knelt down by the base of the lightning rod. The metal pole jutted from the center of a solid granite slab which, in turn, lay over the stone with the carvings. On one side of the square base, on the opposite side of the carvings, Koster noticed a crack in the granite. No, two cracks. It was as if a small tile had been set in the block at some later date. He picked at the edges. The tile would not move. No matter what he tried, it was locked firmly in place. For a moment, Koster considered asking the porter for some tools, but then he thought better of it. No point getting the porter involved. “Savita,” he said. “Try looking for some sort of lever or button.”
Sajan ran her hand along the various carvings. She pressed every star. She plucked at the snake and initials. As she touched the tip of the stinger on the tail of the scorpion, Koster gave out a yell. “Right there,” he said urgently. “Press it again.”
She did so and the tile fell away in his hands. Koster peered into the opening. Something was stuffed in the hole: A small leather satchel, like a money purse. He opened it carefully with the tip of his pen. Sajan knelt down beside him.
“It must be,” she murmured, voice trembling.
And it was. As soon as he pulled the object out of the purse, Koster knew. The third piece of the map. He unfolded it gently and with each turn of the vellum, he became more and more certain. The last piece, with its own series of circles and squares and fine lines. Now all that remained was to put the three precious pieces together.
The porter approached them and Koster stuck the map in his jacket with haste. He replaced the small tile, blocking his movements from the other man's view with his body. Then he stood and took Sajan by the hand. “Oh, well,” he said to Jamal. “This isn't the one.”
The porter shrugged and turned toward the door. Minutes later, they were back on the street.
“THE BIDDING WILL START AT TEN MILLION DOLLARS,” SAID the cadaverous auctioneer with the beady gray eyes. Jack Baker stood at a podium at the head of the hall. They were getting off to a late start, he thought bleakly, as he fussed with his pin mike. While they had expected a full house for this lot, the turnout was nothing less than spectacular. It wasn't every day that a da Vinci came on the market, even if it wasn't a masterpiece.
The first row of the audience was reserved for the press. The majority of the larger media organizations had each sent someone to cover the auction. Behind them, Baker noticed the usual collection of buyers. Some, like Mrs. Spencer of Palm Beach and New York, actually enjoyed these formal proceedings. But she was a vanishing breed. Most of the buyers were just representatives of other collectors. Wealthy art patrons generally preferred to keep their portfolios secret for a variety of reasons, from a desire for privacy to concerns about theft. Three representatives stood off to the side of the room,their ears glued to telephones. Only they knew the names of their anonymous masters.
“We conclude today,” Baker said, “with lot number one hundred and two. It's listed on page four of your program guide. Offered by the Edison estate, this exquisite study by Leonardo da Vinci was painted on canvas sometime around 1492 in Milan. A precursor of what is sometimes called ‘La Belle Ferronière,’ this remarkable painting is reputedly a portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, the mistress of Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, da Vinci's patron at the time. ‘La Belle Ferronière’ is actually the name used for two Renaissance portrait paintings. The first, thought to be of Lucrezia Crivelli, another of the duke's mistresses, is currently in the Louvre. It is sometimes known as ‘Portrait of an Unknown Woman.’ The second, thought to be of Cecilia Gallerani, is more often called ‘Lady with an Ermine.’ Interestingly, while some speculate the ‘Portrait of an Unknown Woman’ in Paris—painted on wood—may not be a da Vinci, there is no doubt that this earlier study on canvas is genuine. And, perhaps even more curious still, the subject of the painting appears to be Cecilia Gallerani, as seen in the ‘Lady with an Ermine.’ Note the door in the background behind her. This was painted over in the final portrait on wood.”
Jack Baker gave a little wave of the hand and the curtains behind him swept open. A portrait appeared on the wall, illuminated by spotlights. A hush fell over the room.
It was fortunate, Baker decided, that each of those bidding today had already studied the canvas at length during an earlier viewing, for the lighting was ghastly and the showroom was packed. There must have been at least two hundred people in attendance. And each had been vetted to make sure they could pay whatever they offered. Sometimes, in the heat of an auction, the brightest minds seemed to forget themselves. Baker repressed a smile. The last time he had presided over an auction of a da Vinci, Bill Gates had paid more than $30 million for a notebook of sketches. He couldn't wait to begin.
The auction kicked off and the usual low bidders began building the base. These were the kind of people who had no real intention of owning the painting but who wanted the crowing rights of having once bid on a Leonardo da Vinci. Some fund managers. A few Upper East Side dowagers. A sheikh from Kuwait. Within minutes the bid had climbed to more than fourteen million. Then he began to flush out the authentic contenders.
There were three of them. Mr. Chin—who always sat in the rear, just a few feet from the exit—represented a Hong Kong collector, reputed to be a real estate developer but in reality a government official from the mainland with a penchant for boys.
The second, who sat to the right near the front, represented an Austrian bank. Her name was B. Muller. Nobody knew what the B stood for. Indeed, no one had ever dared ask her. Ms. Muller had the bearing and build of a pole-vaulter, with one slightly wandering blue eye. She wore a double-breasted charcoal striped suit with what looked like padded shoulders, except that they weren't. Baker had checked. And she always sported a hat, this time with the plume of a woodcock.
And the third bidder, well… He or she was anonymous, nothing but a voice on a telephone. His agent was a cool young professional named Timothy Yeats, who had trained for several years at Christie's in London. It was rumored Yeats boxed on the weekends. He certainly had the build for it. He was supple and lean, and raised his paddle like a championship Ping-Pong player.
A purse of the lips. A pull on the earlobe. A flash of the paddle. People signaled in all kinds of ways. But in the end, Baker thought, they all had two things in common. They were all acquisitive. No one came here to sit on the sidelines. They all wanted to buy something, to make it their own. And they all had money to burn.
Fifteen. Fifteen-two. Fifteen-two, five. The flotsam and jetsam gave way. Chin took it to $16 million and there was a long, pregnant pause. People started to glance around the room, trying to glimpse another flash of the paddle. Sixteen-five to B. Muller, with a tip of the hat. Sixteen-six to the man on the phone. Sixteen-six, five, Mr. Chin said. Sixteen-six, seven fifty. And so it continued, the curve slowly flattening. The symphony ebbed into chamber music. Then, to a duet. Mr. Chin had reached his plateau, that strange often mercurial line that marked the lip of his avarice. Baker likened it to the distance a predator will run to pull down an antelope. At some point, the expenditure in calories became just too expensive. They quit running. Chin had come to a stop.
Moments later, Baker knew it was over. For the first time in over a year, he saw the telltale signs of B. Muller's decline. First, she leaned back in her chair; generally, she sat straight as a pikestaff. Then, she started to fan herself with her program guide. And finally, with a flourish, she took off her hat. It was like a small flag of truce. She waved it for a second and stared, glassy-eyed, at the portrait.
“Sold to the anonymous bidder on phone number three, for eighteen point two million,” Baker said. He felt flushed and elated. Eighteen million two hundred thousand dollars. This was his personal best on a portrait. Baker turned and looked at the canvas, at the way Cecilia Gallerani looked off to the side. He could have sworn she gave him a wink.
THE SUBWAY RIDE BACK TO THE ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS SEEMED INTERMINABLE. Koster and Sajan barely spoke. With the three pieces of the map in their possession, both of them sensed they were nearing the end of their quest.
As soon as they reached the apartment, Koster took out the vellum and laid it out on Emily's scanner. It took him several minutes to make a good digital copy. When he was satisfied, he imported the other two pieces from his camera. Luckily, Emily had PhotoShop. Koster created three layers. He laid them on top of each other. Sajan stood behind him as he worked, watching over his shoulder.
As soon as the images came together, she let out a gasp. Koster knew why. A set of fine lines, which had hitherto seemed independent, now blended with perfect precision—a circle, with a vertical line running through it. “The phi,” Koster said. He followed the outline with the tip of his finger: f. And the rest of the elements—the circles and rectangles, the squares and that cobweb of lines—though disparate, had suddenly converged. They were all part of one super-schematic. But try as he might, Koster still couldn't interpret it. He stared at the image. He concentrated. Then he let himself go, trying to pick up the frequency. Nothing.
At first, Koster had hoped the map would truly be that—a map, displaying an actual geographical location. Then, after they had found the first two pieces in Philadelphia and West Wycombe, he had hoped the diagram might be some sort of mathematical puzzle, perhaps revealing geographical coordinates, but it didn't. At least, if it did, he couldn't interpret it. It looked like a maze, and he was trapped in its boundaries.
Koster got up from the desk. He turned on his heels, walked away.
“Where are you going?” Sajan said. “What's the matter?”
“I'm getting the journal. We're going back to square one.” He hooked his thumb at the monitor. “I don't know what that thing means. If it's a map, I don't know how to read it. It doesn't even look like a map. It looks more like some sort of electrical diagram, like the design for some kind of machine.” He vanished into his bedroom, then returned with the journal.
“A machine to do what?” Sajan asked him.
“I don't know. You're the electrical engineer. I was hoping you'd know.”
Sajan started to say something. Then she stopped, bit her lip. She shrugged and looked back at the screen.
“What if we're getting this whole thing wrong?” Koster said, sitting down at the desk. “What if it isn't a map, at least not a traditional one?” He flipped open the journal. “Here,” he said, pointing. “‘At the soul of the God machine is the gospel. One in three.’ Those are the exact words Franklin uses. I had read them as being symbolic—that the Gospel of Judas serves as a kind of gateway to God, and the Trinity. But what if it isn't? What if this is some sort of blueprint for an actual machine, an electrical one? And here,” he flipped to another section of the journal, “when he conducts his famous kite-flying experiment, he mentions it again: ‘Now, at long last, I am one step closer to the God machine.’ I thought he was just playing Prometheus. Franklin got a lot of heat from the Church after inventing the lightning rod. They accused him of meddling in what they considered to be acts of cosmic divinity.”
“And the phi?” Sajan peered at the monitor. “How does that fit?”
Koster shook his head. “I don't know. Franklin only mentions phi once, and it's rather obscure. He says the Comte de Saint-Germain claimed he knew the secret to the ‘phi harmonic.’ Whatever that means. But we've seen phi all over the place. Freemasons considered it a reflection of the Divine Architect. That's why it was used so extensively in the construction of the Notre Dame cathedrals. And before that in the pyramid at Giza, the Temple of Solomon and the Parthenon, too. It was in the Triple Tau. I used it to decode the coordinates of the temple at Carpenters' Hall. But phi is not just in man-made objects. It's also everywhere in nature—in the curve of seashells, the shape of human DNA, the spiral of our galaxy, even.”
“And,” said Sajan, “it's what George Boole was studying when he had his epiphany—that lightbulb going off in his head—that led to his Boolean logic.” She hesitated. “Wait a minute,” she said suddenly. “That light-bulb!” She swept around the desk. She turned on him, laughing, and said, “Now I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Remember I told you how something was nagging at me? How this thing looked familiar somehow?”
“What about it?”
“I've heard about the phi harmonic before. Except that it was called the phi frequency.”
“Where?”
“In one of Edison's notebooks.”
“Thomas Edison? The inventor? What did he have to say about it?”
“I don't really remember. It was a long time ago, when I was doing a paper at Princeton. And Edison, in case you didn't know, was a Freemason. He used to live in New Jersey. Menlo Park. And then in West Orange. Not far from where my parents lived when we moved to the States. I went to Edison High School nearby.”
“But what would Edison…” He couldn't finish. “I thought this was a map to the Gospel of Judas. Now, I'm not even sure what we're looking for—some kind of machine, an electrical device.” Koster pointed down at the PC screen. “First, Abraham of El Minya. Then Leonardo da Vinci. Then Ben Franklin. And now Thomas Edison.”
“And Turing and Boole.”
“But what do they all have in common? None of this makes any sense. They all lived hundreds of years apart, in different parts of the world.”
Sajan took a step back from the desk. “I'm going back to the States,” she announced. “There's no point staying here. And I think you should give me the last piece of the map. You've already done quite enough, haven't you? Why risk yourself further?”
“Are you crazy?” Koster folded the vellum and slipped it back in his jacket. “I told you before. I'm the one carrying the map. Why should you be the target?”
“I'm capable of defending myself, probably better than—”
“Don't say it.”
“You know it's true, Joseph. You're just being sexist.”
“I don't care. The map stays with me.” He saved the conjoined schematic back to his camera, then deleted the file on Emily's PC. “Where are you going?” he asked her. “Back home to the Coast?”
“To West Orange,” she said. “Where Edison lived.”
“What about Homeland Security?”
“They've been ordered to watch us, not stop us. That's what Lyman said, anyway. And besides, what other choice do we have? We can't just stay here. I don't know what else to do, Joseph,” she said, shaking her head. “Got a better idea?”
Koster looked down at the monitor. Then he shrugged. “How about dinner?”
BY THE TIME THE CRATE FINALLY MADE IT UPSTAIRS TO THE archbishop's apartment, Michael Rose was not happy. He felt like he was coming right out of his skin, like an overripe fruit. He stood on the balcony, looking out at the East River, as three men in green overalls unpacked the portrait within.
Archbishop Lacey was too anxious, too nervous to leave the workmen alone at their labors. He stood beside the crate, nursing a large Scotch. “Are you sure I can't get you a drink?” the archbishop called out again.
Michael turned. He picked at the skin of his chin. “No, thank you,” he said. “I don't drink.” The cost of the portrait had been far greater than either of them had anticipated. If things didn't pan out, the archbishop would have a lot of explaining to do. As would he. Not that his father would listen.
“No, of course not,” said Lacey.
“What does that mean?” Michael stepped through the sliding door and reentered the living room.
The archbishop looked up with alarm. “Nothing. Nothing at all. How about a cream soda, then?”
“I'll be right back.” Michael moved toward the bathroom.
It was at the end of the hall, near the entrance. He closed the door behind him and locked it. Then he checked the lock once again. He looked like hell, he thought, as he turned and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He leaned close to the glass. He examined his thinning blond hair. He poked at the circles under his eyes. He looked puffy and bloated, and, for a moment, he thought he saw his skin start to melt off his face, start to slip off his skull, hair and all, like a waxwork left out in the sun.
Michael picked up a hand towel and started to clean off the countertop. When he was sure it was dry, he pulled out the vial from his jacket, flipped it open and poured out a small pile of crank. He took out his wallet and cut a line with a credit card. Then he rolled up a twenty-dollar bill. He leaned over and snorted the line.
The back of his head seemed to shear off into space. He bent over, leaned forward, his hands on the counter. The pain in his nose was intense. It seemed to wind its way back through his nostrils like some insect. It crawled through his head, pinching nerves with its mandibles. Then, the feeling was replaced by a wash of pure pleasure, a tsunami of synapses firing. He opened his eyes. His skin slowly settled on the frame of his face. He sighed. He stared into the reflection of his transparent blue eyes. A small drop of blood had appeared at the tip of his nose. A tear. From his heart. He watched as it gathered momentum, as it balled up and fell, flattening out in the well of the sink.
Michael stared at the droplet of blood as it made its circuitous way toward the drain. He leaned over and slipped off his right shoe and his sock. He dipped his right index finger into the sink, directly into the blood. He rubbed it against the lobe of his right ear, on the thumb of his right hand and finally on the big toe of his foot. When he had finished, he stared at himself once again in the mirror. Then, he got to his knees.
“Father,” he said. “Please forgive me.” He started to weep, quietly at first, then in great choking sobs. He clawed at the side of the tub. He pressed his face to the porcelain, felt the frigid solidity. Then he twisted around with a groan. He lunged for the toilet, and barely had time to bring his face over the lip of the seat when he vomited. The stream seemed to go on forever. He coughed and he heaved; he spat in the bowl. He wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand.
“Michael? Michael, are you all right?”
Rose flushed the toilet. He plucked off a few sheets of toilet paper and cleaned his face. Then he climbed to his feet. He slipped on his sock and his shoe. “I'm fine,” he replied, as he straightened his tie. “Have they finished?” He opened the door.
Archbishop Lacey was standing outside in the corridor, looking anxious. “Just now,” he said. “I was waiting for you.”
The painting was unwrapped, leaning up against the rear of the sofa, still surrounded by packing material. Michael's breath caught in his throat when he saw it. The girl in the portrait… She seemed to be staring right through him. All the pain and anxiety he had felt in the bathroom was suddenly gone. This mysterious beauty, he knew, and what lay hidden behind her, would be his only redemption.
Archbishop Lacey picked up the portrait. He carried it to the desk in the corner. He raised it aloft so that the reading lamp shone through the canvas.
Michael joined him. He leaned over the desk and studied the portrait, the felicitous brushstrokes, the moody black background. “Bring the light closer,” he said.
Lacey did so. And then, as if it were some sort of parlor trick, the lines became visible. That terrible pattern. That insidious design. Right there, in the painted doorway, lost in the shadows. A shudder crawled up Rose's spine like a cockroach.
“Is it there?” Lacey demanded. “For God's sake, Rose, tell me! Can you see anything?”
Michael straightened. “Our informant was telling the truth,” he replied.
“Then we have all three pieces! The map is complete. Do you know what this means?”
Michael looked down at the portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, at that mischievous smile on her face. She knew. She knew everything. “It means Koster and Sajan are expendable.”
The archbishop laughed. “That, too. But there's more. I'm afraid that I haven't told you quite everything. About these schematics. And the Gospel of Judas. It corroborates the worst fears of our spy.”
“What do you mean?”
“It's a story you may find hard to believe, one which the Catholic Church has been following since the time of the Twelve. I'm afraid that there's far more at stake here than you realize. You'd better sit down.”
SAJAN PICKED A LITTLE BISTRO NEAR THE PONT SAINT-LOUIS. At first Koster insisted they try to find something more elegant. He wasn't in Paris that often, after all. But Sajan was concerned about traveling too far. And besides, she told him, it was hard to have a bad meal in Paris.
Koster ordered skate and pommes frites and Sajan a couscous with lamb. They sat outside on the sidewalk, under a large blue-and-white umbrella, and watched the world pass by. The waiter returned with a bottle of Beaujolais-Villages. It was fresh and bright, with ripe, supple crushed-strawberry flavors. They had consumed half the bottle before the food even arrived.
The more he drank, the less he thought about the map. And, frankly, he preferred it that way. Koster was tired of thinking about it. He had thought that finding and putting all three pieces together would have settled the thing. They would finally know where the Gospel of Judas was located. It was so damned frustrating. And Sajan was right. The more he considered it, the more certain he was. If they were ever going to be safe, they had to find the Gospel of Judas. It was their only insurance against those who pursued them.
Koster sipped his wine and watched as Sajan ate her couscous and lamb. She sliced the meat off the bones with precision, like a surgeon. She took such delicate bites. You could tell she had grown up in Europe by the way she used her knife and her fork. She never switched hands. Just like him. And he thought about how similar they were, despite their more obvious differences. Both had grown up overseas, moving about with their families from one place to the next. It was this which had fostered their love for the security of numbers, for the rigor and rapture of science. Neither of them had an old schoolyard to which to return. No old neighborhood. It was too hard to forge lasting friendships on the fly. But numbers had an exquisite exactitude. Numbers manifested their permanence in their very abstraction. They were better than friends; they were loyal and true.
Koster watched as Sajan took another sip of her wine. She wiped her lips with her napkin, and he turned his attention away, away from the curve of her eyebrows and the color of her almond-shaped eyes.
Instead, he took another bite of his fish. It was salty yet tender and sweet, grilled to perfection. It seemed to melt in his mouth. But no matter what he did, he couldn't distract himself from the truth that was bubbling up deep inside of him, no matter how much he tried to suppress it. Why else had he insisted on keeping the map? It wasn't just his masculine pride. He was falling in love with Savita. There. He had admitted it. At least to himself. It was true. He was falling in love with this remarkable woman. And this notion, instead of filling him with a rapturous feeling, only filled him with dread.
Was he holding the map to protect her? Or was it because—if he handed it over to her—she'd no longer have a reason to stay?
“I think I know why Franklin was so obsessed about Franky.” Sajan leaned back in her chair. “I'm talking about ghosts, Joseph. The things from the past that still haunt us. You and I, we're the same.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“We've both lost children. And people we loved. People close to us. They were so much a part of our lives, and then they were suddenly gone. But you feel them still, don't you, Joseph? Like phantom limbs. They're still a part of you. I don't know what I'm saying.” She laughed. “It must be the wine. I generally don't drink quite this much.”
“It's okay.”
“Is it?” She looked at him closely. “Anyway, I think I know why Franklin felt like he did. It was really troubling me, so I read up on this part of his story. When he was younger, in Boston, his brother, James—to whom Franklin was apprenticed—got into a spirited debate with the elders of the city over the value of inoculating for smallpox. James had just launched the first newspaper in the colonies, the Courant, and he was itching for a way to take on the established authority. Unfortunately, he picked the wrong side of the debate.”
“He came out against smallpox inoculation?”
“A 1677 outbreak had wiped out twelve percent of Boston's population. In 1702, after losing three of his own children, a guy named Cotton Mather began studying the disease. One of his slaves had been inoculated in Africa and he showed Mather the scar. Other slaves corroborated the procedure. None had ever contracted the illness. James Franklin, eager to sell papers, stirred up the debate. He derided the practice. As in many things, Benjamin didn't agree with his brother, and he mentions nothing about this in his autobiography, which would seem to indicate he was ashamed of his brother's position. But he said nothing. He still set the type that precipitated the controversy. Years later, he became a vocal supporter of Mather, and a friend. Right before Franky's birth, Franklin editorialized in his Gazette in favor of inoculations, publishing supporting statistics. The truth was, he had planned to have Franky inoculated. He just got delayed.”
“Why?”
“The boy had been ill with the flux. Franklin was scared. He was worried what the procedure would do to him. A short while later, Franky contracted the smallpox and died.”
“And Franklin blamed himself.”
“He must have. He talks of him constantly in the journal. ‘Soon,’ he says. ‘I'll be with you soon.’ He loved Franky unabashedly. And he was never as close with his bastard son, William, or Sally, his daughter. It's like he shut himself off from those feelings.”
Koster pushed his plate back from the lip of the table. He took another sip of his wine. Then he downed the whole glass.
“Later,” Sajan said, “when his sister Jane wrote him in London with some good news about his grandsons, Franklin responded, ‘It brings often afresh to my mind the idea of my son Franky, though now dead thirty-six years, whom I have seldom seen equaled in everything, and whom to this day I cannot think of without a sigh.’ This, after thirty-six years! Ironically, he had reported on the death of children before, following the demise of a neighbor's child. ‘What curious joints and hinges on which limbs are moved to and fro!’ he had written. ‘What an inconceivable variety of nerves, veins, arteries, fibers and little invisible parts are found in every member!’ And he wanted to know, how could it be that a ‘good and merciful Creator should produce myriads of such exquisite machines to no other purpose but to be deposited in the dark chambers of the grave?’”
“You memorized these passages? Why? Why are you telling me this?”
Sajan looked away. Then she said, “How did your son die?”
“I told you. From crib death.”
She nodded. “And what were the odds?”
Koster looked down at his plate, at the way the fish bones were scattered across it. “Twenty thousand to one,” he replied. “Statistically it should never have happened.”
“But it did. And Mariane died, too.” Sajan lifted her hand for the waiter. “Do you know what he said? Franklin, I mean. When thinking of the death of his child.”
Koster watched as the waiter approached and slipped the bill on their table. He shook his head.
“‘When nature gave us tears, she gave us leave to weep.’” Sajan handed the waiter her credit card. Then she smiled tightly and said, “It's time, isn't it, Joseph?”
THAT NIGHT, KOSTER FOUND IT IMPOSSIBLE TO SLEEP. AT one point, he wandered out onto the balcony in his pajamas and scanned the city around him. He would have given practically anything for a joint, or a cigarette, or a bottle of Scotch. Instead, he had to make due with a snifter of cooking brandy pilfered from Emily's meager supplies. Once again, Koster felt somewhat betrayed. She was French, after all.
He stared at the back of the Notre Dame cathedral glowing rhapsodically on the island next door, and, for the first time in years, Koster started to pray. He prayed for his dead son, Zane. And for Mariane, too. The words seemed to well up from some place uncharted within him. He prayed for Savita, for the waitress, for the man in the caves. And he prayed for himself.
He found himself leaning over the balcony's lip, staring down at the moon in the river. And he thought of Ben Franklin, missing his son. Franklin hadn't prayed for Franky. Indeed, Koster recalled, Franklin had once said, “I imagine it great vanity in me to suppose that the Supremely Perfect does in the least regard such an inconsiderable nothing as man.” To Franklin, the “Infinite Father” was far above wanting our praise or our prayers. Then, he remembered what Savita had asked him. It's time, isn't it, Joseph? And although he was filled with an inconsolable sorrow, although he seemed weighed down by an ocean of tears, Koster found, unsurprisingly, that he was unable to cry. Not a solitary tear. Not a one.
After another half hour, he crawled back to bed. Then he tossed and he turned, and he finally slept. And he dreamed of his son once again.
Koster pictured himself coming home to the apartment that night. He pictured Priscilla, who was sitting alone on the sofa, reading one of her high fashion magazines. The baby was asleep in the nursery. Koster slipped down the corridor. He stepped through the door. It was raining. Water coursed down the windows in sheets, as if the glass were a liquid.
Zane was lying quite still in his crib. He was lying there, with his small chubby arms and his legs sticking out of his sleepsuit. What curious joints and hinges, Koster thought, on which limbs are moved to and fro. But these limbs were not moving, and they never would. He could see that now. He leaned over the crib and he knew it instantly. Zane looked up at him with his glassy black eyes, with that reproachful expression, and said, “You're home, finally, Father. You're home. But you're late, and I'm dead, anyway.”
Koster woke up. He felt as if his heart were being pressed in a vise. He opened his eyes. Someone was there. He could feel him. Someone was standing at the rear of the room, by the door.
He heard a floorboard squeak as the intruder approached. Koster longed to look over, but he was frightened to make any movements, as if his very stillness were keeping him safe. He lay there and waited as the stranger drew nearer. A step. Then another. Then another, and the figure materialized. Inch by inch, he approached. Then he paused for a moment, reaching out toward the chair by the headboard.
A hand passed before Koster's face, only inches away. Koster reached out and grabbed it.
For a moment, they struggled. They rolled from the bed, flopping onto the floor. The room was too dark to make out a face. They rolled over each other. Koster pushed at the stranger in a vain effort to free himself. But each time he attempted to wriggle away, the stranger pulled closer.
“Savita,” he shouted. “Savita, help me!”
Then she laughed, and she reached down and kissed him.
It was Sajan. Koster finally detected the scent of her perfume. She was kissing his mouth, and his eyes and his cheeks. He could feel her breasts, the way they were pressed to his chest. He curled his fingers in her hair, drew her close. He kissed her as if he were at the bottom of the ocean, and she held the last breath of air in her mouth.
“Savita,” he said.
“Shh,” she answered, as she tugged at his waistband. “Don't say anything.”
“Savita,” he repeated. “This isn't right. Are you sure…”
She kissed him again. She straddled him and pulled off her blouse. She tossed it aside and her breasts spilled out of her bra. He reached up and cupped them. She moaned and bit at his neck. Then she fell back on top of him. She lifted her skirt. She started to stroke him inside his pajamas.
“Savita,” he said, and his phone rang. The phone rang again, and again. “Savita,” he said. “It's my phone.” And again.
With a sigh, she rolled off to the side and lay still.
Koster got up on his hands and his knees and hunted about for his cell phone. It was still in his jacket, on the chair by the headboard. He pulled it out, flipped it open.
“Joseph? Is that you?” It was Lyman.
Koster climbed up to the bed. He turned on the light. As soon as he did so, Sajan moaned and covered her eyes with her forearm. Then she reached out and picked up her blouse.
“What is it, Nigel? It's late.”
“Are you two all right?”
“We're fine, Nigel. What's going on?”
“I just got back from London. Someone did indeed report a robbery at the Turing archive in King's College, Cambridge. That's where most of Turing's correspondence is housed. And there's more.”
Koster watched helplessly as Sajan stood up and buttoned her blouse. “What else?” Koster asked.
“I did some snooping about, dug up some old files on Turing. The poor bastard ate an apple tainted with arsenic while working one day in his lab. Looks like one of the inspectors assigned to the case thought Turing didn't die accidentally, as most speculated at the time. He believed he was poisoned intentionally. And more, his chief suspect was an Italian monsignor named Cavelli. Seems the monsignor had been railing against Turing for his so-called deviant behavior. Turing was gay, it appears. But since there was little evidence of foul play, Monsignor Cavelli was released. He returned to Rome shortly thereafter, where he vanished. You'll never guess where?”
“I give up. Where?”
“Into that state within a state at the top of the Aventine Hill. Monsignor Cavelli was a member of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. A Knight.”
Sajan had finished dressing. She stood by the door. “Don't go,” Koster said.
“What's that?” Lyman answered.
“Not you. I was talking to Savita.”
“Is she there with you now?”
“Yes, want to speak to her?”
“No,” Lyman said. Then he paused. “Listen, Joseph. How well do you know her?”
Koster motioned toward Sajan but she wouldn't come any closer. “Well enough.”
“Be careful, Joseph. She's Robinson's friend. Trust no one.”
“Does that include you? I think you know how I feel about… you know.”
“It's obvious, Joseph.” Lyman laughed. “Except, perhaps, to you. No, really, I'm happy for you. Don't get me wrong,” he continued. “I like her, too. That's the problem.”
Sajan opened the door. She lifted her hand and gave Koster a wave.
“Look, I've got to go,” Koster told Lyman. “Thanks for the news. And for helping.”
“Remember, Joseph. Trust no one.”
Koster hung up the phone. He tossed it back on the chair by the headboard. “Savita—” he started to say, stepping forward.
But when he came up beside her and leaned over to kiss her, she twisted away. “I'm sorry,” he said. “That was Lyman.”
“So I gathered,” she answered.
“Want to know what he told me?”
Sajan shook her head. “Not particularly. I'm sure it can wait till the morning.” She started to slip through the doorway. “Sometimes I wish I had never invented that chip,” she said, looking down at the cell phone on the chair. “None of that stuff brings us closer. Not really. In the end, it just keeps us apart.”
“Look, I'm sorry,” said Koster. “I guess I'm not ready.”
“Ready for what? For someone to give a shit about you again? If God's already forgiven you, Joseph, for whatever you've done, who are you to hold out?”
She reached up and caressed his right cheek. Then she was gone.
Koster walked back to the bed and sat down. He put his face in his hands. With a sigh, he looked up at the door. As he did so, he noticed something lying on the floor. It winked at him, glimmered. It beckoned.
Koster rose and picked it up. It was Sajan's golden necklace and locket. It must have come off as they rolled about on the floor. He turned toward the door. He was just about to call out her name. But something prevented him. He looked down at the locket. It was gold and quite simple, shaped like a tear. He pressed the clasp on the side.
Inside was a photograph of a man and a child. Savita's husband, Jean-Claude, no doubt, Koster thought. He looked strangely familiar. And so did the baby, Maurice, with his rosy round cheeks and those dark soulful eyes. Then he noticed the inscription on the other side of the locket. It was tiny but legible. It read: From Irene. And then the initials, in script: GLF.
Koster let the locket swing free on the chain. It shimmered, it flashed in the light. GLF, he thought. GLF. And it came to him like a slap on the face. The Grande Loge Féminine. The same female Freemason's Lodge to which the Countess de Rochambaud had belonged, the same woman who had helped him search for the Gospel of Thomas in France years before. And then the next domino fell. Sajan was a Mason. Of course. It was obvious now. Just like Nick Robinson, her “old friend.” All those times, Koster thought. All those times he had lectured her on Masonic lore, on the history of numbers and Gnosticism… she must have been laughing inside.She knew more about those subjects than he ever would, and yet she had just sat there and listened, egged him on.
Koster spun the gold chain round his fist. He squeezed it tight in his hand.
What a fool he had been. What an idiot. Click, click, as the dominos fell.
And it wasn't just the same Lodge. Irene. The same name. It couldn't just be a coincidence. The Countess Irene Chantal de Rochambaud. The locket was from her, from the countess herself. They were both members of the same Lodge, and they obviously knew each other. Or they had, for the countess was dead.
Koster walked back to the bed. Savita was using him; that much was obvious. But why? To what end? For the Gospel of Judas, or was there something greater at stake?
Koster dropped the locket and chain on the chair by the bed as the final domino fell. She was using him, but the truth was, he realized, he just didn't care. Someone needed him.
For the first time in years, he had a purpose again.
IN SUBBASEMENT B OF THE PRAYER PALACE, FAR UNDER THE earth, the great machine twinkled and purred. Michael Rose watched as the last of the technicians in their white cleanroom uniforms made their way from the chamber. The door wheezed and clicked, creating a seal. At last, Michael thought. He and Lacey were finally alone.
Michael took a step closer. He ran a hand down the side of the portal. He could feel a faint electrical charge through the tips of his fingers. “I can't believe you talked me into constructing this… this abomination.”
“It's just an experiment,” the archbishop replied. “And it hasn't harmed any of our animal subjects.” Lacey approached him. The archbishop wore his clerical robes, which made him appear even stranger in this high-tech environment, an anachronism. His forehead glistened with sweat.
“I'm not a monkey, Your Excellency,” said Michael. “Nor an evolutionist. We could be fulfilling the worst of the prophecies. ‘Now at that time Michael,’” he quoted,“‘the great prince who stands guard over the sons of your people, will arise. And there will be a time of distress such as never occurred since there was a nation until that time; and at that time your people, everyone who is found written in the book, will be rescued.’ Are you in the book, Damian?”
“Only the Almighty knows that.” Damian Lacey smiled. “I'm not one of your fifteen-year-old acolytes, Michael. Don't quote Scripture to me.” Then he waved at the purring device. “And don't pretend that you're not as excited as I am,” he added. “After two thousand years… It boggles the mind. Think, for a moment, what it will mean for your church to have this device in its arsenal. Consider what your father could do with it.”
“My father!” Rose laughed. “You mean the new Pontiff,” he countered.
“Are you ready?”
Michael nodded. He stepped toward the doorway. He looked up at Lacey, who hovered a few feet away by the console.
The archbishop pressed a button and the frame of the portal started to glow. At first it was almost imperceptible. It looked like the blue flame of an ordinary cooking range. The machine began thumping, like the pounding of drums or the sound of some great double bass being plucked over and over repeatedly. The rhythm grew faster. Then, the frequency shifted. The blue light in the portal began to slowly extend from one edge of the door to the other. The sound became shriller and shriller, until it passed out of range of his hearing. Michael paused by the opening. He looked at the archbishop. Then he turned and said, “Wish me luck.” He stuck out his hand.
Lacey twisted the dial on the console. The blue light in the doorway seemed to grow even brighter. It shimmered teal blue, then violet and aquamarine.
“Wish me luck,” Rose repeated. He still held out his hand.
The archbishop shook it. “Good luck—” he began. Then he saw Michael's other hand sweep down from the side. Lacey took a step backward, but Rose had clamped his hand onto the archbishop's forearm. He wouldn't let go.
“Release me,” shrieked Lacey, trying to pull himself free.
“‘Blessed is the man who listens to me… waiting at my doorway.’”
“We agreed, Michael! You're younger and stronger…” Lacey struggled with renewed ferocity. He yanked at the younger man's arms, like a desperate animal caught in a trap.
“And you're more pure of heart,” Michael answered. “Despite your transgressions. Believe me.” He twisted his grip. His thinning blond hair flapped on his skull as he heaved himself backward.
The archbishop teetered, off balance. “God damn you,” he cried as he leaned toward the portal. “I'll see you in hell, Michael Rose!” Then he fell.
There was a burst of white light.
Michael grinned and replied, “Get in line.”
As soon as the archbishop had passed through one side of the portal, he popped out the other. Except what returned wasn't Lacey. It was something inhuman.
There was a head and a torso, and some sort of arms, but the bottom was missing. The creature flopped onto the floor and Michael jumped back. Clots of scalding red matter flew up from the body, splattering Michael's shirtfront and face. It burned like hot lava, like acid. A moan issued up from the creature before him. Michael gaped at its face. He could see all the veins and the arteries on the crown of the skull pumping madly.
“Your Excellency?” Michael said. Bile bubbled up in his throat.
The creature raised one of its flipperlike arms, as if motioning him forward. Michael found himself leaning a little bit closer, despite his revulsion.
The archbishop opened his mouth. It was a red toothless aperture that unhinged like a snake. His lidless black eyes stared up at the ceiling. He twisted in agony. Steam rose from his skin.
“What is it?” urged Michael. “What did you see?”
A word formed on the archbishop's lips. Michael leaned in still closer. “What did you see?” he demanded.
Lacey heaved himself up on one stump. “Everything,” he replied. Then he coughed and rolled over. His eyes seemed to melt in their sockets as a hot fountain of vomit shot out of his mouth.
Michael jumped back, cursing. He watched as what remained of Damian Lacey quivered and shook, as the figure collapsed, sinking into itself, the head and the torso flattening out with a hiss under a blossom of billowing steam. Michael gagged, staggered backward. It was then that he first heard the knocking.
Rose swiveled about. The pounding continued. They were trying to break in through the door! He glanced about desperately for another way out, though he knew that there was none. He was trapped—in the bowels of his own church! Without pausing to reconsider, Michael dashed toward the door. It swung open as he pressed the green button.
It was Sister Maria. And behind her, her henchmen. The technicians were huddled together at the rear of the hallway, eyes blank with terror, faces pale.
“Oh, thank heavens,” said Michael. “There's been a terrible accident.”
Sister Maria stepped forward. Michael could hear her catch her breath as she spotted the gelatinous pool of seared flesh near the portal. “Wait here,” she ordered tersely. The Knights pulled back immediately.
Michael retreated toward the rear of the room as Sister Maria closed the steel door behind her. “I warned him,” he stammered. “But he insisted on building this thing.” He crouched, shivering, behind a small workbench as the nun neared the purring machinery. “I told him,” he said. Then the words petered out. Michael bit his thick lips. He sighed and glanced down at the floor. “A true Knight of Malta,” he added. “In the end, despite my misgivings, the archbishop insisted on going in first.”
Sister Maria knelt near the portal. The machine still rumbled beside her but the blue sheen no longer blazed in the doorway. It was spent. The nun made the sign of the cross. Then she rose, turned and looked over at Michael. She had the face of a corpse.
“He was a brave man, a true hero,” said Michael. “But this device,” he continued. “This is no God machine. I tell you, Sister Maria, it's a doorway to Hell. Who was Judas who passed down his knowledge to Abraham? Unless you subscribe to the heresies, he was the vilest, the most insidious villain in the history of Man. Where would he go then? Where would he be now, but in Hell?”
As Sister Maria drew closer, Michael found it almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the rosary beads round her neck. “We are at the beginning of the Great Tribulation. And this,” he continued, pointing at the portal behind her, “this could be the very door through which Satan will enter the earth. As prophesied. We've been betrayed by the traitor. It must be destroyed. Every trace of this infernal device. All who know of its very existence. Especially Joseph Koster and Savita Sajan.”
The nun came to a stop only inches from him. She looked up at Michael with those flat, doll-like eyes. “He was like a father to me,” she said quietly.
Framed by her wimple and veil, her face seemed to glow in the harsh light of the lab. Then she slowly reached out for him.
Michael jerked back reflexively, but there was no where to go. He was trapped, his back literally to the wall. He stiffened as her hand came to rest on his shoulder. Those eyes, and that little round nose. Those blood-engorged lips. She was so carnal, so naturally sexual, and yet those features were framed by a veil! He felt like a web-bound black widow's mate: He had no overriding desire to retreat or shrink back from his fate. He welcomed it, even. He was tired of lingering.
Sister Maria pulled him in close. She drew his head down to her, her hands clamped to the sides of his face, and she kissed him—full on the lips. She seemed to suck him inside of her. Her lips softened. She suckled his lip. She stood there, quite motionless, her impassive face pressed to his face. Then she released him.
“What hasn't been found,” she said breathlessly, “can't be destroyed. All traces, you said. Koster and Sajan may still have their uses. Let them come back to us, Michael.”
For the first time, he noticed the curl in her lips. The nun's sharklike eyes, her impassive demeanor, the frost which followed her gaze; none of these things filled him with a greater sense of foreboding than the chilling curve of her grin. He reached down and kissed her, just to cover her lips. He thrust his tongue deep in her mouth.
She bit him and said, “We'll be waiting for them.”
IT HAD BEEN A LONG AND TIRESOME MORNING, HUMID AND overbearingly hot, and Koster was out of sorts by the time they arrived at Edison's Glenmont estate. They had landed at JFK the previous afternoon without incident, and spent the night at Koster's loft in the Village. Then, after a quick breakfast, they had borrowed a car from a friend and headed west through the Lincoln Tunnel toward West Orange, New Jersey.
Neither of them had said much on the ride out to Glenmont. They had taken special care to ensure that no one was following them. For a time, Sajan had talked about Edison, his rise to prominence as inventor and industrialist, but Koster had barely responded, and after a while she had simply fallen silent. Koster didn't know what to say. He could still picture that locket on the floor of their apartment in Paris, and he harbored a hope that, somehow or other, Sajan would confess to her membership in the GLF on her own, unprompted. But though he had probed her with all manner of questions,many peppered with openings, she never picked up the bait. She skirted each subject without revealing a thing.
The Glenmont estate was located within Llewellyn Park, America's first private landscaped residential area, and at first they failed to notice the cutoff. In the end, they were forced to stop at a gas station and ask for directions. By the time they crawled through the gated entrance to the Park, and made inquiries at the greenhouse near the visitor parking lot, they were late, and a ranger informed them that Mrs. Bettendorf, archive director at the Edison National Historic Site, and her assistant, Maggie, had been obliged to honor another engagement. But they could still rendezvous at noon, if that time was okay, the ranger told them, at the Edison laboratories on Main Street, down the hill. So Koster and Sajan had opted for a tour of the house.
It was a massive red structure, built of wood, brick and stone in the Queen Anne tradition, so popular back in the late nineteenth century. Edison had purchased the house and thirteen acres for $125,000 in 1886 as a present to his new bride, Mina Miller. His first wife, Mary Stillwell, had died two years earlier. Already known as the “Wizard of Menlo Park,” Edison was thirty-nine when he moved into Glenmont. Mina was twenty. Un for tunately for the young bride, once Edison had completed his Main Street laboratories, she saw little of him; the inventor spent most of his days at his workbench.
Sajan and Koster strolled down the driveway toward the house. The woods were filled with great oaks, weeping hemlock, Cornelia cherry and copper beech. The sun pounded down through the foliage. Minutes later, they climbed the front steps of the house, under a covered stone archway—a later addition to the home, thought Koster. A National Park Service guide, a short round black woman in her mid-twenties, waited for them at the door. Her name was Chavon. The tour, she said flatly, would last half an hour.
As soon as they entered the house, Koster noticed a series of small stained-glass windows in the paneled reception room. “What are those?” he inquired.
Chavon didn't even look up. “The four elements,” she replied. “Earth, water, fire and air.” Then she was off to the music room.
All in all, Koster found the house strangely comfortable, despite the period furniture, the animal skins and the dark paneling. Apparently, Mina Edison had authorized several changes to the residence over the years. Certain rooms were simply repainted and refurbished, while others were greatly expanded, such as the second-floor living room and the sunroom, which they entered next. It bulged from the side of the house like the prow of a ship, providing Mina with a clear view of the great copper birdhouses outside on the lawn. A series of light-bulbs jutted from the ceiling at regular intervals around the entire perimeter of the room.
“Are those original fixtures?” asked Sajan.
“Uh-huh,” Chavon answered. “Not the bulbs, of course. Most people think Edison invented the light-bulb. He didn't. The idea was at least fifty years old at the time. But Edison improved the technology, made it safe and affordable. And he invented and built the electrical grid—the circuits and dynamos, the power stations—all the machines required to keep the light flowing.
“The Edisons entertained many distinguished guests here at Glenmont,” the ranger continued. “President Herbert Hoover. The King of Siam. Helen Keller and Orville Wright. And then, of course, there were Edison's many business associates and friends, like Henry Ford and Harvey Firestone…” She droned on as they moved room to room. When they passed through the dining hall to the “smoking room” just beyond, Koster was taken aback by the fresco above him. “What are those figures? Angels?” he asked.
Chavon glanced up at the ceiling. “Science and Music—Urania and Euterpe. The Muses. See the harp? Apparently Thomas Edison wanted Science painted with lightning bolts instead of a book, but Mina thought it was tacky. Too much bling,” she concluded.
Koster shot a glance at Sajan. “Lightning and music,” he repeated. “Harmonics.”
But Sajan didn't respond. She was studying the room: the light wooden paneling, crowned with forest green wallpaper; the crescent-shaped love seat at the foot of the glowing bay window; the malachite-green marble fireplace; the velvet sofa and easy chairs, embroidered with gold. The room also featured some of Edison's inventions, like a cylinder phonograph on a small wooden stand and a Kinetoscope movie projector.
They spent the remainder of the tour in the servants' quarters, then peeking at the bedrooms upstairs. They couldn't go very far; the rooms were blocked off with stanchions and green velvet ropes. There were no more surprises, although Koster noted that Edison had spent a great deal of time in the second-floor living room at the end of his life. As he grew older, it became more and more difficult for the aging inventor to make it down to his Main Street laboratories. The living room was paneled and studded with bookcases, and featured a pair of great wooden desks at the rear—one for Thomas, where he worked on his notebooks and read, and the other for Mina, with three separate telephones. A Parcheesi board was set up near the entrance where the Edison children would play games with their parents.
When the tour was complete, Chavon left them out on the front stoop once again. Since it was still early, Koster and Sajan opted to stroll through the gardens,despite the sweltering heat. Sajan wore a short dark blue skirt and a blue cotton blouse, and carried a clutch purse. Koster had opted for khakis, with a charcoal black T-shirt and blazer.
They circled the mansion, staring up at the massive brick chimneys that seemed to jut out from all parts of the structure, some ridiculously high. As they neared a screen of latticework at the rear of the lawn, Sajan noticed two tombstones lying flat in the grass. Edison's last resting place, Koster thought. With Mina beside him. They stared down at the tombstones. Mina's featured a cross, reflecting her devout Methodist upbringing; her father had cofounded a religious educational retreat at Lake Chautauqua, New York, like the group which had launched Point O'Woods. But Edison's marker was carved with a scallop shell, ringed by a wreath, with what appeared to be a scallop within it. “What is that?” asked Koster.
“A shell,” Sajan said with a shrug.
Koster frowned. “I can see that. But why would he have a scallop shell on his tombstone?”
“I don't know.”
“Unless,” he continued, “it's the Monad.” Koster turned and stared at Sajan but she didn't say anything. “A sign of the Craft, of Freemasonry. It's rooted in the philosophy of Pythagoras. Monad was the term Pythagoreans used for God, the One without division.” Sajan continued to stare down at the tombstone. “In arithmetic, zero, the circle, is nothing, but, added to other numbers, becomes everything. Without it, multiplicity can't go beyond nine. This circle-potential,” he pointed down at the scallop shell, “is the first number of the cosmos, containing all numbers as possibilities, just as sunlight contains all the colors in whiteness. According to Diogenes, from the Monad evolved the dyad; from the dyad, all numbers; out of numbers, the points;then lines, two-dimensional things, three-dimensional objects; all culminating in the four elements—earth, water, fire and air—out of which the rest of the world was created. Like those stained-glass windows we saw in the parlor. Edison was a Freemason, as you said, just like Franklin. The Monad is also the name used to describe God in many Gnostic traditions.” He paused for a moment, tapping his trouser legs, waiting for Sajan to respond, but she remained immobile and silent. “I'm sure you've heard of that.”
“Why would I know that?” she replied.
“You seemed to know a lot about the Gnostics before.”
“No more than anyone with an interest in Christianity.”
Koster sighed. She just wouldn't budge, no matter what he tried. He glanced down at his watch. “It's almost noon,” he said. “We'd better head down if we're going to make our meeting with Bettendorf.”
THE EDISON PLANT ALONG MAIN STREET WAS BEING RENOVATED, and off-limits to visitors, but Sajan had called ahead and arranged for this meeting with Mrs. Elizabeth Bettendorf, senior curator of the Edison archives. Bettendorf's office was on the second floor of what had once been the Edison physics lab. It now featured display rooms and the National Park Service offices. Bettendorf was a large woman with a matronly chin and close-cropped gray hair, wearing a pair of black pants and an iron blue blouse. As soon as her assistant, Maggie, showed them into the office, she climbed to her feet.
“Sorry about earlier,” she began, sweeping gingerly around the end of her desk. They shook hands.
“We got lost,” Sajan said with a smile. “You know men. They simply can't ask for directions.”
Bettendorf motioned toward a pair of chairs by the desk. “Please, sit down,” she said warmly. “What can I do for you?” She issued a little cough. Then another. “It's not every day we get so distinguished a visitor,” she added, coughing.
Maggie, her assistant, a willowy brunette with glasses, sat on a settee in the corner and sighed.
The cough was a tic of some sort, Koster realized. Like Tourette's syndrome. As the curator coughed, her eyes rolled and her head twisted a bit to the side.
“We were wondering,” Sajan said, leaning forward, “if we might ask you some questions about the Edison notebooks. We've been making inquiries and everyone says if you want to know anything about what Edison said, especially in his notebooks, talk to Bettendorf Most consider you the ultimate authority.”
Cough. “Well, I don't know about that,” Bettendorf countered. Then she actually blushed self-effacingly, but she was obviously pleased. “If I can help you…” she added, her voice trailing off.
“Do any of Edison's notebooks mention something called the phi harmonic?”
“The phi? Not that I recall. Oh, wait. Yes,” she said. Cough. “Now that I think about it.” She lunged toward her desk and started to peck at her keyboard. “Many of the journals are on-line now, thanks to our partners at Rutgers. You can scan them yourself.” Cough, cough.
“We did,” Koster said. “But we didn't find any reference.”
“Here it is. He refers to some machine he was trying to build, based on… no, wait. He calls it a frequency—the phi frequency.” Cough.
“I wonder why we couldn't find it.”
“He uses the symbol. The search engine won't accept it. But I remembered the reference. Yes, here. ‘Must continue to work on BF's G machine, or I'll never create the phi frequency. If not for me, then for my littlest lab assistant.’ That's it, I'm afraid.”
“‘BF's G machine,’” Sajan said, looking over at Koster.
“What about the Gospel of Judas?” Sajan asked.
“The what?”
“Or Benjamin Franklin?” said Koster.
“The man or the institute? Edison won the Franklin Institute Award for Engineering in 1915. But some reference to Ben Franklin himself, the man… I don't think so. Of course, I could be mistaken. Edison kept various softcover notebooks at the beginning of his career, then standard-size hardbound notebooks. They were placed around his labs and often recorded the work of more than one experimenter, serving as permanent records. Plus scrapbooks of articles, and huge correspondence files, letterpress papers and patent applications… the list goes on and on. More than five million pages in total. Only a fraction of this inventory is available on-line.”
“Did Edison invent anything that you might characterize as having a more metaphysical intent?”
“I'm not really following you, Mr. Koster,” answered Bettendorf. “Metaphysical—in what way?”
“Perhaps a communications device,” Koster said. “I don't know. Anything.”
“In an interview he gave to Scientific American in 1920, he told the reporter, B.F. Forbes, that he was working on a machine that could make contact with the spirits of the dead. Newspapers all over the world picked up the story. But after a few years, Edison admitted that he'd made up the whole thing. And there's no reference to such a device in the archives. I know. I've looked for it. Is that what you mean?”
Koster shrugged. “Possibly,” he replied.
“What about codes, Mrs. Bettendorf?” said Sajan.
Cough. “Codes.” Cough, cough. Her eyes danced in her head.
“Yes. Do any of his notebooks contain any references written in code? Something that you haven't been able to translate yet.”
“I'm afraid not. He did use a lot of abbreviations but they were standard scientific notations. Nothing in code. At least, not that I know of.”
“‘My littlest lab assistant,’” said Maggie quite suddenly. Everyone turned and looked over at the curator's assistant. She was staring at Bettendorf “Theodore?”
“Who's Theodore?” Koster wanted to know.
“One of Edison's children,” said the curator. “He had three of them.”
“As a child,” Maggie said, “Theodore was called Edison's ‘little laboratory assistant,’ because of his great love for science. Theodore performed many experiments at Glenmont. His father once wrote, ‘Theodore is a good boy, but his forte is mathematics. I am a little afraid he may go flying off into the clouds with that fellow Einstein. And if he does, he won't work with me.’ But, of course, he did.”
Theodore Edison was born at Glenmont on July 10, 1898, she explained to them, when Edison was more than fifty years old. Interestingly, Theodore was the only member of the Edison family to graduate from college. Then, he went to work for his father, starting out as an ordinary lab assistant, and eventually rising to become Technical Director of Research and Engineering for Thomas A. Edison, Inc. Earned more than eighty patents in all. Died in November '92.
“Wasn't that stuff we found in his cubbyhole written in some sort of code?” Maggie asked the curator. “Re member?”
“From the fireplace?”
“What cubbyhole?” Koster asked, perking up.
“We were doing some renovation work on one of the bedrooms on the third floor of the house,” replied Maggie. “Theodore's room. I think he may have mentioned it in one of the reminiscences, too. Some recordings we have. Anyway,” she continued, “we found a kind of secret compartment behind one of the bricks in the side of the fireplace. I guess Theodore used it to stash his most precious belongings. It was full of all kinds of stuff: baseball cards, a watch, some music he'd written. And strangest of all, a notepad filled with Parcheesi scores. A softcover pad, just like the ones his father used. At the rear of the pad are several pages that we've never deciphered. They were written in some sort of code. And judging from the handwriting, they were penned by his father, by Thomas. I'd recognize that chicken scratch anywhere.”
“May we see it?” Koster's heart skipped a beat.
“Of course,” said the curator, standing up at her desk. “But you're going to have to walk over to the main storage vault. And I'm afraid I can't join you.” Cough, cough. “Nothing but meetings today. Maggie will see to your needs. It was a genuine pleasure, Ms. Sajan, Mr. Koster.”
They said good-bye to the curator and Maggie led them out of the physics lab toward the quad. The main laboratory, a giant brick structure with large chimneys, loomed to their right. Before them, in three separate rows, were the chemistry lab, the chemical storage and pattern shop and, lastly, the metallurgical lab. Maggie pointed them out as they walked. To their left stood the storage vault, beside a strange-looking black building called the Black Maria, the world's first motion picture studio, near the water tower. It was named, Maggie said, after the nickname for paddy wagons, also called Black Marias, because they were cramped and uncomfortable, and the same tar-paper black. “But Edison called it ‘the doghouse,’” she said.
They climbed the stairs into the vault and swept through the entrance to an elevator at the rear of the hall. The main storage rooms were deep underground.When they got to the viewing chamber, Maggie explained the procedure.
Only one document could be examined at a time. No photographs could be taken. If a copy was being made, the researcher was strongly urged to transcribe in pencil. At no time could any documents be marked or highlighted in any way. The list went on and on.
It was almost one o'clock by the time they sat in the climate-controlled viewing room, at a long vinyl desk, and watched apprehensively as Maggie returned with a great plastic box in her arms.
She placed it gently on the table, then stepped back. “I'm afraid I have to stay here while you examine the artifacts.”
“Of course,” Sajan said with a smile. Maggie sat down at the end of the table.
Koster had already reached into the box. He made straight for the little brown notepad, ignoring the watch and the baseball cards and the other objects within. With great care, he lifted the cover. He flipped through the pages. It was as Maggie had said. The first few yellowed sheets were filled with scores from various card and board games, mostly Parcheesi. It seemed that Thomas Edison didn't let his children win, at least not very often. Then there were several blank pages. Sajan moved in beside him. Koster flipped through the pages and a ribbon of letters appeared out of nowhere, three lines of letters, followed by a blank line, and then three lines of letters again.
Koster sat motionless. It was Ben Franklin's code. The one based on his magic squares.
Koster looked up at Sajan, who flashed him a smile. There were pages and pages in code. Koster turned to the rear of the notepad. Several sheets had been folded together and glued to the spine. He opened them carefully and Sajan caught her breath. Another schematic.Another piece of the map, or whatever it was. Like Franklin's, but different. An obvious extension, with a similar jumble of circles and squares. Koster flipped back to the pages in code. Then he glanced up at Sajan and the curator's assistant. “This will take a few minutes,” he said.
IN THE END, IT TOOK KOSTER MORE THAN AN HOUR TO translate the pages. Sajan sat with Maggie, chatting about Edison and what it was like to work for the National Park Service. When he had finished copying the text and the Edison schematic—by pencil—into his notebook, Koster put Theodore's notepad back into the clear plastic box. He waited for Maggie to gather the materials and leave the viewing room before turning to Savita beside him. She could hardly contain herself.
“What's it say?” she inquired, as she reached for his notebook.
Koster pulled it away. He started to read, “‘The mad Serb came to me this afternoon and showed me a strange illustration—’”
“‘The mad Serb’?”
“He's talking about Nikola Tesla. Apparently Tesla worked for Edison for a time.”
“I know Tesla,” Sajan said. “He invented the radio.”
“I thought Marconi did that.”
“No, it was Tesla. What else does it say?”
“Theodore's notepad states Tesla showed Edison a schematic based on a drawing developed by Benjamin Franklin and others before him. It says Tesla created his own illustration, a fourth schematic, extending the diagram from the Gospel of Judas, da Vinci and Franklin. The illustration came to Tesla in a dream. Tesla believed it was a template for some kind of electrical device that would generate what he called the phi frequency, which—and I quote—would ‘open a doorway and put you in direct contact with the Monad.’”
“The Monad or demiurge?”
“What's that?” Koster asked her.
“A doorway to God,” she whispered.
“That's what it says. But Edison took it from Tesla, claiming provenance since Tesla was working for him at the time.”
“Edison stole it?”
“Appropriated it. What exactly did Tesla do, Savita? I know the name, but… Something with wireless electrical systems or something?”
“He was a Serbian inventor,” she said, “an electrical genius who had once worked for Edison on the Continent, and then came to America. When Tesla proposed a way to improve the efficiency of Edison's Direct Current dynamos, Edison said, ‘There’s fifty thousand dollars in it for you—if you can do it.' But when a year went by and Tesla finally succeeded, Edison simply quipped, ‘Tesla, you don't understand our American sense of humor.’ He cheated him. Refused to pay.
“The truth was, they were doomed to be rivals from the very beginning. Edison had put all of his energies and his investors' money into DC—Direct Current—while Tesla had conceived of an Alternating Current system. And personally, the two men were so different.”
“How so?”
“Edison was ungainly, a stooping and shuffling figure, who could care less about his appearance. Tesla, on the other hand, like Howard Hughes, was fastidious to the point of obsession. Edison disliked Tesla for being an egghead and cultured. Tesla was also a bit of a dandy, and enjoyed socializing with the cream of New York society. Even their scientific approaches were different. Tesla once said that if Edison had to find a needle in a haystack, he would proceed by examining each piece of straw in an elaborate elimination process, even though a little theory and calculation might save him ninety percent of the labor. One famous Edison quote states, ‘I have not failed. I've just found ten thousand ways that don’t work.'”
“What happened to Tesla after their falling-out?”
“He couldn't get a job during the depression of '86. Edison had blacklisted him. For a while, he worked as a laborer on New York street gangs, earning just enough to get by. Then Westinghouse, who had invented the air brake for railroads, began to invest in AC-based power plants. Tesla's patent for an AC motor was just what Westinghouse needed, and soon the Serbian scientist was working for Westinghouse as a well-paid consultant. Edison was furious. He engineered a PR campaign, had his minions kidnap dogs and cats off the street, which he would then have electrocuted using AC. It was his way of trying to show the public how dangerous alternating current was. In the end, though, no matter what Edison did, Tesla's AC system was superior.”
Koster looked back at his notebook. He turned over a page and said, “Apparently, Tesla told Edison to reexamine the Edison effect. Edison states that the effect seemed to—and I quote—‘impress some of the bulge-headed fraternity of the Savanic World.’” Koster paused, raised an eyebrow. “What's the Edison effect?”
While experimenting with lightbulbs, Sajan explained, Edison noticed that, in addition to the electric current flowing through the filament, another charge passed through the vacuum—a stream of electrons, burning off of the plate. The Edison effect, as it came to be known, didn't seem to hold any commercial application, so Edison abandoned it.
“Of course,” she concluded, “later, radio pioneers like Tesla, deForest and Fleming found that if they ran some extra wires into a vacuum tube, it could perform three useful electronic functions: It could amplify a signal; it could rectify it—turning AC into DC; and it could switch it from on to off. This triode made radio a reality.”
“Which Tesla invented, not Marconi,” said Koster, trying to keep up with her.
“That's what the Supreme Court ruled, eight months after his death. Poor Tesla. But vacuum tubes were unreliable and expensive. It wasn't until William Shockley that this problem was solved.”
“How?”
“Solid-state,” Sajan said. “The transistor.”
Koster stared at her blankly.
She sighed. “Why do electrons flow so easily through copper and so poorly through glass? And what is it about silicon that makes it fall in between? The answer is based on the architecture of the atom. Niels Bohr, the Danish physicist, determined that electrons don't orbit in any old spot. Bohr defined precisely how far from the nucleus every orbit should be, and how many electrons can reside there at any given moment in time.”
“You're starting to sound like my mother, the physics teacher,” Koster said.
“Working from this theory,” Sajan continued, “you can tell which elements are highly conductive. Materials like silver and copper and gold are the best conductors because they only have a single electron in their outermost orbit. The best insulators have eight. Semiconductors, like silicon, have just four. They're in between. And by doping semiconductors with various impurities, like arsenic or boron, you can influence their conductivity and resistance.”
Do I sound like this when I talk about architecture? Koster wondered. No wonder Sajan was always telling him to move on. But he didn't have the heart to interrupt her soliloquy. Sajan seemed to be on some kind of adrenaline rush as she outlined the underlining principles of her industry. Koster bit his lip, nodding at the appropriate moments.
“When a semiconductor strip,” she went on, “is hooked up to some source of current, like a battery, electrons flow easily from the negative to the positive side. But they don't flow the other way. A device that lets current pass in only one direction is a rectifier.”
“Like Fleming's vacuum tube rectifier,” Koster offered.
Sajan nodded. “Exactly. William Shockley and others developed a semiconductor triode by making a semiconductor sandwich with three different regions, analogous to the three electrodes in deForest's vacuum tube triode. In other words, all the standard electrical components—diodes and transistors, et cetera—can be made out of silicon, if the silicon is first doped with the proper impurities. Of course, linking all of these components proved extremely cumbersome. It wasn't until the fifties that Jack Kilby and other scientists realized you could perform all of the functions of a circuit using just one material—a monolithic slice of pure silicon.”
Koster couldn't stand it any longer. “Look,” he said. “I'm not an electrical engineer. Can't you just cut to the chase? What's this got to do with the Edison schematic?”
“The Tesla schematic, you mean.”
“Whatever.”
“You know,” Sajan mused with a smile, “in filing for certain patents in my career, I've often been surprised to find Tesla's name, over and over again, as if he somehow anticipated all these developments. His 1903 patents 723,188 and 725,605, for example, contain the basic principles of the AND circuit element, based on Boolean logic—more than a half century before Shockley conceived it. In 1917, he anticipated the main features of modern radar—twenty years before Emil Girardeau built and installed the first radar systems. He even invented a so-called death ray based on the charged particle beam.”
“Savita!” cried Koster. “Are you doing this on purpose? Is this a poke at my… you know, my condition?”
“I don't think you have Asperger syndrome, or any other condition,” she said. “I think you just use your knowledge, all that trivia in your head, as a shield, Joseph, to shelter yourself from the moment. Like your counting.”
“Just answer the question, Savita,” he insisted. “What does all this have to do with Tesla's schematic?”
“Building a circuit is like building a sentence. There are certain standard components—resistors, capacitors, diodes, transistors.” Sajan took the notebook from Koster. She opened it, revealing the Tesla schematic. Then, without warning, she ripped it right out of the pad.
“What are you doing?” cried Koster.
Sajan held out her other hand. “Where is it?” she said.
“Where's what?”
“The printout of the file of the first three schematics, the one you saved back to your camera. Back in Paris, remember?”
“What printout?”
“Don't lie to me, Joseph. I'm sure you made one.”
Koster lifted an eyebrow. Then, he reached into his jacket, as if drawing a weapon. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, which Sajan immediately snatched from his hand. She unfolded it, spread it out on the table. A moment later, she placed the sheet of paper from Koster's notebook beside it, the page featuring Tesla's schematic. She brought them together. They fit perfectly.
“You were right, Joseph. Back in Paris, I mean. When you put all the pieces together, what's left is no map. It's a blueprint for a kind of electrical circuit. A microchip, Joseph, at the heart of a larger machine.”
“A microchip, based on something two thousand years old? How's that possible?”
“I don't know.”
“And how did da Vinci and Franklin know what to add to that first illustration, the one from the Gospel of Judas? And Tesla. It doesn't make any sense. How did they get this mysterious knowledge, Savita? Where did it come from—a dream, from the sky?”
“I don't know, Joseph. But these circles and squares,” she said, pointing down at the drawing, “these rectangles and this pattern of lines. They represent electrical components. Series of capacitors and diodes, resistors, transistors.”
“It's not a map to the Gospel of Judas?”
Sajan shook her head. “The map is the chip; don't you get it? I don't think the Gospel of Judas is really important. What I mean is, if we find it, and it proves to be as old as we thought, Franklin's codex could indeed change our view of the Bible. And of Christianity too. But I think that to him, to Franklin, finding the codex was just a means to procure the el Minya schematic. The first piece of the map. And then that piece by da Vinci. That's what Franklin meant when he said that the God machine—that the phi harmonic—opened a doorway.”
“But that doesn't make any sense. A doorway directly to God! It's ridiculous. And how could they have possibly designed such a circuit—”
“Chip.”
“—in Franklin's or Edison's day? I mean, such a feat would have required a knowledge of electrical engineering completely unknown in the late eighteenth and early twentieth centuries, let alone thousands of years ago!”
“I know. It's as crazy as thinking the Ark of the Covenant was built as a giant capacitor. But remember, Edison's lab did anticipate the development of the solid state circuit,” Sajan said. “Just as George Boole's system of logic anticipated the requirements of computer architecture, a full century before it was needed. I know it seems strange. But there are just too many coincidences for it to be random.” She passed Koster the notebook. “It's as if a Divine hand is leading them. No wonder the Knights tried to kill us in Philadelphia and England. Can you imagine if everyone had access to such a device? Would anyone need pastors or priests, or the Church, for that matter? Not with a direct link to God in your living room. It would make the Protestant heresy seem like a peccadillo. That's why they want to destroy it.”
“Or control it.”
“What does Edison say the God machine does?” she inquired.
“It generates the phi frequency to open a doorway—”
“No. I mean, does he say how it works?”
Koster picked up the notebook and scanned his translation. “Not really. He says Tesla believed the phi frequency would somehow ‘… collapse the walls of the atomic cathedral, pull out the flying buttresses of matter, transmuting fermion to boson, returning you to the pleroma,’ whatever that is.”
Sajan stiffened in her seat. “But that's impossible,” she said. “By definition.”
“What do you mean? What's impossible?”
“Edison's talking about the Pauli exclusion principle. Remember how I told you about Niels Bohr, the Danish physicist who mapped out the architecture of the atom? In 1924, an Austrian physicist named Wolfgang Pauli defined a principle explaining why matter occupies space in an exclusive manner, and doesn't let other matter pass through it. According to Pauli, no two identical fermions may occupy the same quantum state simultaneously. Fermions are particles with half-integer spin, such as protons and electrons. No two electrons can share the same orbit around the nucleus. They're exclusive. This accounts for the solidity of matter, and why material objects collide rather than passing through one another, how we're able to stand on the ground without sinking. Bosons, on the other hand, are so-called force carrier particles, such as photons, light. They're distinguished from fermions, matter particles, by their integer spin.”
“So turning fermions into bosons would be like turning ordinary matter into light?”
“In a manner of speaking. But, as I said, it's impossible. To abrogate the Pauli exclusion principle would mean abrogating the existence of matter itself, of the physical plane. Even if such a thing were technically feasible, as corporeal beings, if we tried to pass through such a doorway, we'd be crushed, imploded into some sort of singularity.” She shook her head. “No, it's impossible. This map leads nowhere. Franklin's quest. And Tesla's, too. All for naught, it appears.” She tossed the printout back on the table.
“What are you saying?”
“The God machine couldn't work, Joseph.” Sajan stood up. She reached for her purse, tucked it under one arm and started to make her way back toward the door.
“Savita?” said Koster.
Sajan glanced over her shoulder.
Koster held out his hand. “Then I guess you won't be needing the Tesla schematic.”
“Oh, sorry,” she said. She tossed the crumpled page from his notebook back onto the table, and the paper unfurled like a rose.
SAJAN HARDLY SAID ANYTHING AS KOSTER STRUGGLED through rush-hour traffic on their way back to New York. The moment to confront her never seemed to arrive. Koster didn't know where to begin.
When they got back to the city they dropped off the car and headed downtown on foot toward his loft. Sajan insisted on taking a circuitous path. Although they hadn't seen anyone following them since returning from Europe, they could never be certain, she said. She kept looking behind her as they weaved down the avenue. They doubled back several times. They hovered in storefronts. All in all, it took them more than forty minutes to make it back to Eleventh Street, a trip that should have taken them ten.
Sajan hopped into the shower as Koster went over the notes he had taken at the Edison labs. He scanned the Tesla schematic, and connected it through PhotoShop to the other three pieces.
Now that all four fragments were linked, it appeared to be a perfect six-sided figure. But for some reason, it still seemed incomplete, though Koster couldn't for the life of him think why. He was no designer or electrical engineer. He saved the image back to his camera, which he stuffed in his pocket, and deleted the file on his PC.
Sajan put on a simple black dress and they went out for Italian food at a little place on Minetta. Once again, she barely spoke to him during dinner. She picked at her pasta, her radicchio salad, making small talk: about business and the future of Cimbian; about living out West; about being an American of Indian descent. She talked about anything but the Gospel of Judas and the God machine. In fact, each time he brought up the schematics, she just changed the subject. And she drank. Perhaps because she hadn't eaten much that day, her gin and tonic seemed to go straight to her head. She was slurring her words by the time he had finished his double espresso.
When they finally made it outside, it had started to rain. Black cumulus clouds were stacked up over MacDougal. Koster plucked out a newspaper from a trash can nearby and they ran through the downpour with it over their heads, until they hit Washington Square. Then, without warning, Sajan suddenly stopped. She pulled him under an awning.
“Look behind me,” she said, drawing near.
Koster glanced over her shoulder. He didn't notice anything odd. A number of people were dashing about, like them, trying to get out of the downpour.
“The man in the hat,” she continued.
Then he saw him. He was standing on the far side of the street, at the end of the block. His back was to Koster. He was looking into some storefront, a butcher or baker.
“Who stops in the rain to look at some pork chops?” Sajan said. “And I'm certain I saw him before—the same raincoat and hat—on the way to the restaurant.”
She grabbed Koster's hand and tugged him down the street toward the park. When they reached the corner of MacDougal and Fourth, Sajan started to run like a demon, pulling Koster behind her. Lightning flashed overhead. It was one of those late afternoon summer storms, full of tropical air. It would be over in minutes, Koster thought. But the rain kept pouring down, pounding on them, and soon his newspaper was soaked through and falling apart. He tossed it away.
Sajan skipped through the rain puddles. Then she suddenly turned and looked back at him. “He's still following us.”
They ran by the fountain, around the Washington Arch, and then headed up Fifth at a trot. Moments later, they cut right through the Washington Mews. Someone had left the gate to the private street open and they tore up the brickwork through the rain. Koster pointed at a bower of ivy which bulged from the façade of the nearest brick building and they ducked in behind it.
The street itself seemed to be lost, out of time. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, houses had been constructed by wealthy families all along the north side of Washington Square and the south side of Eighth Street, from Fifth to University Place. The residents established a private alley between them, and filled it with two-story stables—the Washington Mews. But by the 1910s, the horse was being replaced by the automobile, and the stables were covered with light stucco and decorative tiles, and rented out to the artists who were now flocking downtown to the Village.
All this came to Koster in a flash as he pressed his back to the wall of the building, trying to keep himself hidden. Edward Hopper had passed away on this street. And there were 1,486 tiles in the wall.
He looked down at Sajan. She was staring out at Fifth Avenue. The rain poured down her face and he could feel her trembling beside him like a bird. Her little black dress was soaked through; she hadn't bothered to put on a raincoat. Her hair lay flat on her shoulders.
She glanced up at him as a lightning bolt flashed, followed immediately by an echoing bellow of thunder. The storm was directly above them. She looked up at him, her lips parted. She wore emerald studs in her ears, Koster noticed. He was trying to remember some other detail about the Washington Mews, some architectural curiosity, when he spotted the man with the hat. He was approaching slowly up Fifth, only a few feet away from them by the gate.
Sajan was staring at him. Her dark eyes seemed to glisten with raindrops… or were they tears? He couldn't tell. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered. None of her secrets. The knowledge she was using him. The fact that she was false. None of it mattered. Not at this moment, as he lifted his hands to her face, as he cupped her cheeks and brought his own face so close that he could feel the heat of her breath on his lips.
She was still shaking. She was trembling in his hands. And he kissed her. He wrapped his arms about her waist and her shoulders and drew her tight to his chest. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, bit down on it delicately and everything that had secured him, had tied him to the earth, seemed to unravel at once. He kissed her frantically, untethered by his conscious mind, his memories and his fears.
“Joseph,” Sajan whispered breathlessly, untangling herself. “Joseph, I have to tell you something.”
Koster stole a glance at the avenue. The man in the hat and the raincoat was gone. He had passed by without seeing them. Or, perhaps, he had simply assumed they were lovers.
Koster stepped back. He looked down at Sajan's tiny face, the dark eyes, running black with mascara, the red lips. Despite her disheveled appearance, she looked more beautiful now than he had ever seen her before. “Shh,” he said softly, putting a finger to her lips. “Don't worry. I know.”
Sajan looked puzzled. “You do?”
Koster reached into his blazer. He pulled out her locket and dangled it before her.
“You had it? Of course, you did,” she replied. She reached up and took it. “I wondered. I looked all over my room… and yours. I thought, perhaps, I somehow lost it on the plane.”
“GLF,” Koster said. “From Irene.”
Sajan reclasped the locket round her neck. “I can explain,” she began, “but not here.” She looked out at the avenue. “He's passed us. Come on. Let's go back to your place.”
KOSTER'S LOFT OCCUPIED ONE WHOLE FLOOR OF HIS BUILDING, and the elevator opened directly onto the foyer. They removed their shoes and Koster fetched some cognac while Sajan slipped into the bathroom to dry off. She returned with a towel wrapped around her hair. She had taken off her wet dress and was engulfed in Koster's terry-cloth robe. He handed her a snifter of brandy.
“I don't need any more,” she said with a laugh, but she took the glass anyway. “Aren't you going to change? You'll catch cold.”
“I'm okay,” he replied. They sat down on the sofa in the living room area, nursing their brandies. The loft itself was a long cavernous room divided by a series of sheer cotton curtains. Only the master bedroom and the master and guest bathrooms were blocked off with real walls. The rest Koster had kept open, leveraging the significant footprint. The space had once been a factory building. It was minimally furnished, and the brick walls were practically bare.
Koster watched her in silence as Sajan sipped her cognac. The robe looked absurdly big on her. He could see the swell of her breasts where the material came together at the top. Suddenly, she turned and looked over at him. With her right hand, she fingered her locket. “I met Irene,” she said softly, “through Nick. Nick's father and the countess were friends. They met during World War II. It was the countess who first introduced me to the Craft. I lived in Europe for a time, as you know, and she and I became friends. Good friends. In truth, she treated me more like a daughter.” Sajan hesitated. “I loved her. I looked up to her. I guess it was only natural then that I requested to join the Grande Lodge. I'd always had a special interest in Gnosticism. As a teenager I was a bit of a rebel, believe it or not, and the Gnostics appealed to my nature. And Freemasonry—the lure of numbers, of secret knowledge passed down—it made so much sense to me. I was always a bit out of place: an Indian in a white man's world; a woman, yet smarter than most of the men who surrounded me. It wasn't always easy for me.” Then she laughed. “You know what I'm talking about.”
“I guess so.”
“Anyway, the Gnostic gospels are used in certain GLF rituals. They're part of a special tradition that spans back through the ages. Before the Knights Templar, the Cathars and the Manicheans. To the birth of Christianity, as it was being influenced by the philosophies of the East, including Buddhist and Hindu traditions. In many Gnostic systems, the various emanations of God, who is also known as the Monad, the One, are called aeons. These æons often came in male-female pairs referred to as syzygies. The æons constitute the pleroma, the so-called region of light.”
“The pleroma. That's what Edison mentioned in Theodore's notebook. Tesla said the God machine would facilitate a return to the pleroma.”
“Exactly,” Sajan said. “Two of the most renowned æons were Jesus and Sophia, which means wisdom in Greek. According to the Gnostic tradition, Sophia wanted to create something apart from the pleroma, and without divine assent, gave birth to the Demiurge. She wrapped him up in a cloud and created a throne for him in the heavens. The Demiurge, being isolated and ignorant of his mother, concluded that he and only he existed. He turned his mind to creation, and since he had inherited some of his mother's power, some of her essence became enclosed within the material forms of humanity, within us, and we in turn became trapped within the material universe. The goal of the Gnostic is to awaken this holy spark, thereby permitting a return to the pleroma.”
She took another sip of her cognac. “Since the Demiurge didn't belong to the pleroma, the One emanated two savior æons, Christ and the Holy Spirit, to save Man from the Demiurge. Christ took the form of a human, Jesus, in order to be able to teach Man how to achieve gnosis; that is, how to return to the pleroma.” Sajan paused. “Now you know why, when Nick told me about the Gospel of Judas, I jumped at the chance to locate it.”
“When did you first realize this wasn't about the Gospel? That it was about the schematics, Franklin's map?”
“I had my suspicions from the start. As soon as we found that first piece under Carpenters' Hall. Then, when I saw that second fragment in West Wycombe, I knew. It was obviously not just a map. It was a blueprint for some kind of circuit. An electrical device.”
“Designed to bring you back to the pleroma?”
“It fits the tradition. But as I said, the God machine cannot work.”
“And Nick Robinson? How does he fit? What exactly is your relationship?”
She smiled. “Are you jealous, Joseph? You needn't be.”
“I'm not jealous. I'm just…”
“We were lovers.”
“I knew it.” Koster jumped to his feet. “I knew it from the first time we met.” He started to pace back and forth. “What a fool I've been, what an idiot!”
“It was a long time ago, Joseph. I told you. Nick and I were introduced while I was still going to grad school. We became intimate, but it didn't work out.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know. I think his family had issues with my being Indian. Perhaps that isn't quite fair. I really don't know.” She took another sip of her cognac. Then she downed it with a quick flick of the wrist. “The truth is, I didn't love Nick. I loved who he wanted to be. I loved his ambition and drive. And his brain. But… I don't know. It just wasn't there. He introduced me to the Countess Irene. I moved to Europe, met her son. Jean-Claude was everything Nick Robinson wasn't.”
Koster stopped moving about. “Jean-Claude? Your husband? You mean to tell me that…” And then it finally dawned on him.
She nodded.
“My husband was the Countess de Rochambaud's son.”
Koster thought back to that day so many years before when he had first met the countess at the Musée Rodin. She had been pushing a pram with a baby at the time. But, Koster remembered, she had said the child belonged to her daughter. “Was your son born in Algeria?”
“Yes, he was,” Sajan said, with surprise. “How did you know that?”
“Because I met him,” he answered. “When I first met the countess in Paris. I held him right here, in my arms.” He looked down at his hands. Then he dropped them, embarrassed. “But I thought her daughter's name was Louise?”
“That's what she called me, a nickname she used on occasion. It was her way of poking fun at my Indian name. Savita means sun or Sun-God in Sanskrit, like King Louis, the Sun King.”
“But why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep all this secret?”
“Nick thought it would be better that way. When he first found Franklin's journal with its reference to the Gospel of Judas, he thought the Church wouldn't rest until the codex was found. With the Knights on our tail, we thought the less you knew, the safer you'd be. I guess, in retrospect, it sounds a little bit silly.”
“And I wouldn't reveal anything if they caught me,” Koster said, “and I talked, is that it? Which I'd undoubtedly do, being the weak-willed idiot that I am.” He kept moving about, waving the glass in his hand. “Nigel Lyman tried to warn me. He told me Nick and the countess were somehow connected, but I wouldn't listen.”
“They were good friends for years, fellow Masons of the thirty-third degree. But something happened between them. They argued—something about the Gospel of Thomas, I think.” Sajan started to say something. Then she stopped. “Neither Irene nor Nick ever said anything about it to me. And they never spoke to each other again. Not after that. I left Europe soon after Jean-Claude and Maurice died. Irene passed away two years later of a heart attack, on December nineteenth, just shy of her ninety-third birthday. I was in Asia on business at the time. I never made it back for the memorial service. The truth is, I didn't really want to go. I'd already had my share of French funerals.”
She reached out with her glass. “Is there more?” she inquired with a thin laugh.
Koster took her glass and went over to the bar to refill it. As he did so, Sajan removed the towel from her wet hair and draped it over the back of a chair. Koster filled up both glasses. He walked back and gave one to her.
“I don't blame you for not trusting me,” she said, softly.
As Koster sat down beside her, he couldn't help noticing the dark line of her cleavage.
“But I'm not the one you should be worrying about.”
“What do you mean? Who?” Koster said, sitting up.
“I called Nick from England. I told him about that letter from von Neumann to Turing, the one we found on that man in West Wycombe, addressed to Macalister. Nick knew nothing about it. Looks like Macalister may be working on his own.” She took another sip of her cognac.
“Or for somebody else,” Koster said.
“This whole thing…” She shook her head. “I don't know what to believe. I don't know what to think anymore. I'm so sorry you got dragged into this, Joseph. Nick and I thought we could avail ourselves of your knowledge and somehow keep you out of the fray. But we were wrong. I was wrong. And I'm terribly sorry. I should have been honest with you from the start. You could have been killed. Can you ever forgive me?”
Koster reached out to touch her but Sajan jumped to her feet. “I think I should go, Joseph.”
“What? Go where?” He was bewildered.
“Anywhere. Away from you. Things are going to get worse before they get better. I can feel it. I don't want you involved in this thing anymore.”
Koster laughed. “But I am involved,” he replied. “It's already too late.”
Sajan tightened the belt around the terry-cloth robe. “No, it's not. Please don't say that.” She started to move toward the rear of the loft. As she passed, Koster stood, grabbed her wrist and swung her in close.
“Don't you get it?” he said. “I love you, Savita.” She struggled but he held her tight in his arms. “I love you. Do you hear me? I can't help it, but I do.”
“Love,” she repeated. She looked at the windows. Thick lines of water bled down the glass. “You play at love, Joseph. You like to be in love. But you don't like to love, Joseph. And worse, you can't stand being loved.”
“That isn't true.”
“Isn't it? The only way you've kept Mariane alive all these years is by making a fetish of your guilt. But it's killing you, Joseph.”
Koster felt the words slice at his heart. Who died in that basement? he thought.
“Can you love, Joseph? Did you ever—”
Koster pressed the words from her lips with his kiss. He wrapped his hands round her head, grabbed her hair and drew her in close. Then he reached down, slipped his hands in her robe and it fell to the floor, exposing the curve of her breasts, the dark aureoles, the swell of her buttocks and hips. She struggled for a moment but he wouldn't release her. She started to say something and he pushed her away. She fell to the sofa, tripping over the edge. “Just shut up,” he said. “Just be quiet and kiss me.”
WHEN KOSTER AWOKE, TO THE BLAST OF A THUNDERCLAP, HE reached out unconsciously and felt for Savita. He was lying in bed, but he was lying alone. He sat up and turned on the light. Savita was gone.
Koster glanced about the room. It was a snug master bedroom, with blue velvet curtains and a queen-sized sleigh bed with white linens. The comforter had been thrown on the floor, and a memory of Savita kneeling down by the bed cascaded within him. They had made love for what seemed like hours, all over the loft, moving gradually from the living room to the kitchen and finally to the bedroom itself, where he lay. He had fallen asleep in her arms, listening to the sound of her heartbeat. He had fallen asleep, feeling totally spent, feeling safer and happier than he had felt in years.
“Savita?” he called out. But nobody answered.
Koster got out of bed. For a moment he was seized by an unreasonable panic. His digital camera! He cast about for his jacket. Then he remembered he had left it on the living room floor. Franklin's map and the Tesla schematic!
Koster opened his bureau and slipped on a fresh pair of Jockey shorts. He paused for a moment by the door. There. What was that? Something or someone was moving about in the loft. Koster opened the door. It sounded like singing, like chanting. But it wasn't the radio. He moved down the corridor leading out toward the kitchen and powder room. He rounded the corner and stopped.
Savita was kneeling on the carpet in the living room. She was wearing her panties and bra, and one of his white cotton button-down shirts. She had pushed the sofa and easy chairs to the side, drawn back the coffee table. Candles were lit all around her, at each point of the compass. She was saying something but he couldn't quite make out the words. Who was she talking to? Koster wondered.
He made his way slowly by the kitchen, past the long granite countertop and into the dining area. Sajan was clearly visible now, despite the sheer cotton curtain that blocked off that part of the loft. She was kneeling on the floor. She was writing on something, a large paper pad. “Savita?” he said, but she didn't look up. She seemed completely oblivious to him. He parted the curtains and stepped into the living room. “Savita? Are you all right?”
Immediately in front of the pad, Koster noticed a printout of the various schematics. Savita was studying it closely. Her eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight, black on black. “What are you doing?” he asked, his heart sinking. Was she trying to steal it, he wondered, as I slept, still warm from the heat of her skin? His digital camera was hooked up to the PC on his desk.
“You felt it yourself,” she said brusquely, looking up. Her eyes were glassy, her pupils dilated. The window behind her flashed white as a lightning bolt burst over Eleventh Street. “Something missing,” she said, pointing down. A nimbus of light encircled her face from the candles behind her. Here eyes seemed to give off a strange blue-green glow.
Then he realized what she had been doing. She wasn't copying the map. She was adding to it. She was rendering her own contribution. He watched as she scribbled—a circle, a rectangle, a few lines to the side.
“Pauli looks in general at the electron shell as a barrier and demarcation point,” she said. “But each fermion is really a stepping-stone.”
“What?” Koster knelt down on the carpet in front of her. She continued to scribble.
“Models of electrons show their movements in harmonious orbits,” she said. “But rarely do we see this in macro manifestations. Indeed, orbital decay—as with planets—and changes in the structure of atoms—carbon decay—suggest that static relationships and sharply defined rules rarely hold up in practice. The exclusion principle ignores natural tendencies toward elasticity, and the large amounts of space within atoms—the nucleus like a fly at the heart of the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine.” She kept scribbling. She kept adding new features to the existing schematics. She weaved the four pieces together.
“Savita,” said Koster. “Savita, look at me!”
“Thomas Kuhn claimed that paradigm shifts occur not through the incremental nature of scientific discovery but through the flaunting of plain common sense. In the Alice in Wonderland world of subatomic physics, space is not the only consideration. Time is, too. And in the space/time continuum, who is to say that only one electron can occupy the same band? Such a non-space is the door to the Monad. The clock rate at the heart of the God machine is the phi.” She looked up at Koster.“Joseph,” she said. Her eyes seemed to focus for an instant. Then they rolled back in her head.
“Savita!” Koster reached out and grabbed her, but as soon as his hands touched her skin, he felt a great shock, a jolt of static electricity, that lifted him up and flung him back toward the couch.
The candles all spluttered at once, and went out. Only the streetlights outside threw an icy pall on the room.
“Savita!” Koster shouted as he crawled back beside her. He was shaking now. His heart raced in his chest.
Sajan lay curled in the fetal position. He pressed a hand to her cheek. Her skin was cold and yet clammy with sweat. He stroked her hair gently, pulled her toward him and said, “Savita. Savita, please talk to me.”
She was still breathing but it was labored and shallow. Koster stretched out her body, wrapping the dress shirt more tightly about her. Then he leaned down and pressed his ear to her chest. He couldn't even pick up a heartbeat. Sajan shivered and he covered her up with his body, desperate to raise her temperature.
“Savita, come back to me, baby,” he whispered. Her eyes fluttered briefly. Without thinking, he bent down and kissed her. Her lips moved; she moaned and then pushed him away, her back arching as she took a great breath. Then she started to cough.
Koster got up on his knees, cradling her head in his lap. “Are you okay? Savita?”
Sajan's eyes opened. “Joseph?” She started to rise but he held her in place.
“Try not to move,” he said. “You fainted, I think. You were in some sort of trance.”
“Trance?” She pushed his hand away and struggled upright.
“What do you remember?”
“I remember us making love.”
“I like that memory.”
“Then what?”
“I remember being in bed, watching you fall asleep next to me. Then I fell asleep, too.”
“Nothing else?”
“No,” she replied. “Just the sound of the thunder outside.” She brought her knees to her chest.
“What about this?” Koster said, pulling the writing pad closer.
Sajan glanced down at the intricate drawing. “What's that?” she asked. She stared down at the pad, ran her hand along the line of components. She seemed fascinated by it.
“You don't remember? You drew it.”
“I did?”
“Are you kidding me? You really don't remember?”
Sajan shook her head. “I've never seen it before.” Her eyes remained fixed on the diagram. “But, somehow,” she added, “it seems to make sense.”
Koster picked up the pad. He tore out the sheet. Then he picked up the printout of the other schematics. “Can you walk?”
“Of course, I can walk. Why? Where are we going?”
Koster looked up at the windows. It would be dawn soon. The storm was moving east into Brooklyn. “To see your old lover,” he said. Then he laughed. “My best friend.”
PERHAPS BECAUSE IT WAS SO CLOSE TO THE WHITE HOUSE, and Vice President Linkletter was late for a meeting, they chose to rendezvous at the Hay-Adams Hotel, on Lafayette Square. Originally designed as a residential hotel in the twenties, the hotel still looked like a private mansion, with more than a hundred and fifty rooms, twenty suites and stunning views of Lafayette Park, St. John's Church and the White House.
And it was one of the few public places that still boasted a passageway that ran directly underneath the South Lawn to the White House.
The Vice President stood on the balcony of the Federal Suite. From here, the Washington Monument—poking up as it did, just beyond the dome of the White House—appeared like a giant white index finger. Things were not going well. Now that the Democrats had retaken the Senate, everything was in turmoil. Each day, the President faced some new scandal. Iraq was an absolute sinkhole and now this new inconvenience. This Evangelical crisis. Linkletter longed for the open prairies of South Texas, the coolness of morning, the vast panorama of ceniza and cottonwood, scrub brush and mesquite.
A buzzer sounded and the Vice President shivered. There was something detestable about Michael Rose. More than his drug addictions. More than his fondness for underage girls. And more than the nauseating hypocrisy that both of these weaknesses signaled. It was something palpably physical. And yet it was subtle, like the absence of odor. A kind of… transparency. The buzzer sounded again.
Linkletter waited for Bobby, his Secret Service shadow, to answer the door. When he heard Michael's voice, the Vice President turned on his heels, slipped through the French doors of the balcony and stepped back inside.
It was a luxurious suite, with a large formal dining area, two full baths and that spectacular view of Lafayette Square. The chairs in the sitting area were armless and seductively round. They were appointed in green. The color of money. So were the brocaded silk curtains, the carpet and the lampshades. It was like living at the top of a tree.
Rose stood by the entrance as Bobby wanded him down. Six feet four inches, with the shoulders of a pro linebacker, Bobby made Michael appear hunched over and flabby. To Linkletter, Michael brought to mind some Nazi Youth Leaguer—grown-up and gone to seed, with his cherry red lips, his washed-out blue eyes and that flap of pale hair.
“You're late. And I don't have much time,” the Vice President added. “What's so damned urgent that you had to drag me away from my office?”
“I want you to arrest Joseph Koster and Savita Sajan.”
Linkletter scowled. “I warned you. I told you, but nooo,” he said, shaking his head. “You wanted to hold off, to see where they'd lead you. Well, where did they lead you? Answer me, Michael. Except into deeper dog shit.” He started to pace. “What about your spy? What happened to him?”
“Our informant's been compromised. Too closely watched now.”
Linkletter stopped. “As if the new Attorney General doesn't have enough on his plate.” He bobbed his head like a hen. “God almighty! Alder's going to go nuts.” He turned on his heel. “Arrest them? On what grounds? Based on what I've been told, it's your people doing all the killing. What exactly happened to Lacey?” The Vice President plopped himself down on the overstuffed sofa. “And why doesn't Thaddeus answer my calls?”
At these words, Michael Rose finally stopped fidgeting. He glared down at Linkletter.
The Vice President crossed his legs. “How about it?” he said.
Without warning, Michael took a step closer. He towered over Linkletter in such a threatening manner that Bobby dashed in from the side. It was as if he had anticipated the move. The Secret Service agent lunged forward, his hand out. “Back away, Pastor Rose,” he said tightly.
Michael moved away from the sofa. He stared down at Linkletter, who sat motionless now.
“Don't get carried away,” the Vice President said.
“This is an issue of national and not just spiritual security,” said Michael. “They went to the Edison estate.”
“So I read.”
“They found another piece of the map.”
“Apparently.”
“Remember Ohio, David.”
Linkletter smiled. He had been preparing for this. He and President Alder had covered that territory. The truth was, though Alder felt grateful to the Heart of the Family Research Council for their help during the last presidential election, though the President subscribed to Michael's Evangelical faith, both he and Linkletter were becoming increasingly wary of young Michael Rose. He was becoming erratic, unpredictable. He scratched at himself like a junkie. Meanwhile, his old man, Pastor Thaddeus, had failed to return any of Linkletter's calls. President Alder himself planned to phone him. Per haps Thaddeus, too, was distancing himself from his son. Michael looked like a man who was desperate, who would do practically anything to achieve what he wanted. The GOP needed the Christian Right vote, but could Michael deliver it? Had a split occurred in the Rose tree?
“The President's not running again,” the Vice President concluded. “And neither am I. Thank goodness. That old decoy needs a fresh coat of paint.”
“Have you forgotten your party?”
“The Democrats will self-destruct once again. Let Hillary and Obama slug it out. The election's still a long way away, and—”
“I meant the one in Nevada.”
Linkletter sat perfectly still. Michael Rose lifted a hand and pointed out the window. “You see how close we are to the White House? The vantage point? I hear the Hay-Adams is the most bugged hotel in the city.” He waved his right arm like a Vegas magician. “Nothing goes on here that somebody's not listening to, or watching. Just because I'm from Arizona doesn't mean I'm a hick.”
Michael sat down directly across from Linkletter. He pulled his chair closer. Then, he leaned forward, hooking his fingers together, and said in a whisper, “Wouldn't you think that the Worldwide Church of Christ and the Heart of the Family Research Council would maintain at least the same set of security standards as this broken-down old hotel?” He motioned toward Linkletter. The Vice President slid to the edge of the sofa, until their heads were practically touching. “The night of the poker party,” Michael continued. “What was that boy's name again? Kevin. Yeah, that was it. You know what I'm talking about. You give me what I want… Even trade. Call out the Seals, the Rangers, whatever. CIA. NSA. IRS. I don't care. As long as we find out what happened at Glenmont. Where's the Gospel of Judas? And what went wrong with the God machine? Do we understand one another?”
Linkletter leaned back in the sofa. He pulled at the tip of his chin. Then, he said, “We should go hunting together again. I like the way you shoot.” His voice was as cold as a clear mountain stream.
“As long as you're standing in front of me, Mr. Vice President.”
THE ELEVATOR RUMBLED UP THE NARROW BLACK SHAFT, RELENTLESSLY, toward the Compass Press offices. As it climbed, Koster thought back to the years he and Nick had been friends, all the moments they'd shared, all their secrets and dreams. Countless meals and late nights, countless parties. And all of those favors which Nick had dispensed without even a thought.
This was not going to be easy.
Koster looked into the white plastic bag at his feet. Then, he turned and glanced back at Sajan.
She looked so tiny and helpless, and tired, in her close-fitting brown suit. Koster felt his breath catch. He was playing a dangerous game. He didn't trust Sajan very much anymore, despite her confession. But he loved her. And although he knew in his heart he should take her on faith, he had to be sure that she wasn't just playing him. Not again. He needed some proof, some real evidence. A conjecture simply wasn't sufficient.
How close had she been to Nick Robinson? And what was their relationship still? Had it all been a setup, or did she genuinely love Koster? He had to be certain, and the only way to do that was to bring Robinson down, to force him to reveal his true colors… in front of Savita.
Koster turned toward the doors as the bell rang and they reached the twelfth floor.
The lobby of the Compass Press publishing house was impressively large. Glass-fronted bookcases covered the walls. There were approximately 3,456 titles, he calculated: twenty-four bookshelves; twelve shelves each; with an average of twelve titles per shelf. Recessed spot lighting enlivened the room. A voluptuous spiral staircase, with sixty-six steps in total, made from handcrafted Italian slate and Swedish steel, disappeared like a corkscrew into the ceiling. The transom-shaped window at the rear of the lobby was twelve feet six inches across.
How do I know this, he wondered, with such exactitude? The firm of McKenzie & Voight had passed on the renovation bid. But, ever since that moment in his loft, when he had reached out and touched Sajan in her fugue state, Koster had felt somehow… different. More awake. His senses enlivened, acute. It was as if his Asperger Syndrome had been augmented somehow.
The window looked out onto Union Square, at the tops of the trees in the park and the dog run. At the center of the room was a circular desk, made of brushed steel and beer-colored brass. Robinson's assistant Macalister was standing beside it.
“Well, well,” Koster said. “What a surprise.”
“Mr. Robinson is expecting you.”
“He is? Of course he is. I knew that.”
Macalister stared down at the white bag in Koster's hand with a half-smile on his lips. He looked like an owl, he stared so intently.
Koster waved his right arm in an imperious way, and Macalister turned in silence and escorted them up the stone staircase.
Robinson's office was at the end of the corridor. Macalister paused for a moment and searched them, running his hands down their bodies with care. He took special note of the white plastic bag. When he was satisfied they were carrying no weapons, he knocked once, then stepped through the door. Nick was sitting behind his desk. As soon as he saw Koster and Sajan, he leapt to his feet.
“Joseph,” he cried. He crossed the large room in two strides, reached out and embraced them.
Koster tried to pull himself free but he felt dwarfed in Nick's arms.
“And Savita,” said Robinson, stepping back. “You're looking good. I'm so glad to see you.”
“Are you?” said Koster.
Robinson ignored the question. “How about some coffee? Espresso? Tea?” He looked at Sajan, then back at Koster again.
“No, thank you. And no fruit juice or yogurt or green figs.”
“Excuse me?” Robinson pointed to a couple of chairs. “Won't you have a seat, then?” he said. He walked back around the edge of his desk.
Sajan moved in to sit down but Koster hung back by the door. “Whatever I have to say, I say just to you.” He looked pointedly at Macalister.
Robinson sighed. He glanced at his assistant and nodded. “As you wish. Robert's not offended, are you, Robert?” He sat down at his desk.
“Not in the least.” Macalister raised a black eyebrow. It looked unnaturally dark over his glacial blue eyes. Then he turned and slipped out the door.
When they were alone, Koster stepped closer toward Robinson's desk. But he still didn't sit down. “How long have you known?” he asked.
“Known what, Joseph?”
“About the God machine, Nick. Franklin's map. This was never about the Gospel of Judas, was it? You wanted the el Minya schematic. The gospel was just the cheese in your mousetrap.”
“That's not true. I still care about the Gospel of Judas. If it's as old as it appears, it could—”
“Shut up, Nick.”
“What did you say?” Robinson straightened. The smile seemed to freeze on his face.
“I said, ‘Shut up.’” Then he paused. “No, I didn't. I said, ‘Shut up, Nick.’”
“What's gotten into you, Joseph?”
“I thought we were friends. I thought we were on the same side, the same team. Why couldn't you have just been honest with me?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
“You don't trust me, do you, is that it? Even after all these years.” Koster picked up the plastic bag at his feet and placed it with great care on the desk.
“What's that?”
“Franklin's journal. I don't want it. Take it back. I don't want any part of your quest anymore.”
Robinson pushed the plastic bag to the side. “This isn't about trust, Joseph. This isn't about you and me. It's about something much bigger, and far more important. This concerns all of mankind. The truth is,” he added, “I didn't want to see you get hurt.”
“Just admit it, Nick. You knew from the very beginning. About the God machine. About Franklin's map. And you called the schematics—what was it? Masonic curiosities.” Koster laughed.
“Yes, I knew. Does that make you feel better?”
“It's a start.” Koster finally sat down. He leaned forward and said, “You should have told me, Nick. About your role in the Freemasons. Mr. Thirty-third degree and all that. About your relationship with Savita. Yes, I know. And your friend, the Countess Irene. The GLF. I know all about it.”
Robinson turned toward Sajan. “My, haven't we gotten cozy?”
Koster sprang to his feet. He leaned across Robinson's desk. “Be careful, Nick.”
Robinson smiled. He leaned back in his chair. “Or what? This rough stuff doesn't become you, Joseph. It's simply not convincing.”
“Or you'll never get the last piece of the map.”
Robinson stiffened. “There was an Edison fragment?”
“A Tesla schematic,” Sajan said.
It was the first time she had spoken since they had entered the room and Koster felt charged by Sajan's words. She had finally said something. And on his behalf! “Yeah, the Tesla schematic. And that letter,” he added, “from von Neumann to Turing, about Boole. Your people stole it, didn't they? But the Knights took it away. Savita said you claimed it was news to you. Why did you deny knowing about it? Why did you lie?”
Robinson glanced at Sajan. “I… had my reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Joseph, are you sure you want to know what's really at stake here?”
“Stop playing games, Nick.”
“I've never been more serious in my life.” Robinson stood up. He buttoned his gray cashmere jacket. He straightened his tie. “No. I can't tell you, Joseph. I'm sorry.”
Koster flew around the desk in one fluid movement. He grabbed the front of Robinson's shirt. Robinson teetered for an instant on the tips of his toes, and then tumbled back down to his chair. “Why the fuck not?” Koster snarled.
Nick stared down at the fingers clamped to his shirt. “But if you're willing,” he said with a Buddha-like smile, “I can show you.”
THEY TOOK THE PRIVATE ELEVATOR DOWN TO THE BASEMENT garage and climbed into a beat-up Suburban, mud-splattered, beige, with tinted windows and the remnants of bumper stickers on the rear door. Macalister drove. Nick sat beside him, with Koster and Sajan in the back.
They drove west on Fourteenth Street, and then north onto Eighth Avenue. Macalister checked the mirror repeatedly. When he felt secure that they weren't being followed, Robinson swiveled about in his seat.
“For your own protection,” he said, pulling out a pair of black sleeping masks.
He climbed up on his knees, and placed one on Sajan's face and the other on Koster's. But it didn't matter. They drove north the whole time, except for a couple of detours—no doubt for their benefit, Koster thought. He knew by the temperature of the sun on his skin. They traveled ninety-eight blocks in this manner, and by the time the car came to a stop, they were somewhere in Harlem.
Robinson took off their masks. They were underground, in a parking garage. It was a private garage with barely room for one car, it was so chock-full of spare parts and tires and tools. One half of the space was taken up by a workbench. They squeezed round the Suburban and made their way up some steps to the house.
No, it wasn't a house. It was a temple, Koster realized. Masonic symbols were all over the woodwork and flooring. But the place was a dump, ramshackle and dusty. And empty. There wasn't a soul anywhere. Loose boards had been tossed about with abandon. He noticed a saw-horse in one room. Dusty white sheets covered mysterious piles. There was a large hole in the living room wall. Struts poked through like cracked ribs. The place looked abandoned, like it hadn't been lived in for years. Except, Koster noticed, for the motion detectors. And the cameras. In each corner, mostly hidden by torn patches of wallpaper. The detectors and the cameras were new. They were state-of-the-art. And immaculate.
Robinson and Macalister led them through the mansion, past the foyer, down the hall to the staircase. It shuddered and shook as they climbed. Halfway up, a piece of the step had come loose; Koster could see the main floor beneath them, in between his feet.
Nick took a turn at the head of the stairs. They made their way down a long narrow corridor into a bedroom. Here again, the room was a mess. A rusting metal bed frame had collapsed in one corner. The wall-to-wall carpeting—a dusty pea green—had been ripped from the floor. A large painting had once hung on the wall, but all that remained was the shape of its memory, where it had protected a rectangle of textured green wallpaper. The rest had been blanched, microwaved through the years by the sun.
“This way,” Robinson told them, stepping into the closet. Macalister followed, then Sajan. Koster took up the rear. It was a tight fit. The closet was dark. Robinson reached out and pushed at the wall, at something Koster couldn't quite see. There was a distinct click, and the shelves at the rear of the closet suddenly collapsed. The wall swung to the side. “Follow me,” Nick said. Then he vanished.
They trailed him into the passageway. It took a few seconds for Koster's eyes to adjust to the dark. Then he noticed a faint glow at the base of the corridor. At his feet. Something phosphorescent, he thought, as the door suddenly slammed—Bam!—right behind him.
Koster jumped.
They were trapped now. He and Sajan felt for each other, their hands reaching out in the dark.
“Don't be alarmed,” they heard Robinson say. A moment later, a light flashed on at the rear of the corridor. Another door opened, and once again Robinson vanished. He was suddenly gone. The man moved like a panther.
Koster looked over Sajan, over Macalister's shoulders, and saw a beam of white light, lancing down from the ceiling. A spotlight. It illuminated a glass-fronted case, like a rostrum, a podium. There was a manuscript in it. They entered the room and Koster spied a whole series of cases, each pinioned by bright beams of light. There were dozens of them, in several long rows. The rest of the windowless room was half lit. It looked like a museum. Or a mausoleum, thought Koster. A chill danced down his spine.
“I was twelve when I first heard of the Gospel of Judas and the El Minya schematic,” said Robinson. “The God machine. Just a boy, really.”
Koster stepped up to the nearest glass case. It contained a codex of some kind, some version of the Gospel of Judas. Medieval, he thought, with its effusive black script, its colorful lettering, dressed in blues and gold leaf. Thirteenth-century.
“I saw a rough sketch of it in a book that belonged to my father,” Robinson continued. “He was a Master Mason too. And I never forgot it.” He hesitated for a moment. “Just like Franklin.” Koster could see his outline but he couldn't quite see his face. Macalister moved through the shadows behind Nick. “It haunted me,” Nick concluded. “It lingered inside of me. And I wondered. I wondered,” he said, as he bobbed into the light, “why such a secret should have been passed down to us. Why this mysterious knowledge. Over the centuries. The millennia. First Abraham, who was a contemporary of Judas. It was Judas who showed him how to draw the schematic, long before he transcribed it. And da Vinci, who hid his fragment behind his portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, Duke Sforza's mistress. Hid it away, but for whom? And then Benjamin Franklin. And Nikola Tesla. All men of the Craft, I might add. All links in the chain. For whom?” he repeated. Then, he smiled. “They hid it for us.”
“What is this place?” Koster asked. “And why did you bring us here?”
“Take a minute. Look about you,” said Robinson. He swept out his arm. “It's taken me thirty-two years to amass this collection.”
Koster moved from rostrum to rostrum. Each held a different codex, different versions of the same thing—the Gospel of Judas. No, Koster realized. There were other gospels as well, like the Secret Book of James. Here, the Epiphanes. And there, the Gospel of Mary.
“Some might consider me somewhat obsessive,” said Robinson. He threw out a laugh. “When I set out to find a piece…”
They were all Gnostic, Koster noticed. And some remarkably ancient. That's when he saw it. In the very last row.
“… I generally find it.”
Koster pressed his hands to the glass, the breath trapped in his lungs. The Gospel of Thomas. The manuscript he had been searching for while in France, fifteen years ago. The one he had dug for, with his bare hands, under Chartres Cathedral. What Mariane had died for. He couldn't believe it. He looked up.
Nick Robinson was staring at him. “As you can see,” he concluded, triumphantly.
Sajan ran up beside Koster. She pushed him away and peered down at the case. “You had it,” she whispered. And she laughed a small laugh. It cut like a sliver of glass. “You lied to me, Nick. You said that you never received it. That's why you and the countess…” She shook her head. “You promised the countess you would publish it, reveal the truth to the world. But you never intended to, did you, Nick? You lied. You kept it hidden away. In this tomb.”
“I could little afford such a confrontation with the Church at the time. And I knew that as long as I had the Gospel of Thomas, the Church would leave me alone to continue my quest for the El Minya schematic, the map and the God machine. Just like Franklin, when he was attacked by that stranger in London, as he revealed in his journal. I know what I promised Irene,” Nick said. “And I meant it. But it wasn't the right time. Not then. And it wasn't your time.”
“My time?”
He laughed. “We've been drawn here, each of us, for a reason,” said Robinson. “This was all meant to be.”
“I'm not a Hindu,” Sajan said. “Or is my color still throwing you off? Nothing's predestined, Nick.”
“Then how do you explain Franklin's map? Did Abraham choose? Did da Vinci?”
Sajan hesitated.
Robinson began to circle the room, moving in and out of the spotlights. “All of these pieces, these fragments,” he said, “are part of a two-thousand-year-old puzzle. Some in Greek. Some in Mishnaic Hebrew. Aramaic. And many much older than the Nussberger-Tchacos. It's taken me the better part of my lifetime, but the collection is almost complete.” He paused at the end of the row. He looked down at the rostrum before him. It was empty. “Only one codex remains. Only one is still missing.”
“Franklin's Gospel of Judas,” said Koster.
Nick nodded. “Missing, until his journal was uncovered in Philly. Then you, Joseph, came to my rescue. As I knew you would. And Savita as well. My two oldest and dearest friends in the world.”
“Cut the crap, Nick. You used us.”
“Perhaps so. Just as you've used me through the years. One hand washes the other. That doesn't mean I don't love you. Who's looked after you, Joseph? Who's taken care of you your whole life? Found you work when you needed it. Picked you up every time that you fell—”
“I wonder, Nick. Did you know even then?” asked Sajan, cutting in.
“What are you talking about?”
“When you first met us. The smart Indian woman with some interest in Biblical things; a devout Christian who just happened to have a degree in electrical engineering—before you turned her into a fellow Freemason and Gnostic. And Joseph, with his mathematical skills, his insights and doggedness, his trustworthiness. Did you think about using us even then?”
Robinson smiled. “I admired you. I thought you both had interesting brains. And, yes, I admit it. I knew even then that—one day—this would probably happen. That you'd become part of this quest. It seemed, well… inevitable. Why else had you been thrown in my path?”
“Your path? You asked me to do you a favor,” said Koster. “Remember? You asked me to help you.”
“You've done it,” Sajan said abruptly. Koster heard the tremor in her voice.
“Done what? What's he done?” Koster asked.
Robinson moved to the rear of the chamber. He must have pressed some hidden button or lever because the wall suddenly opened. A doorway appeared. Robinson motioned them forward, then stepped through the opening. Macalister followed.
“Done what?” Koster repeated.
But no one answered him.
They trailed Robinson and Macalister down several flights of steep spiral stairs. When they reached the basement, Robinson hesitated for a moment outside a steel door, waiting for Koster and Sajan to draw near. Then, he looked up at a camera sticking out of the wall. He waved and the steel door swung open, revealing a long narrow corridor.
“Prepare yourself, Joseph,” he said, as he took a step forward. “It's not every day that you get to meet God.”
THE DOOR AT THE END OF THE CORRIDOR OPENED UP ONTO a glass-fronted antechamber which, in turn, overlooked a much larger clean room below. Men in white bodysuits bustled about, attending to various pieces of machinery. At the rear of the room stood a small bank of glowing computers, hooked up to some kind of electrical bower—like an arc or a doorway. It was crowned with what appeared to Koster to be bell jars, made of emerald green glass, each connected by wire to a dreadlock of cables extending down through the floor. A man carrying a clipboard glanced up at the antechamber. It was hard to distinguish his features through the headpiece. Robinson waved and the man in the clean suit waved back.
“Sometimes, when I stand here,” Robinson told them, “it's like I have my hand on Ben Franklin's kite string. Like I'm just holding on.” He smiled. “You can feel it,” he said. “Rising up through the clouds. The mark of each man. Each circle and triangle and square. From Abraham to da Vinci, to Franklin.” He turned and looked back at Sajan. “All that I need is the Tesla schematic to complete the phi chip and create the harmonic.” He held out a hand. “And we don't have much time. Michael Rose has already constructed a God machine.”
Sajan took a step back. “Michael Rose—the Evangelical preacher? What's he got to do with this? That's impossible. And how would you know?”
“What do you think happened to Archbishop Lacey?”
Sajan shook her head. “You're playing games with me, Nick. I don't know what you're talking about. You're trying to confuse me.”
“The Tesla schematic.” Robinson looked over at Koster. “Where is it?”
“I think it's time we were going. Don't you?” Koster said to Savita.
“You're not going anywhere.”
“What was that?” Koster took a step closer to Robinson.
Macalister swept in from the side.
“Do you mean to say that you'd keep us here forcibly,” Koster added, “against our free will?” He glanced over at Sajan. She was staring down at the clean room below.
He had finally uttered the words. But now that it was over, now that he'd finally said it, the line felt disingenuous, inauthentic somehow. And she wasn't even paying attention.
“We saw what you wanted to show us, Nick,” Koster continued. “You've built it. The God machine. Congratulations. You did it.” He smiled a tight smile. “But the god machine is never going to work. Not without Tesla's schematic.”
“What do you want, Joseph?”
Koster stepped toward the window overlooking the clean room. He watched as the technicians moved about, to and fro, performing their duties. He took a deep breath. Then he said, “I don't want anything from you, Nick. Never again.” He turned slowly around, finally facing him. “Do you hear me? I just want to be free of you. We both do. Let us go.”
Robinson's face clouded over. He motioned toward Macalister. “Search him,” he ordered.
“I already did. He's not armed,” said Macalister.
“Search him again.”
Macalister began patting him down. He pulled out Koster's wallet and keys, a few coins and that packet of printouts. He tossed them onto a table nearby.
Robinson picked up the printouts. He peeled them apart with his manicured fingernails. There were six of them. And they looked practically identical. “Which one is it?” he asked Koster.
Koster smiled. “Do we have a deal, Nick?”
“Do you think the Knights of Malta will just let you go? There's a price on your head now. There are warrants out—”
“That's the trouble with liars,” Koster said, interrupting him. “After a while, you just stop believing them. We're being watched, Nick, we know. But that's all. Otherwise, they would have detained us at Kennedy.”
“Your status has changed. You've been… upgraded.”
“Just tell me this, will you? For my own personal edification: Were you the one responsible for my getting pulled off that tower project in Newark? At McKenzie and Voight?”
“You needed a break, Joseph.”
“I thought so. And that condominium gig. Before I went off to France, years ago. Before I said yes to your book deal, your quest for the Gospel of Thomas, and Mariane died?”
Robinson held out the printouts. “Which is it?” he said. “Which features the last piece of the map? It is the last piece, isn't it?”
“Answer me, Nick.”
“Yes,” he replied. The word drifted like a leaf to the floor. “And I would do it again. All of it.” Robinson took a step closer. “You have no idea what I've sacrificed. I've given up things, things I loved…” He turned toward Sajan. For a moment he hesitated. “Things I still love, because I had to. Because my personal feelings were of little concern in the grand scheme of things. They got in the way of the quest.”
“In the grand scheme of things,” Koster repeated. “Well, I don't live in the grand scheme of things. I live in the small scheme of Koster. And in my world, strange as it seems, love seems to have found itself at the top of the list.”
Robinson laughed. He waved at the clean room below. “You'd give up this chance to unravel the world's greatest conjecture? The ultimate proof? I don't think so.” He shook his head slowly. “Not Joseph Koster. A line of knowledge has been passed down to us. For more than two thousand years, the God machine has been lingering in the minds of great men. Each has added his piece, one by one. Now, the line is complete. Don't you see? God wants us to build it. He wants us to open that doorway and speak to Him. He gave us the plans.”
“This is wrong,” Sajan said. “Wrong. You can't do it, Nick. Don't give it to him, Joseph.”
“It's your fate, Joseph,” Robinson continued. “God gave you your mathematical skills, even your Asperger syndrome, for a reason. He chose you to follow this quest. It's your destiny.”
Koster shook his head. “People aren't people to you, are they, Nick? They're just chess pieces, things you get to push around on your chessboard, biding your time, until you can leverage their natural abilities. In the grand scheme of things,” he said with a laugh. “I should know.”
He looked down at the printouts in Robinson's hand. He pointed. “That's the one, Nick. Say hi to God for me.”
Koster turned toward the door. For a moment,Macalister barred his way. Koster waited. Time crawled to a stop. Then, Robinson nodded and Macalister stepped to the side.
Koster reached for Sajan's hand.
“Robert,” said Robinson. “Make sure you open Joseph's window on the drive back downtown. It'll be the last breath of fresh air he'll be tasting until Guantanamo Bay.”
IT WAS EERILY QUIET IN THE MUD-SPLATTERED SUBURBAN AS they made their way south, down the Upper West Side. Koster and Sajan reclined in the back, with those idiotic sleeping masks on their faces. At one point, Koster could feel the car veer off to the right. It turned and then straightened, and he could picture them driving west toward the river.
What does Macalister have in store for us? Koster wondered. It would be so easy for him to pull off to the side of the road, near some jetty or pier, put a couple of bullets in them and then drop them like garbage into the sinewy depths of the Hudson.
The Suburban came to a halt. Koster waited.
But Macalister didn't get out of his seat. He merely sat there, without moving, the engine still idling. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. Koster leaned forward and said, “No hard feelings, Macalister, right? About before, I mean. When I asked you to get out of Nick's office. Right?”
Macalister was silent. Koster sighed. “Is it traffic? Is that what it is?”
Finally, Macalister spoke. “My family's been serving the Robinsons for three generations. It's in our blood. They're an honorable clan, deserving of praise and devotion.” He paused. “And Master Nick has always been a good friend to you. Since you two were boys. Though I never did understand it. I think he feels sorry for you, the way he protects you. Like a brother that's bigger and stronger. But you…” The words seemed to catch in his throat, as if they were covered with thistles. “…you don't know the meaning of loyalty. You squander his trust and his friendship. A besom comes into the picture and it all goes to hell.”
“Now, see here, Macalister,” Koster said. He reached for his blindfold.
“Take that off and I'll kill you.”
Koster hesitated. Then he lowered his arms.
“I should kill you both, anyway. For breaking his heart. Right here, with my hands. If he hadn't said otherwise. I saw it coming but he wouldn't believe me. He just couldn't. He trusted you.”
Koster didn't reply. What was the point?
Macalister took off their blindfolds. “I should kill you,” he said, “but I won't. Unlike some,” he said bleakly, “I was raised to be a man of my word.”
The Suburban started to move. They ascended a ramp and slipped south on the parkway, following the river. Thirty minutes later, they were once again in the heart of the Village.
Macalister dropped them off at Union Square. He simply pulled over and they got out. He never said a word. He didn't even look at them as he swung back into traffic.
They headed downtown on foot. No one seemed to be following them. Sajan checked several times. They walked past Koster's building, between Broadway and University, and then doubled back, ducking into the lobby at the very last moment.
“He has to be stopped,” Sajan said as soon as they entered the elevator. They were the first words she'd spoken since leaving the temple in Harlem.
Koster didn't reply. He waited until they were standing alone in his loft. The elevator moved out of sight, back down to the lobby. He watched the light disappear through the Plexiglas window in the door. He felt for the light switch. “Did you know?” he said, finally, as the lights in the ceiling popped on.
Savita moved toward the kitchen. “Know what?” she replied. She pulled out a bottle of seltzer from the fridge.
Koster didn't answer. He followed her into the kitchen. He sat at the counter. It filled him with ineffable pleasure to simply watch her, especially when she was performing such ordinary tasks. The turn of a wrist. The twist of the hips. The curl of her lips as she concentrated.
“I always suspected he had the Gospel of Thomas,” Sajan said, adding ice to her glass. It fizzled and hissed. “If that's what you mean.” Then she turned and looked up at him. “Irene told me she sent it to him, but Nick staunchly denied it. She wanted him to publish the logoi, and Nick promised he would.” She took a sip of her drink. “At first, the countess refused to accept it. Her Lodge issued a protest. She made quite a stink. But after Jean-Claude died… and Maurice—Irene took their deaths harder than I did, I think. Is that a bad thing for me to admit?”
Koster shook his head. But he didn't say anything.
“Anyway, I believed Nick when he told me he wanted to find the Gospel of Judas. I wanted to believe him, I guess. But when I saw Franklin's map, all the pieces… I knew. He wanted the El Minya schematic, not the Gospel of Judas. We can't let him build it, the God machine. We just can't, Joseph.”
“I have the last piece,” Koster said. “Only you and I know that it even exists.”
“You mean the one that I drew? Where is it?”
Koster tapped at his temple. “Safe and sound.”
“You remember it? But I added dozens of extra components. How could you possibly remember it?”
“Don't ask me how, but I do.”
Sajan folded her arms. “Besides,” she continued, “you have no idea if what I sketched means anything. I'm no Franklin or Tesla. Or da Vinci, for crying out loud.”
“No, you're not. You're Savita Sajan. A Gnostic and Freemason, and a most logical choice at the end of a long line of learning. Not to mention the woman I love.”
She took another sip of her seltzer. Her face was impassive. Then she leaned forward and said, “Did you mean what you said before? About love being at the top of your list?”
“Yes, I meant it. I don't give a damn about the Gospel of Judas. Or the God machine. Not if it means losing you.”
She searched his eyes. Then she nodded. “Good. Come with me.” She left her glass on the counter and slipped down the hall. As soon as she entered the bedroom, she ducked into the closet and returned with his suitcase.
“What are you doing?” he said.
She flung the suitcase up on the bed. “I want you to take a bus out to Teterboro. Rendezvous there with Ravindra. He has instructions to fly you south to Belize. I have money squirreled away all over the world. We can be together,” she said. “You and me. Safe and sound, Joseph.” She reached into his bureau and started plucking out clothes.
“What about you?” Koster asked.
“I'll meet you on Ambergris Caye, in a day or two.”
“A day or two? You want me to leave?” Koster reached out and grabbed her. He held her tight by the wrist.
“Let go of me.”
“If you want me to leave, Savita, just say so. I'm a big boy. I can handle it.”
“Oh, God, Joseph.” She sighed and pulled away. “You're such an idiot. Is that why you said all those things?”
“What things?”
“To poor Nick.”
“Poor Nick! Now you're starting to sound like Macalister.”
Sajan walked away from the bed, toward the window. She looked down at the alley below. Someone had planted a palm in a sliver of sunlight. “I'm not one of those chicks who gets off on men fighting over them. Not in real life, anyway… Well, maybe that isn't quite true. I'm a Gnostic, after all. Not a saint.” She shook her head. “Are you testing me? How'd I do, Joseph? Convinced yet?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Or did you feel you had to knock Nick down to become him? Perhaps you simply enjoyed it.”
“Nick deserved it. He's been lying to us from the start. You heard him. He admitted it. He's been using us.”
“You have a lot to learn about love, Joseph.” Sajan's eyes blazed at him. “Nick's just doing what he thinks is right. We all are. We're all prisoners of our convictions.”
“Oh, I see. The end justifies the means, is that it? Call me fussy, but I don't endorse kidnapping. Or murder. We're lucky we got out of that place. If I hadn't given him the Tesla schematic… Oh, forget it!” He strode into his closet and returned with her suitcase. He threw it down on the bed. “Now, get packing. We're leaving. Both of us.”
“It's too late for that now. For me, anyway. There are things here I still have to do—”
“Either pack your suitcase, or I'll put you in it,” he snarled. And he meant it.
When they had finished packing, they hauled their two suitcases to the front of the loft. Koster pressed for the elevator.
“Where are we going?” Sajan asked him.
“I don't know. Out of here. Belize sounds good. I have a friend in Ann Arbor. One in Moscow, too. Friends all over the world.”
“You… have friends… all over the world.”
“Why do you sound so incredulous?”
“When's the last time you saw them?”
“Once a week, via Skype.”
“No. In person.”
“Well,” said Koster. The elevator groaned as it climbed up the shaft. Then a light appeared in the crack. “I've never actually met them… in person. They belong to my math club. But that could be a distinct benefit now.”
There was the clatter of shattering glass. Koster turned just in time to see three men in helmets crash through the windows and roll to the floor.
Something burst into smoke at his feet. Koster grabbed Sajan by the hand. The elevator door finally opened. He leapt forward—and stopped.
The elevator. It was taken. It was jammed full of cops.
SOME PEOPLE BOAST ABOUT VALOR IN THE FACE OF THE ENEMY while confronting unassailable odds. Some recount desperate rallies, or rousing escapes. But few have had the pleasure of staring down New York's Finest when they've been told they're arresting another terrorist cell. Precious little burns in the minds of New Yorkers with more indelible horror than the memory of September 11. Especially New Yorkers wearing uniforms.
All this came to Koster as he found himself pushed to the floor of his loft, as his face was pressed to the tile and his arms twisted behind him. He could barely see. The air was still thick with smoke, and his eyes burned. Then he was handcuffed, and being yanked to his feet. He coughed as they searched him for weapons. Koster felt like he was going to throw up.
A few feet away, he saw Sajan being dragged through the curtains. They were taking her toward the rear of the loft. Toward the bedrooms.
“Hey, wait a minute—” said Koster. The words had barely left his mouth before he felt the blow in his kidney . The air was forced from his chest. Koster buckled. He started to fall, but someone caught him at the very last moment and spun him about.
He was a large man with green eyes and a wisp of black hair poking out from just under his helmet and gas mask. A sergeant, Koster noticed. And he was holding a nightstick.
“Where are they taking her?” Koster demanded.
“You don't learn, do you?” the sergeant replied. Then he snuffed him. He jabbed Koster with all of his might, with the tip of his club, without warning, in the pit of his stomach.
Koster buckled and retched, but nothing came out save a thin stream of spittle. He spat, turned his head. The smoke was beginning to clear and he noticed some men standing around his computer. One sat at his desk. He was tapping at the keyboard.
“You're under arrest,” said the sergeant.
“On what charges?” As he straightened, wheezing, Koster realized that his handcuffs prevented him from drawing his elbows together in front. His stomach and sternum were completely exposed. Sajan was nowhere in sight.
“For violations of the Patriot Act.”
“You're joking, right?”
“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…” The sergeant jabbed him with the tip of his nightstick each time he concluded a sentence. A second policeman materialized out of the smoke.
“Sergeant, you're wanted in back,” he began.
The sergeant looked up. “Says who?” he snapped.
The man's visor and gas mask made it impossible to see his face. “Special Agent Webster. Homeland Security. Look, Sarge, your captain's really pissed off about something. I'm just passing the message along. If you want, I'll take the prisoner down for you.”
The beefy sergeant's eyes narrowed. Then, he waved to another policeman. “Hey, Peterson,” he called. “Take this guy down to the lobby for me.”
Webster shrugged. Peterson came over and together they escorted Koster to the elevator. Smoke had permeated the shaft, and the enclosed space reeked of chemicals. Koster could barely move, jammed as he was between the two massive policemen.
“Hey, Peterson,” said Webster, as the door closed.
“Hey, what?”
“Ever see one of these?”
Peterson looked down. Special Agent Webster was holding something in his hand; Koster couldn't see what it was. Then he heard a soft pop.
Peterson's head shot back against the elevator wall. Two red wires jutted out of his neck. He wiggled and thrashed about like a fish. Then he collapsed. As he fell, the red wires grew taut, and Koster finally noticed the stun gun in Webster's right hand. “What the hell…” he began.
Without warning, Webster struck him in the windpipe with the side of his hand. Koster couldn't breathe. He bent over, and Webster slammed him against the elevator door. There was a loud crack as his face struck the panel. Then, nothing but pain.
When Koster finally opened his eyes, Webster was turning a key in the panel beside him. Right there. By his face. Everything seemed to appear as if it were down a long tunnel. Blurred by tears. Koster looked up. He could just dimly see the floors counting off on the digital display. Three. Two. One. But the elevator kept going. It didn't stop at the lobby.
Koster tried to get up. He put one shoulder on the wall, but Webster pushed it away, and he tumbled back down to the floor. Then, the elevator stopped. The door opened.
Koster felt himself being pulled upright by his collar. Special Agent Webster flung him like a bag of dirty laundry through the door. They were in the basement, Koster realized. And they were alone.
He crawled forward on his knees, his thoughts churning. Where was Sajan? Were they hurting her? He tried desperately to wiggle away. The special agent stepped up behind him. Once again, he lifted him up by the collar. Koster braced himself for another brutal punch in the kidneys. But none came. Webster simply stood there behind him. Without moving.
After several seconds, Koster swiveled about.
The special agent was silhouetted against the light of the elevator. He looked barely human in his black body armor. “Now, we're even,” Webster said. Then, he reached up. He pulled off his gas mask and helmet.
It was Macalister.
SAJAN WOKE UP IN WHAT APPEARED TO BE AN UNFINISHED basement. She felt groggy, unsettled. Her head ached. And she was tied to a chair.
The last thing she remembered was being dragged by policemen to the bedroom in Koster's loft in the Village. Then they had pressed a rag to her face. And everything had gone dark. But this was clearly no holding cell.
She turned her head, looked about her. A puce-colored washer and dryer stood against the far wall. More purple than red. Several rows of plastic green chairs were stacked up to the side. Beyond them, a Ping-Pong table, folded upright, several brown cardboard boxes and a half-painted bookcase. To her left was a stairwell, with beige wooden stairs. A couple of fluorescent light fixtures dangled down from the ceiling. One of the bulbs wasn't working, she noticed. It kept cutting off and then relighting again. It sputtered and hissed.
Sajan tested her bonds. No use. Her hands had been tied up with some sort of tape. There was no way she could free them.
That's when she first heard the footsteps. The sound came from the stairs to her left. Sajan leaned forward to see. She strained at her bonds.
A shoe and an ankle appeared on the steps. Then a calf, and another shoe, and the dark hem of a skirt or a robe. Sajan felt her heart stop for an instant as the rosary beads swung into view.
The nun from Carpenters' Hall! And directly behind her, Michael Rose, the televangelist's son.
The nun tapped at the concrete floor with the tip of her shoe as if she were testing the thickness of pond ice. Perhaps she thought it was wet. Still conductive. Sajan shuddered.
Sister Maria strode forward with a smile on her face. “You're awake,” she began. “We've been waiting.”
Sajan yanked at her bindings. “Where am I? Untie me,” she demanded.
Michael Rose circled the basement. He paused for a moment by a square cardboard box, bent over and started to drag it across the gray concrete floor toward Sajan. At first Sajan thought he was going to sit down. But, instead, he removed a small electronic device, a digital tape recorder, from his jacket. He propped it up on the box.
“What are you doing?” Sajan said. “Let me go.”
The nun took a step closer. She reached up with a terrible casualness and slipped off her rosary beads.
“Wait!” Sajan said. She struggled. She tried pushing her chair back but it seemed lashed to the floor. “I said let me go.”
The nun swung the beads in her hands. Without warning, she reached out and snatched at the crucifix. She pinched it between her fingers. The body of Christ fell away from the cross, revealing the little steel blade underneath. “Where is Nick Robinson hiding his God machine?” she asked softly.
Sajan stared at the blade, transfixed. It glimmered as the fluorescent bulb blinked overhead. On and off. On and off. With the hiss of a bug-zapper. “I don't know,” she replied. “We were blindfolded. Someplace on the Upper West Side, I think.”
“Where?” The nun took a step closer.
“I told you. I don't know. In Harlem, perhaps.”
“Is it complete?” It was Rose who spoke this time. His voice, seemed unstable somehow, as if the words in the sentence were about to go off like a series of snares.
“It was missing the Tesla schematic.”
“Do you mean this?” Sister Maria pulled out a snapshot from the folds of her robes. She held it up to the light.
Sajan stared at the photograph. It certainly looked like the Tesla schematic. She recognized a battery of squares to one side, and that pattern of lines on the other. Connectors. “I guess so,” she said. “Where did you get that?”
The nun coughed. Then she coughed once again, and again, twisting her head to the side.
Sajan shuddered at the broad imitation. She didn't even want to imagine what had happened to Bettendorf, the curator from the Edison labs.
“Is that the last piece?” Rose inquired. He suddenly veered from his path. He stared down at her with his pasty white face, those red lips and that flap of blond hair.
Sajan hesitated. “Yes, the Tesla schematic. Untie me. Untie me, I said. Let me go.”
The nun's smile broadened. She took a step closer. Her fingers played with the blade in her hand. “You're lying.”
“I said let me go.”
Sister Maria wrapped her arm like a snake around Sajan's narrow shoulders. She waved the blade sticking out of Christ's severed spine by her face. “The Tesla schematic is not the last piece,” said the nun.
Sajan froze. “What did you say? Why would you think that?”
Rose stared down at Sajan. “The map's incomplete. The four pieces don't work. There's another schematic. Where is it?”
“Let me go,” Sajan commanded. Her voice broke at the end. She felt tears burn her eyes as the dark truth descended upon her. Nick had spoken the truth. Some how, they had built a machine, just like Robinson. It was like a bad dream, a nightmare. It didn't seem real. “Let me go, please, I'm begging you. Please!”
The blade inched still closer, and although Sajan wiggled and heaved, though she tried with all of her might to pull herself free, the nun had locked her head in the crook of her elbow. There was nowhere to go, except down the interminable hole of her scream.
IN THE END, IT WAS ROSE WHO GAVE ROBINSON THE KEY TO his victory. That was the wonderful irony. But, as Sun Tzu once said, “The victorious strategist only seeks battle after the victory has been won.” And Robinson was not fond of losing.
It was too late for loyalty, the riptide of friendship. It was too late for the mystery of numbers. But there was something that Koster would fight for, Robinson realized, something beautiful and pure. And it wasn't Sajan, as wondrous and intelligent as she was. It was the idea of Sajan. The idea that love was still possible, even for someone like Koster.
There was a knock on the conference room door. Robinson climbed to his feet. He patted his pocket. A moment later, the door opened. Koster stood there. Macalister loomed at his side, grim and silent.
Robinson rounded the table. It was a small window-less conference room, with barely space for the table and a half dozen chairs. But it was deep in the bowels of his temple in Harlem. Behind twenty-four inches of concrete and steel. “Come in, Joseph, please. How are you?” he said. “Were you hurt in the rescue? Please, sit down.”
Koster glared back at Macalister. “Nothing serious,” he said. “But I'd hardly call it a rescue. How have you helped me, exactly? I can't hide out in this basement indefinitely.”
“You won't have to, believe me. As long as you do what I tell you. We've been friends a long time, Joseph. A long time. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you.”
“Don't even start, Nick. I'm not going to help you.” Koster sat at the head of the table.
Robinson's smile melted away. After a moment, he pulled out a chair and sat down beside Koster. He leaned closer and said, “Where is it?”
“Where's what?”
“I'm not stupid, Joseph. The last fragment. The final piece of the map. And don't tell me the Tesla schematic.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“When I added the fragment you gave me, the one from Edison's notebook, the God machine still didn't work.”
“Gee, that's strange. Maybe God wasn't home.”
Robinson stiffened. Macalister took a step closer.
“Your Gestapo tactics won't work on me,” Koster said.
“You'd be surprised,” said Macalister.
Robinson shook his head. “I'd rather you helped me,” he told Koster, “because you believe it's the right thing to do. I don't want to hurt you, Joseph,” he added. “I have feelings for you. But you've put me in a very difficult position.”
“Your position!” Koster laughed. “I'd rather be the spider than the fly, any day.”
“Would you? But that's exactly my point, Joseph. For too long, you were happy being the fly. Stuck in a web of self-pity. Help me, help me,” he mocked, raising his hands. “Who urged you to pick yourself up, to get on with your life? You were moribund, Joseph. A shell of a man. You hated your job. You couldn't get over Mariane's death. And now you have. Because of this quest.” Robinson chortled. “Take this with as many grains of salt as you wish, my friend, but I'm genuinely proud of you.”
“You'd do anything, wouldn't you, say anything to get your hands on the God machine? What's next? The majesty of numbers? The world's oldest conjecture?” Koster leaned forward. He put his hands on the table and said, “Why did Mariane die, Nick? If you hadn't dragged me into your quest, she'd still be alive. She's dead because of you. All I care about is freeing Savita. You took one woman away from me. You won't take another.”
Robinson sighed. “On the contrary,” he said. “It would seem you've taken Savita from me.”
Koster straightened. He tightened his fists. “You gave her up years ago.”
“I didn't want to. I loved her… love her still. But it was a necessary sacrifice. My personal feelings were unimportant. She was to play a different role in this quest.”
Koster laughed bitterly. “And I always looked up to you. You're a fool, Nick. It may have taken me over forty years, but I've learned a few things in my stumbling about. Including this curious equation: When you have a chance at love, any chance, you'd better grab it. You'd better hold on tight. Because it may never come along again.” He shook his head. “Numbers may be perfect, in their own way, to be sure, beautiful and true, but they don't keep your feet warm at night.”
Robinson glanced up at Macalister. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he reached into his pocket and took out the recorder. Without saying a word, he placed it on the table before him.
“What's that?” Koster asked. The recorder was so small that it looked like an insect.
Robinson tapped the device and the voice of a man said, “Savita Sajan. You know her. Does she mean something to you?”
“Who is this?” Robinson's recorded voice sounded tinny and flat.
“Listen carefully,” the man said. “If you ever want to see Savita alive again, hand over the last piece of the map. The fragment she drew. Koster has it. We know. And Koster's with you.”
Koster lifted himself up in his chair.
There was a pause. Then, a piteous voice echoed back. “What are you doing? Let me go. Wait! I said let me go.”
Koster flinched. It was Sajan.
Another woman broke in. She had a Latin American accent. “Where is Nick Robinson hiding his God machine?”
“I don't know. We were blindfolded. Someplace on the Upper West Side I think.”
“Where?”
“I told you. I don't know. In Harlem, perhaps.”
“Is that the last piece?” the man asked.
“Yes, the Tesla schematic. Untie me. Untie me, I said. Let me go.”
“You're lying.”
“I said let me go.”
“The Tesla schematic is not the last piece.”
“What did you say? Why would you think that?”
“The map's incomplete. The four pieces don't work. There's another schematic. Where is it?”
“Let me go,” Savita demanded. “Let me go, please, I'm begging you. Please!”
There was a blood-chilling, bottomless scream. And then silence.
Koster hung his head in his hands.
“Mr. Robinson,” the recording continued. “You know what I want. The last piece of the map. Sajan's fragment. An even exchange. We can meet at the Little Red Lighthouse, at the foot of the GW Bridge. Let's say, tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Go to hell.”
Koster looked up. Robinson was smiling as he listened intently to his own voice on the recorder.
“You're bluffing,” it said. “Kill her if you want to. Joseph doesn't have any final schematic. He doesn't know what you're talking about.”
Robinson reached out and turned off the recorder. “Does he?” he asked.
Koster sighed. He sagged in his chair.
“That was Michael Rose and his partner,” said Robinson. “I believe you've already met Sister Maria. Her boss, Archbishop Lacey of the Knights, seems to have met with an unfortunate accident while trying to enter a God machine that was…” He searched for the word. “… incomplete.”
“Okay,” Koster said. “Okay, Nick, you win. I'll give you the last piece of the map.”
“Where is it?”
“I memorized it.”
“That's impossible.”
“Do you want it or not?”
Robinson frowned. “If this is some sort of trick…”
“It's no trick, Nick. Sajan drew it. I memorized it. It's that simple. There's only one catch. If you want the map, you'll have to help me rescue Savita. You have to be there when we do the exchange. But not at the Little Red Lighthouse. Too remote. It has to be somewhere more central, more public. Like… like the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. That isn't too far from here. Well, Nick? Will you help me? I can't do this alone.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Robinson. “You'd be picked up within minutes, as soon as you stepped out of this place. And then where would you be? Let's face it, Joseph: They'd get the schematic out of you sooner or later, and Savita would still be their prisoner.”
“You've thought of everything, haven't you, Nick? Pawn takes rook.”
“My clean room is ready and waiting. My technicians are at your disposal. We only have until morning, so you'd better be quick.”
Koster hesitated. “I thought you just wanted the fragment.”
“I need to make sure that it's genuine. You might… misremember. That's the deal, Joseph. Take it or leave it. You help me complete the God machine. If you do, I'll help you hand over the final schematic, in exchange for Savita. Do we have an agreement?”
“What prevents you from changing your mind about helping me once I've completed the chip?”
Robinson grinned. “You're just going to have to trust me, Joseph.”
“That's not much consolation. On the other hand,” Koster added with a curl of the lip, “you won't know how good my memory is until you step through that portal. What exactly happened to Archbishop Lacey?”
“You misunderstand me,” said Robinson. “Perhaps I wasn't quite clear. As much as I've dreamed of this moment, since I was a boy, it's you who's been granted the privilege of being first through the God machine, Joseph.”
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN VICE PRESIDENT LINKLETTER finally made room in his schedule to chat with the Vatican delegate. It had been an unscheduled visit and Linkletter was not in the mood to be flexible. When the man finally appeared at his door—ushered in by Sally his secretary—Linkletter was startled to find that he was only some Jesuit Monsignor, of little importance.
“I can give you two minutes, Monsignor Poggioli,” he said, without getting to his feet.
The monsignor was a thin man with close-cropped black hair, hunched shoulders and glasses that seemed to magnify his shiny black eyes. He took off his broad-brimmed black hat and replied pleasantly, “More than enough time, Mr. Vice President.”
“Enough time for what?” Linkletter had been hoping to get out of the office at a decent hour for a change. He had yet to finish tying that last batch of egg-sucking leeches before his next fly-fishing trip to Alaska. The Vice President pointed at a chair and the monsignor sat down.
“As you know,” said Poggioli, “the election of a new Pope is imminent. The Pontiff's health, I'm afraid, is far worse than we've admitted to the press. In short—John Peter is dying. Our Holy Father will not live out the week.”
“And?”
“The German cardinal is reviewing his candidacy. You're familiar with what happened to Archbishop Lacey, I'm sure.”
“I barely knew the man. Died in some kind of industrial accident, as I hear it.”
The monsignor smiled thinly. “Yes, something like that. Quite… unfortunate, God rest his soul. The point is, the cardinal feels things have—how can I put it?—somehow gotten out of hand. In his view, this whole operation has become far too expensive.”
“Not to mention how embarrassing it would be if the cardinal's connection to Lacey should ever be publicized.”
“It's a sensitive time, to be sure,” agreed Poggioli. “Archbishop Lacey made a number of enemies in the South through the years.”
“Votes your candidate needs to become Pope, I presume. You have one minute left, Monsignor.”
“The cardinal wants the operation suspended, the program shut down.”
“Why don't you just tell Sister Maria?”
“There's been some resistance in the field,” said Poggioli. “And Michael Rose… He is a difficult man to reason with.”
Linkletter smiled thinly. “I see,” he replied. Then he laughed. “It's difficult to stop things,” he said, “once they've been put into motion.” He swiveled in his leather chair. “I can't make any promises. And you're out of time, I'm afraid.” The Vice President climbed to his feet.
But Monsignor Poggioli remained seated. Linkletter glared down at the little man, trying to burn a hole in his forehead.
“We understand,” said the monsignor, “that Michael Rose may be privy to some delicate information.”
He spoke so softly that Linkletter had to lean over his desk just to hear him. “Excuse me?”
“Please. It is not an accident that J. Edgar Hoover preferred agents who were trained by the Jesuits. There is little that passes without our regard.” He waved his left hand and his small, thin fingers closed like a fan.
“They say G. Gordon Liddy was trained by the Jesuits. A lot of good it did him.”
The monsignor stared up at Linkletter. His eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light. Then he shifted his head and they vanished as the lenses of his glasses caught the glare of the sun. “You needn't be concerned about what Michael Rose knows, Mr. Vice President.”
Linkletter rounded his desk. “I don't know what you're talking about. Your time has expired, Monsignor,” he sneered.
Poggioli slid to his feet. “Yes, just so,” he replied, glancing down at his watch. “Nonetheless, I would urge you to send a man out to chat with his father.”
“His father? What's Thaddeus Rose got to say about this? I've been trying to call him, but he's still away on some religious retreat.”
Monsignor Poggioli replaced the black hat on his head. As he turned to depart, he concluded, “Seek him out, Mr. Vice President. He'll give you the answers you're looking for.”
THE STORM SETTLED OVER THE CITY LIKE A SHROUD. Franklin sat in the rear of his carriage, bouncing pain fully on bad springs as the calèche wound its circuitous way back to Passy. He stared out the window, through the rain-spattered glass, trying to ignore that odd tingling in his toes that told him another bout of the gout was approaching. In the distance, the inky black sky shimmered with lightning, shivered and shook. If the coachman didn't hurry, Franklin thought, he might miss his last chance of the season. And after fifty-plus years, he was tired of waiting.
Franklin pulled an old blanket up over his legs. He had just returned from the Lodge of the Nine Sisters, where he had attended a memorial service for the venerable Voltaire, and the hall had been particularly drafty and cold. Worse, many of the famous philosopher's friends, including Condorcet and Diderot, had avoided the ceremony altogether, dispensing pathetic excuses. Diderot had once said, “Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.”But the truth was that he hadn't attended because he was just too afraid.
It was strange to think of Voltaire dead. The writer, essayist and philosopher had become such a symbol of the French Enlightenment, such a force on the intellectual scene in Paris, that he had seemed, well… immortal. Legendary for his wit, a rabid defender of civil liberties, freedom of religion and the right of all citizens to enjoy a fair trial, Voltaire had been a true social reformer, and had frequently made use of his works to criticize ecclesiastical dogma. As a result, he had incurred the powerful enmity of both the king and the Church. So, too, had the Nine Sisters Lodge, to which both Franklin and Voltaire belonged. Franklin had met the literary celebrity only twice, truth be told: the first, just that February, at a ceremonial visit to Voltaire's home; and then two months later, at the Académie Royale. Both had been rather stuffy affairs, highly staged. Franklin and Voltaire had been urged by the crowds that surrounded them to embrace in the way of the French, with a kiss on each cheek, and that act had been likened to Solon hugging Sophocles, so great were their mutual reputations.
Franklin smiled wryly as he looked out the window. But no matter how great the mind, he considered, how monumental the intellect, no matter how influential or famous, none vanquished time. All became worm food eventually. He wrapped the blanket more tightly about his legs and replayed the ceremony in his head.
The Lodge hall had been draped in black crêpe, lit only by flickering candles. There had been songs and long speeches and polemical poems attacking the clergy and Church. Voltaire's niece had presented a bust of her uncle by Houdon; a lifelike, wigless affair with a haunting, wry smile. They had lighted the sacred flame, revealing the painting of the transcendent Voltaire emerging from his tomb before the goddesses of Truth and Benevolence. Franklin had taken the Masonic wreath from his head and laid it at the foot of the painting. Then they had retreated to an interminable banquet, where the first toast had been hoisted to Franklin himself, with “captive Thunder by his feet,” and to the newborn American nation. But Franklin had left the Lodge early. He knew that the storm was approaching, and he could think of no better tribute to Voltaire and the Age of Reason than to return and complete his experiment.
It had been almost inevitable that Franklin and Voltaire should have come to know one another, and to join the same Lodge. Unlike most of the Lodges in America, Freemasonry in France had evolved into more than just a businessman's social club. Claude-Adrien Helvétius, a freethinking philosopher and one of France's fifty Farmers-General, had first envisioned the creation of this Paris-based super-Lodge as something populated by the nation's most celebrated artists and thinkers. When he died, his widow, the irrepressible Mme. Helvétius, had fulfilled his vision and funded the venture. Thus, the Lodge of the Nine Sisters was born.
Franklin sighed. The Lodge may have been dedicated to the nine Muses, but to Franklin, Mme. Helvétius was the tenth. He smeared the condensation on the glass with his hand. It was always like this, every time he thought of Anne-Catherine Helvétius. He had spent many a long afternoon at the widow's estate in Auteuil. Though sixty to his seventy-two, her delightful manner and free-spirited nature had captivated him. Her salon had none of the pretensions and formality found in most noble French households. She surrounded herself with a coterie of bohemian artists and animals, a joyful menagerie filled with banter and intellectual irreverence. “In your company,” he had once told her, “we are not only pleased with you, but pleased with one another and with ourselves.” Franklin had a mind to propose marriage to her, though in a half-serious way, and had already penned a bagatelle called “The Elysian Fields” in which he went to heaven and talked about the match with his dead wife, Deborah, and Anne-Catherine's late husband, Claude-Adrien, who had themselves married each other in heaven. But rather than deliver the bagatelle to her personally, which would have imbued it with a terrible seriousness, Franklin planned to publish the tale on his press. After all, he considered, it was safer to be a public clown than a private fool.
It was another hour or so before the carriage reached the estate in Passy. By the time he arrived at Basse Coeur, the storm was raging with such fierceness that Franklin worried it would pass him by before he could even get ready. He scrambled out of the coach and scurried to the house through the rain.
It was late. All of his staff and the members of the American mission had long since gone to bed. The Basse Coeur was still as the grave. Franklin removed his wet coat and his hat, shook the rain off and draped them across a chair in the foyer. Then he lit a candle. He lifted it high above his head and walked down the corridor to his workshop at the rear of the house. The room had once served as a granary; it was large and secluded, made of great blocks of stone. Franklin closed the door, then locked it behind him. He descended the stairs into the heart of his workshop. There was a lamp on a table at the foot of the stairs. He used the candle to light it, and the room was suddenly filled with a bright cheery glow.
There it was. Franklin set the lamp on the table. He stared at the machine on the far side of the room. It beckoned. It waited. It seemed to call out his name.
Franklin made his way to a chain which hung by the wall. He pulled it, and a panel in the ceiling descended, revealing an opening to the elements above. Rain coursed through the skylight, onto a massive gray sheet that carried it off to a downspout at the rear of the workshop.
Lightning flashed, followed by thunder. Franklin dashed to a primitive console. He flipped a few switches. He checked the connections to the Leyden jars lined up by the walls. All was ready. He looked up at the sky. Lightning flashed and he counted: one, two, three. Then thunder enveloped the night. Franklin lifted a cloth that covered a section of the machine. It looked like the arch of a bower, made of metal and wood, surrounded by wires as tenacious as vines. Lightning flashed once again. One, two… then the thunder. Get ready, he told himself. This is it. He stepped up to the portal. A blue glow had already begun to form in the opening. Franklin licked his lips. His heart was racing. What if I'm wrong? he considered. He might be joining Voltaire sooner than expected. One way or the other.
Lightning flashed. One… then the thunder again. The whole house seemed to quiver. He reached over and flicked the last switch on the console. He took a tremulous breath. The blue glow in the doorway now stretched from one side to the other. The charge was almost complete. He waited, looked up. The black sky billowed with clouds. He waited. And then, out of nowhere, one of Poor Richard's aphorisms swam up through his consciousness: God helps them who first help themselves. Franklin laughed. Lightning burst far above him, the blue glow turned white and, without thinking, he stepped through the portal.
THE GOD MACHINE PURRED AT THE REAR OF THE CLEAN room. Robinson stood at the console. He adjusted the instruments and a sapphire light appeared in the portal. Koster watched as it slowly extended, like the licking of flames, around the rim of the doorway.
“Are you ready?” asked Robinson.
Koster didn't respond. He was watching the portal. The blue light kept swelling, kept inching along. Soon it would cover the frame, collapsing the walls of the atomic cathedral, transmuting fermion to boson, turning solid matter into light.
“Are you ready?”
Koster woke from his reverie. He stepped up to the electrical bower. He stared at the bell jars and the tangle of wires and cables jutting out from the top of the doorway. The light shivered; it shimmered, from turquoise to a bright peacock blue. The machine began thumping, like the pounding of pistons. The rhythm grew faster. Then the frequency shifted. It climbed up the scale. The sound became shriller.
Koster took another step toward the opening. Then another. As he drew ever closer, he thought about Franklin. He pictured the old man standing before his own God machine, alone, as that lightning storm raged in the skies overhead. Franklin had been desperate to enter this doorway. Despite all his achievements, his Promethean contributions, he had pined for this moment. To see his Franky again. Would he, Koster wondered, see his son, Zane, once again? And Mariane, too? Would he truly see God, whatever that meant? Would he be given some insight, some plan to make sure that Savita was rescued?
The blue light cascaded. The humming grew fainter as it slipped out of range.
Or, would he end up like Archbishop Lacey? A technician had passed on a rumor, allegedly based on the account of some frightened defector. Lacey, he claimed, had ended up a puddle of goo after trying to step through the portal. Since then, they had added the Tesla schematic and Savita's own fragment.
But what if Savita wasn't a genuine messenger? What if Koster had misremembered the pattern? Or what if there were other schematics still out there, some not even imagined yet, let alone rendered?
“Almost there,” added Robinson. He twisted the dial on the console. The blue light enveloped the width of the portal.
Koster could feel the hair on the nape of his neck start to rise from the static charge in the air. He closed his eyes, and he thought of Savita. Savita Sajan. The color of her almond-shaped eyes. The shape of her hands. The warmth of her lips. The scent of her hair. Savita.
“Get ready.”
This was the only way to ensure he would ever see her again. He had to step through that doorway. Nothing else mattered. None of his questions or qualifications or fears. He loved her. That was it. Either he would succeed in rescuing her or he would die trying. There was no alternative.
“Go! Now!”
Koster stepped through the portal.
FOR AN INSTANT FRANKLIN THOUGHT HE SAW SOMETHING, A terrible light. Then he was standing on the far side of the doorway. He looked back at the portal. The blue glow had vanished. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had happened.
Franklin stood there in silence for a few moments more, terrified. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter. He laughed and he laughed, bending over, until he started to sputter and cough. Captive thunder, indeed, he thought. The damned machine still doesn't work. Lightning flashed in the heavens above him. He straightened, looked up. But what if it's just a faulty connection? he wondered. He might still have a chance.
Franklin examined with care the machinery, the wiring of the portal and the lines leading back to the Leyden jars. He spent minutes pulling out and inspecting the soul of the God machine. All seemed as it should be. And yet the device didn't work. Perhaps it was the source of the power, he thought, snatching at each rationale, each possible scenario, like a drowning man at a spar in rough seas. Was it the source? he wondered. Or not enough power?
Franklin dashed up the stairs through the door of his workshop. He ran down the corridor and then out the front door, where he stopped. Rain slashed the night sky. The heart of the storm was above him. He dashed toward the main house up the long gravel drive. It took him several long minutes to get there, and he was drenched by the time he rushed through the side entrance, lit a candle and hauled himself up the stairs to the roof. Le Ray de Chaumont and his family were already asleep in their beds on the far side of the mansion. Franklin burst through the door leading out to the parapets and the candle was blown out immediately. But it didn't matter. Every few seconds, he could see the rooftop distinctly as lightning bolts crackled above him. He raced through the rain. It was freezing. It seemed to congeal on his face. His bifocals instantly fogged and by the time he had reached the lightning rod, he could scarcely see anything.
Franklin dropped to his knees. He ran his hands around the rod's base, feeling for the connections. Perhaps the wind had torn the lines loose. Perhaps the electrical fluid had failed to pass through. He reached down and felt for them, mindful of the peril he faced should lightning strike as he laid his bare hands on the wire. But it was all for naught, anyway. Nothing was wrong here. The connections were fine. It was the soul of the God machine that had failed him.
With great weariness, Franklin climbed to his feet. He stepped back from the lightning rod. He looked up at the sky, at the rain pelting down all around him, like lances of water, straight through his brain. He opened his mouth. He felt it fill up with rain. He gurgled and spat, casting his eyes desperately about the wet rooftop. Then he noticed a small iron bar left behind by some workman. He bent down, snatched it up. The bar felt heavy and solid, and blessedly real. He walked back to the base of the lightning rod and struck it with all of his might. A great chunk of stone hurtled off into the darkness. He banged at the base several times, then, with a terrible groan he threw the rod off the roof. Franklin fell to his knees. It was over. The machine didn't work. It would never work. It had all been a lie.
He remained on his knees, trying to slow down his breathing, trying to settle his heart. Chill rain washed his neck. It ran down his back. Franklin was soaked to the skin. He started to shiver. A lightning bolt flashed in the distance. The storm was moving away. It was over. He climbed to his feet. His knees almost buckled beneath him, and, for the first time in years, Franklin felt his real age. Heartsick, he watched as the storm slowly receded toward the west, consuming the pastures and forests of Passy. Only then did he turn and look back at the city. Paris glowed like a great cobweb of light in the east. There were a few bright spots, some patches of human activity, but much darkness. Like his own life, he thought bitterly.
He had had his brief moments in the sun, to be sure. Of that, Franklin held few delusions. He had traveled the world, seen more than most saw in five lifetimes. His contributions to the birth of his nation would go down in history. His work on the Declaration of Independence. His influence on the French, from that first fateful meeting with Bonvouloir at Carpenters' Hall to the Treaty of Alliance with France, signed earlier that year when the king's ministers had learned of the American victory at Saratoga. The war had turned into a stalemate, but it was only a matter of time, Franklin knew, before the fledgling United States would prevail. He was certain of it, despite the skeptics who abounded around him. He could feel it in his bones. It was like the scent of a good newspaper story.
Franklin considered his publishing empire. Out of nothing—indeed, as a floundering runaway—he had become the most powerful printer in the state. Some said, in the colonies. And as Postmaster General, he had linked his development of editorial content, his Gazette and his almanacs, with the most efficient distribution system of the day. He'd founded the nation's first library and fire brigade. He'd discovered the Gulf Stream, intuited daylight saving time. He'd conceived of countless inventions, from his stove to his glass armonica to his lightning rod. And yet, he considered, at the close of his life, it was not these accomplishments, not these bright spots that obsessed him. It was all of that darkness in between.
Franklin had tried to lead a moral life. Even in youth, he had devised complex moral perfection plans intended to drive self-improvement. He had laid out thirteen key virtues—from temperance to industry and humility. How typical, he thought, that he should have documented his goals like the hypothesis of a scientific experiment, as if goodness and virtue could be encompassed by words. He had always been partial to lists, like the maxims in his Poor Richard's Almanac. Such thoroughness was a mark of the logical mind. Of course, almanacs were a significant source of revenue for a printer as well, outselling even the Bible, since they had to be purchased anew every year. It was the almanacs, plus his other media endeavors, that had enabled him to retire at the age of forty-two, giving him ample time to concentrate on his reading and experiments. But he hadn't always succeeded in his moral endeavors. He had done things that still filled him with unfathomable guilt. And yet, over the years, he had learned that sometimes the virtues extolled with such reckless abandon in America failed to resonate on the Continent. In America, it was sinful to look idle, while in France it was vulgar to look busy. John Adams, who had just arrived in Paris as ambassador to the French Court, had yet to appreciate this curious paradox. Adams believed Franklin's life in Passy was a scene of unchecked dissipation.
Franklin reached out and placed his hand on the rain-slick balustrade overlooking the plaza below. He was cold now. It was so cold. But the tempest had moved on; the storm had finally exhausted itself. He had many regrets, Franklin pondered, not the least of which was his marriage to Deborah. Though successful by nearly all standards, it had always been more of a business agreement than a marriage; he had been abroad so many years, had had so many surrogate families. In the end they were safer, and another saying from Poor Richard's coalesced in his mind: Let all men know thee, but no man know thee thoroughly: Men freely ford that see the shallows.
He had always been this way, he thought. He had always felt a little bit distant, set apart from the world by his intellect. Even now, after all these years, even with Mme. Helvétius, he had retreated behind his wit to wrestle with his newfound emotions. Franklin sighed. He had never been able to get very close, not to Deborah, nor William, not Sally, even. While most of the letters from his French lady friends began “Cher Papa,” those from his daughter invariably began, “Dear and honored sir.” He had never treated Sally like a daughter. Indeed, he had always pushed her away, exhorting her to do or to be something else. Someone else. He shook his head sadly. In truth, he had always felt more comfortable with, and closer to, his ersatz families in England and France. Ever since Franky.
Franklin pushed himself back from the lip of the railing. He looked up at the sky and, unexpectedly, started to weep. Tears coursed like rain down his face. He sobbed, and the piteous sound was carried aloft like a kite by the wind.
In the end, he had been the same with Franky, he realized. He had never addressed his son's untimely demise. Not really. Instead of leveraging the rituals of religion to put his child's death behind him, he had spent more than half of his life on this pitiless enterprise, chained to the wall as the eagle picked away at his liver. He looked down at the Basse Coeur, where his machine lingered stillborn within. It had been this obsession alone that had kept Franky alive for him. And now that it was over, after all of these decades, now that his map had proved worthless, Franklin realized he'd been in search of a chimera. He smiled bitterly. Perhaps that was the point.
He stared down at the city. “Turn away,” Brother Price had once told him, on that far distant day at the Tun. “Turn away or you'll waste your whole life on a dream.” Price had been right, Franklin thought, and he found himself laughing at the wonderful irony, despite the great hole in his heart.
Some future mind, he considered, would have to continue the quest, in some far distant age. He was done with the God machine. Franklin turned and headed back toward the door to the staircase below.
And besides, it would not be long now. Soon, he would see Franky the old-fashioned way—in the grave.
THERE WAS A BLINDING FLASH OF WHITE LIGHT AND KOSTER appeared on the far side of the portal. It seemed to take but an instant. One second he entered the doorway, then he was through. Robinson powered down the machine.
Koster stood there, quite still. He was obscured by the frame of the portal and Robinson had to rush around the device to see his face clearly. Koster was staring down at the floor of the clean room.
“Joseph,” said Robinson. “Are you okay?”
At first, Koster didn't respond. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. He glanced over at Robinson with a look of such intensity that Robinson took a step back.
“Joseph?” he said. Robinson reached out and took Koster's hand, and was immediately thrown backwards by an electrical charge. It ripped through his body. Robinson fell to the floor. His heart seemed to stop for a moment. He struggled to breathe.
Koster held out a hand but Robinson ignored it. He scrambled away. “Did anything happen?” he demanded. “You were only gone for a second.”
Koster looked down. There was a faint smile on his lips. But still, he didn't reply.
“Answer me, damn it. Did it work? What did you see?” Robinson's voice was shrill.
Koster shrugged. “More than I wanted to.” He closed his eyes and said, “Everything.”
“God. You saw God?” Robinson climbed to his feet.
“Everything.”
“What the hell do you mean, everything?”
“What can I tell you, Nick? I don't have the words. It's like describing color to a blind man.” He laughed softly. “I can prove the Goldbach conjecture now. But once you know how to do it, what's the point?”
Robinson strode toward the console. “I'm going in, too.”
“I wouldn't advise it.”
Robinson stopped in his tracks. “Why not?”
“Because you're going in for all the wrong reasons, Nick. Remember what happened to Archbishop Lacey.”
Robinson hesitated. He looked down at the console, then back up at Koster again.
“What did you see, Joseph?”
“I saw Savita,” said Koster. “She's in desperate trouble, Nick. We have to give Rose what he wants. The final piece of the map. If we don't, he'll kill her.”
“What else did you see, Joseph?”
“Father Patrick O'Toole got approval for his Youth Gang Music Festival. And Tom Moody won the lottery. He's fishing in Florida as we speak.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know where the Gospel of Judas is hidden.”
“You do? Where?”
“At the Glenmont estate. Tesla found it underneath Carpenters' Hall, but Edison took it away from him.
And something else… Oh, yeah. I saw that you plan to betray me.”
Robinson stiffened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You have no intention of helping me, do you?” said Koster. “You never did.”
Robinson put his hand in his jacket. He pulled out his Glock 19 pistol. He raised it, leveling it at Koster. “Get away from the God machine.”
“This was not meant to be,” Koster said.
“Get away.”
“I could reach down now, while you're standing there, and destroy the phi chip.”
Robinson's eyes flicked toward the console. It was just a few feet away, but Koster was closer.
Koster glanced at the line of computers at the back of the room. “But the pattern is locked in the system,” he said. “You could create a new chipset in just a few hours.”
Robinson started to inch toward the rear of the chamber.
“I could try to destroy the computers,” added Koster. “But by the time I got over there, you'd be on top of me. And you're bigger and stronger than I am. You always were, Nick. And you have that gun.”
Robinson hesitated.
“So there's only one thing I can do,” said Koster. “I'm going to go out there and rescue Savita. By myself, if I have to. And there's only one way you're going to stop me. And that's by killing me, Nick. Are you ready for that?” He looked down at the gun in his friend's hand. “Are you ready to kill me, to put a slug in my brain? Because that's what it's going to take. Is the God machine worth that much to you, Nick? And afterward, when it's over. When you step through that door. What will you say to Him?”
Robinson looked at the portal. “Do you really believe Michael Rose is going to just hand Savita over to you? Even if you give him the fragment.”
Koster didn't reply.
“Or will he wait to be sure that the God machine works first? And what about you, Joseph? Do you really think Rose will just let you walk out of there? You're carrying the final piece of the map in your head.”
“I'll have to take that risk,” replied Koster. “Are you with me? Will you help me, Nick?”
“Why should I? Why jeopardize both of our lives to save her? You don't know who she really is, Joseph. You think you do, but you don't.”
“Number one, because it's the right thing to do,” Koster said. “Number two, because of our friendship. Number three, because you promised to help me.” Then he laughed. “And number four, because if you don't, if you don't stick to our bargain, Nick, I'll make sure the final fragment ends up on every blog on the Internet by lunchtime tomorrow. With a map to this temple, and a full inventory of your personal collection of gospels.”
Robinson's face darkened. “You sound just like Franklin when he threatened to publish The Gospel of Judas. Rook takes king,” he said sourly. “And I thought you weren't much of a businessman.”
“We've been able to program supercomputers to beat us at chess,” Koster said, “but we can't program them to beat us at poker.”
He took a step closer to Robinson, until the gun was but a few inches away. It was aimed at his belly. “Either shoot me or help me, Nick. But get out of my way.”
THERE WAS A WHITE PEACOCK IN THE GARDEN BESIDE THE cathedral, Koster noticed as he headed up Amsterdam Avenue. First he saw the statue at the heart of the park. It was the so-called Peace Fountain, with the forces of good—embodied in the figure of the archangel Michael—triumphing over Satan, whose decapitated head dangled off to one side. Nothing like a good decapitation in the name of peace, Koster thought. That's when he saw the white peacock. It was standing so still that at first he mistook it for some kind of sculpture. He had never seen a white peacock before. Usually they were the very symbol of color, the full spectrum, and not this moon monochrome. Then the bird, with its ghostly white plumes, turned and looked at him, and he thought back to Chartres, to that evening so long ago when he had gone into another cathedral, with the woman he loved at his side.
Mariane had never come out. Not alive, anyway.
Koster stared up at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It had been fifteen years since he had stepped foot in a church. Now he regretted selecting this venue. He took a deep breath and climbed the steps.
As he approached the stone portico, Koster lingered to examine the stonework. The Portal of Paradise depicted Saint John as he witnessed the Transfiguration of Jesus. There were traditional sculptures of biblical figures, as well as contemporary designs—a baby emerging from a granite vagina and a lattice of particles in subatomic relief. The stonework had been carved in the late 1980s. The saints and apostles were colored in muted pastels, light greens, purples and ochre. The medieval cathedrals of France had once featured the same comic-book coloring, back in the thirteenth century. But since then, through the years, all the color had faded. It felt strange now to witness these statues in bloom.
“Joseph,” said Robinson.
Koster looked over. Nick Robinson and Robert Macalister were waiting for him by the doorway.
“Are you sure you still want to do this?” asked Nick.
“I'm sure,” Koster answered. He patted his jacket, felt the crisp edge of the envelope. “But thank you for asking,” he said. “And for coming. I couldn't have done this without you. You, too, Robert.”
“Thank me,” said Robinson, “when we're out of here in one piece. I still intend to take my turn through the God machine. And this time, I'd appreciate some assistance. Do you remember the address of the safe house, in case—”
“Fourth Street and Avenue B. The chapel near Tompkins Square Park.”
Koster skirted the bronze double doors with relief castings of biblical scenes. They had been molded by Barbedienne, the same man who had fashioned the Statue of Liberty. But these doors were unlocked only three times a year, for special occasions, so Koster was forced to go around to the side entrance. He was just about to slip through the door when he was elbowed aside by a teenager with a great hulking backpack. A tourist, he thought. The boy had long hair and a beard. Well, the hint of a beard. And his eyes were the same color as Koster's—a wistful pale blue.
As the teenager barreled by Robinson, Koster suddenly realized that Zane would have been just about the same age, had he lived. And for a moment, he wondered: Had Franklin envisioned his own son grown-up? Had he looked for him in the features of strangers?
A swarm of teenagers converged on the door. It was some kind of outing, he realized. A school expedition. A bright yellow bus was parked by the curb. Koster pushed in behind them, with Robinson and Macalister on his heels.
The west side of the cathedral was still under construction, and the doors led down a long plywood corridor, built from scaffolding, completely enclosed, running the full length of the nave. Their footsteps echoed as they moved from the narthex toward the heart of the church, and yet the cathedral itself was still out of sight. Only the stones of the floor were exposed.
The corridor was crowded. In addition to the kids from the bus, there were couples and families, and single old ladies. Black and white, Asian, Latino. Harlem had changed since Koster had attended Columbia just down the street. Now, there were doorman buildings on 112th. Just then, the echo of footsteps was replaced by a great blowing of horns. But it was not the melodic campaigning of trumpets; it was the deep gurgling sound of dungchen, the ten-foot horns of Tibet. Koster rounded a corner and the church opened up.
It was an odd mix of high Gothic and a Romanesque chancel, reflecting the fact that two sets of architects had been commissioned to build this cathedral. The original architects were George Heins and C.G Lafarge.They beat out eighty competitors with their Romanesque-Byzantine design. The first cornerstone of the cathedral had been laid in 1892. It had taken nearly twenty years for just the choir and vaulted dome crossing to be finished, and then, due to the death of Heins, a new architect was selected—Ralph Adams Cram, a Gothic revivalist who had insisted on a French Gothic style for the edifice.
The first services in the nave were held the day before the attack on Pearl Harbor—December 6, 1941—and construction ground to a halt as the U.S. was swept into the war. Work didn't resume again until 1979, by which time skilled stonecutters were hard to find. To continue construction, laborers were imported from Europe. In December 2001, building was halted again following a fire that ravaged the transept.
To this day, the cathedral was only two-thirds complete. Just like us, Koster thought. Isn't that what Savita had said? This was her favorite cathedral, she had confessed to him on the Île Saint-Louis, as they had watched the buttresses of Notre Dame unroll in the dawn. “It may look half built,” she'd said. “The skin may be torn. It may not be pretty, or perfect. But the heart is what matters.”
The horns resounded again. Koster looked past the rows and rows of seated parishioners toward the chancel. Behind the pulpit, just up the steps, a pair of saffron-robed Tibetan monks sat behind their dungchen. The cathedral was packed. Soon the religious service would start. Koster could see the teenagers milling about, trying to pick out their seats.
He looked back toward the entrance. The nave was more than six hundred feet long, the length of two football fields, but the scaffolding blocked his view. Above him, the 162-foot-tall dome crossing was so high that it could have accommodated the Statue of Liberty. Though incomplete, St. John the Divine was still the world's largest Gothic cathedral.
“I don't like the look of that triforium.” Macalister pointed up at the shallow gallery of arches that ran along both sides of the cathedral just under the clerestory. In some parts, the arches were obscured by scaffolding. “You could hide an army in there,” he said uneasily. “I've got a bad feeling about this.”
Robinson laughed. “You say that before every action.”
“You've done this before?” Koster asked.
“Not exactly,” said Robinson. “But the antiquities business can get pretty hairy. Remember Myanmar, Robert?”
“I'm still trying to forget.”
To his left, Koster noticed a large granite pulpit, highly carved, rising out of the floor. The choir featured carved stalls as well, made of oak. Beyond that, in the sanctuary, he spotted a pair of great Shinto vases, pale green, and a pair of giant menorahs. Then the altar beyond. The choir stalls were already jam-packed with choristers wearing red and white robes.
“It's back there, toward the apse,” said Macalister.
They moved around the side of the church, climbing the steps toward the ambulatory. Soon, the apsidal chapels came into view. Just as the Shinto vases and menorahs reflected the cathedral's strong interfaith message, so did the seven chapels that radiated from the ambulatory. Known as the “Chapels of the Tongues,” each was dedicated to one of the seven major New York ethnic groups who had toiled in the cathedral's construction: Scandinavian, German, English, Asian, French, Italian, Hispanic.
When they approached the Chapel of St. Martin of Tours, Robinson came to a halt. The chapel was dedicated to the people of France, Koster knew, named after the Roman soldier who had once stopped to help a naked beggar lying on the side of the road near the town of Amiens. Martin had divided his cloak with his sword and given half to the beggar. That night, in a vision, he saw Jesus wearing the half cloak he had given away. He heard Jesus say to the angels, “Here is Martin, the Roman soldier who has not been baptized. Yet, he has clad me.” Later, Martin was baptized and named Bishop of Tours, and eventually canonized.
Koster remembered this as he moved past the gate and the chapel finally came into view. For some reason, he couldn't get the image of that beggar out of his head. Then he saw Sister Maria and Michael Rose. And, standing between them, Sajan.
Although he recalled with great vividness and no small measure of pain the last times they had met, Koster bore no hard feelings toward Sister Maria. He took her in with surprising dispassion. It was as if she were a distracting equation at the edge of a chalkboard. So, too, Michael Rose. Koster's attention was fixed on Sajan. She looked haggard and frightened, and there was a smear of dried blood on her cheek.
Sister Maria stepped forward, pushing Sajan before her. Rose swept in from the side. Together, they moved slowly toward Koster. When they were only two yards away, they came to a stop.
Koster reached into his jacket and took out the envelope.
“Is that it?” Rose inquired.
“That's it,” Koster answered. He couldn't keep his eyes off Sajan. But she wouldn't look back at him. It was clear she was terrified. He could see her lips tremble. And that blood on her face… They had cut her, right there, on the cheek, just below her right eye.
“The last piece?” Rose demanded
“The last piece,” Koster answered. “Did they hurt you, Savita?”
Koster had expected the question. “Because if it weren't, I'd be a pool of gelatinous goo, just like the late Damian Lacey.”
“You tested the God machine? You opened the door?”
Koster nodded.
Michael's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The nun tugged at his sleeve. She said something that Koster couldn't quite hear. Rose looked up with a smile and said, “Sister Maria here is reluctant to part with Sajan until provided with more demonstrable evidence.”
“We had an agreement.” Nick Robinson stepped out of the shadows. “Do you want the schematic or not?” Macalister stood behind him.
“Your father is waiting,” said Koster.
“What? What did you say?” Michael Rose stiffened. He rose up on the tips of his toes.
“How do you think he feels, Michael? Do you think he's proud of you, proud of all you've done? Proud of all you plan to do? Of course, you two don't talk much these days, do you?”
Rose fixed Koster with a venomous gaze. “You're bluffing,” he sneered. “You don't know my father. And besides, he's away on retreat. You still have no proof the last fragment is real.”
“I guess you'll just have to trust me.”
“That was the arrangement,” said Robinson. “And a deal is a deal.”
For a moment, Rose hesitated. Then he nodded and Sister Maria stepped forward. The nun held out her hand, completely expressionless, her face a blank slate. Koster gave her the envelope. Without even looking inside, she spun about and made her way back to Rose.
“Now it's your turn,” Koster told them. “Hand over Savita.”
“I'm afraid,” Michael Rose said, as he collected the envelope, “that your word simply isn't sufficient.”
“In that case,” said Koster, “take me.”
Sajan looked up for the first time. “Don't do it,” she cried.
“I'm the only one who knows the schematic. He needs me.”
“If you go with them,” warned Robinson, “you'll never come back.”
Rose sniggered. “You'd exchange yourself for the Mystery Babylon?”
“Test the final schematic,” challenged Koster. He took a step closer. “If your God machine doesn't work, you can always get rid of me later. Let her go. She's no use to you now.”
“You'd give up your life for this woman? How delicious! How ironic that our search for the Gospel of Judas should be abetted by so exquisite a traitor.”
“You got what you came for,” said Koster. “Let her go.”
“You have no idea, do you?” Rose continued. “I guess she never bothered to tell you. It was your girlfriend here who betrayed you. Go on. Tell him.” He shoved Sajan forward, but she refused to look up. “Right from the beginning, she suspected what those schematics might mean. Back in England. And when she realized that the map didn't lead to the Gospel of Judas, and that Robinson probably knew, when she realized what the God machine really was, what did she do? She betrayed you. That's right. Do you think that she came to you—that evening in Paris—to make love to you? She came for the files on your telephone. She didn't want Robinson here building his God machine. And when, at my urging, Archbishop Lacey reached out to her, she was more than happy to help us. Believe me, it didn't require much urging. How do you think we kept tabs on you while you were in Europe? Who do you think told us about the da Vinci schematic behind the portrait of Cecilia Gallerani? I promised her all the pieces of the map would be destroyed, and with it the God machine. Forever. And they will be… eventually.”
Koster looked at Sajan. She was staring down at the floor, her face pale as the peacock outside. He glanced over at Robinson. “Did you know this?”
“I suspected,” said Robinson.
“You suspected?”
“That letter to Turing. Savita told you I didn't know anything about it, but she lied.” Robinson shook his head. “I authorized the theft, Joseph. It was my men who stole it. They were about to post the letter to Macalister when the Knights got their hands on it. Savita was desperate. You'd already learned she'd been lying about her role in Freemasonry, her membership in the GLF So she tried to keep you off balance by confessing to what you'd already learned, and by convincing you that Macalister was some sort of spy. I did try to warn you.”
“No, you didn't,” snapped Koster. “You were counting on my affection for Savita to get you the third piece of the map. If you'd told me the truth, I might not have completed the God machine.” Koster looked back at Sajan. “Is this true?”
Savita avoided his gaze.
“Is it true? Tell me, Savita. I just want to hear it come out of your mouth.”
“You already know that it is,” she replied. Finally, she looked up. Tears gleamed in her eyes. “I'm sorry, Joseph. I didn't want to hurt you. Search your heart. You know why I did it. I had to.”
“We're all prisoners of our convictions. Isn't that what you told me?” Koster laughed bitterly. “Well, so am I. This doesn't change anything.” He turned to face Rose.
“You have no intention of destroying the God machine, do you? Do you?”
Rose didn't respond.
“It's taken you too,” Koster added. “Just like da Vinci and Franklin. Just like Nick.” He turned toward Sister Maria. “And you,” he concluded. “Is this what you want?”
“Man has never invented a technology that he didn't exploit… eventually,” the nun answered. “And if the machine is going to be built, I'd prefer it in the hands of my Church.”
“You make it sound like an arms race.”
“We are fighting a war,” Rose cut in, “whether you choose to believe it or not. Against a world of false faiths. It's the ultimate conflict, for the ultimate goal—the salvation of Man.”
“But the God machine's a false lead,” Koster countered. “Coveting it is the work of something far greater than you. Something dark. Don't you see? It's like… like a drug, Michael.”
Rose visibly stiffened. “Very well, then,” he said. His voice had gone icy. “Since you offered to give yourself up in exchange for the Mystery Babylon, I can only assume that despite her betrayal, you're still partial to her. Love is blind, after all.” He laughed bitterly and looked over at Sister Maria. “Once I know that the God machine works, I may let you go.”
“That wasn't part of the deal,” Robinson said.
Macalister took a step toward Sister Maria. Then he stopped.
“We'll cut a new deal,” Rose continued. “Isn't that what you businessmen do? Although I'm afraid you're in no position to bargain this time. Something tells me it would be prudent to hold onto your lover, Mr. Koster, just in case. You may, after all, be tempted to alter the map. Change the chip—” Rose glanced back at the entrance. He seemed suddenly dumbstruck.
Koster turned. A young priest in black clerical robes and white collar stood outside the gate of the chapel. “I'm sorry,” the priest said, “but you'll have to move on. The service is about to begin.”
As the words left his lips, Koster noticed Macalister start to move on the nun. He was almost upon her when he lurched to a stop. Macalister stared down at his shirt-front. He raked at his chest with his fingers, then staggered.
Robinson reached out to catch him reflexively, when a hole opened up in his forearm. He spiraled back toward the entrance. Sajan screamed. So did the young priest. He stared down in horror as blood gushed out of Robinson's wound. He glanced at Macalister. Then he looked over at Sister Maria. The nun held a gun in her hand. It was tipped with a silencer.
For an instant, they stared at each other. The nun seemed to hesitate. Then the priest fled down the ambulatory.
Sister Maria tore after him. Koster attempted to prevent her from leaving the chapel, but she simply pushed him aside. As Koster fell back, Michael Rose made a dash for the gate. But instead of turning left to follow the nun, he turned right, up the ambulatory.
Somewhere, the horns sounded again.
Sajan was kneeling by Robinson. He was unconscious but the bleeding was easing. She was lashing his arm with his belt. Koster watched helplessly as Rose disappeared up the ambulatory. “They're getting away.”
“He'll live,” said Sajan. “But Macalister's dead.” Then she leapt to her feet and ran after the nun. Koster tried following her but she held out a hand. “No. You go after Rose,” she instructed. “He's got the last fragment. I can handle the nun.”
Without waiting for a response, Sajan charged down the ambulatory after Sister Maria. Koster turned and ran after Rose.
Sajan rounded the ambulatory. The nun had practically caught up with the priest when he cut right, through an opening in the wall, and headed up a short flight of steps toward the choir. Sajan shouted a warning as Sister Maria lifted her pistol, took aim and shot.
The bullet hit the priest in the shoulder. He stumbled but kept mounting the steps. The nun fired again, but this shot went wide. It struck the wall inches from his head, shearing off fragments of stone. The priest kept ascending the steps. He had almost made it to the last step when she fired a third time. This time, the bullet struck him dead in the back. He flung up his arms as he entered the choir.
Blood gushed from his chest. Someone screamed, then somebody else. It was picked up and carried from one set of lips to the next, a sound so pregnant with horror and fear that it seemed to crush all the air from the church.
Sajan tore up the ambulatory. She struck the nun on the back, brought her hand round and twisted the gun from her grasp. Sister Maria went flying. So did the gun. The nun hit the wall with a terrible thud, but as Sajan swept in to strike her again, she was gone. She had rolled to the floor and was scrambling up the steps to the choir.
A great noise swelled the air, the mad shuffling of feet, the sharp panicked wailing of hundreds of people as they rushed from their seats toward the exits.
As Sajan followed the nun up the steps toward the choir, Koster was rounding the ambulatory. He saw Michael Rose just ahead. Rose seemed winded or tired,for he suddenly staggered, then slowed. It was only then, as the transept came into view, that Koster realized the reason. The passage was crowded with people. They were running and pushing. They were screaming in terror, like beasts in a slaughterhouse.
Michael Rose hesitated. He stopped, looked about. But when he saw Koster behind him, he lunged toward the crowd. They churned in a maelstrom of elbows and knees. Rose was pushed to the side. Then he fell, knocked to the ground by a kid with a backpack. The same kid, Koster realized, he had seen at the entrance. Rose struggled to get back to his feet, but the terrified throng was relentless. For a moment, the pastor disappeared in a flurry of legs. He reemerged from the crowd seconds later. Blood spattered his face. He crawled toward the safety of a wall, away from the crush of the screaming parishioners.
There was nowhere to go now but back up the ambulatory. Rose struggled upright, heading toward Koster. Closer and closer Rose came until, without warning, he leapt to the side, into another cut in the wall toward the choir. Koster chased after him.
As Rose climbed the last step to the choir, he paused for a moment. He looked dazed and uncertain. His brush with the crowd must have taken its toll, Koster thought. Koster dashed up the steps in his wake. He was almost upon Rose when Rose wheeled about and suddenly kicked him. Koster parried the blow with his arm. Then he lunged at the pastor, driving Rose to the floor.
Most of the stalls were deserted now. Only a few choristers lingered within, dumbstruck or whimpering. The two Buddhist monks were huddled around the body of the fallen priest near the altar.
On one side of the choir, Sajan and Sister Maria were locked in a terrible struggle. On the other, Koster lunged after Rose.
He leapt on the pastor. They rolled over and over, flailing, trying to punch at each other. Although Michael Rose was far larger and heavier, Koster managed to pin him. He punched at his face, the soft pasty white features, the blue eyes and red lips, smeared crimson with blood.
Rose screamed. He looked past Koster at the arches above him. “Shoot! Shoot him now!”
Koster punched Rose again and stole a glance at the ceiling. There. Leaning over the parapet, on the northern triforium—a figure. He was wearing a ski mask, and some sort of uniform. And he was aiming a gun at the men grappling below.
Time seemed to stand still. Koster waited, his eyes closed, but the shot never came.
“Shoot,” Michael screeched. “Shoot. Fucking shoot!”
The figure straightened. He hoisted his high-powered rifle. Then he turned and slipped away through the shadows.
Koster rolled to his feet. Rose scrabbled at his ankles, desperate to pull him down to the flagstones again, but Koster kicked him with all of his might in the face.
Michael flew backwards. Blood cartwheeled as he tumbled and rolled toward the choir stalls.
Without even waiting to see the result, Koster ran to the far side of the choir.
Sajan and the nun were locked in a fearsome embrace. Sister Maria had pinned Sajan to the choir stalls. The nun's hands were wrapped round Sajan's neck.
Koster wrenched the two women apart. He grabbed Sajan's hand and they dashed toward the cut in the wall. They jumped down the steps. Koster glanced toward the transept, but the exits were choked with the fleeing parishioners.
There was nowhere to run, Koster realized. They were trapped in the ambulatory! Then he spotted a door, set in the wall, just a few feet away. “This way,” he cried.
They ran, hand in hand, down the ambulatory. He flung the door open. But instead of leading to an exit, as Koster had hoped, it opened onto a narrow stone stairwell, deep in shadows.
Koster groped for a light switch but there was none. It was pitch black in the stairwell. The steps corkscrewed down out of sight. To the basement, no doubt. He looked up. The stairs seemed to climb toward the distant triforium and the clerestory above. “Come on,” Koster urged her.
“I can't see a thing,” Sajan said.
“Then neither can she.”
They made their way forward. Koster stumbled almost immediately. The stairs were quite steep, constructed of some slippery stone. And he couldn't see anything. They had to feel their way forward, one step at a time. The staircase seemed to wind on forever, corkscrewing up through the tower.
“Where are you going?” a voice said behind them. It was Sister Maria. “You have nowhere to hide.”
They quickened their pace up the staircase. They scrambled still higher.
“Koster la lleva,” the nun called below. “I'm weary of this game. There's nowhere to go. Stand and face me.”
Koster leapt up the stairway, two steps at a time. Sajan followed behind. Suddenly, a light appeared in the stairwell. There was an opening up ahead! Some kind of door. They climbed and they climbed till Koster realized they were nearing the gallery. They had reached the triforium. Koster ran up the steps. They were almost upon it when he heard Sajan scream.
Koster peered down the stairwell. Sister Maria's face swam up through the darkness. Her smile. And her hand, with that little steel blade. It was pinned to Sajan's heel.
“Help me,” Sajan cried as she attempted to wrench her leg free.
Koster tugged at Sajan. He dragged her up the last few steps of the stairwell, through the door until they flopped to the floor of the gallery.
Relentless, the nun scrambled like a crab in pursuit. She still carried that knife in her hand, attached to the rosary round her neck. Sajan tried to scurry away on all fours. Koster reached out to protect her when Sister Maria suddenly heaved herself up through the doorway. The nun leapt through the air, the blade slashed and Koster felt it impale his right hand. He screamed. He pulled back but the knife wouldn't give. He was pinned to the planks of the floor.
Sister Maria crawled forward. She smiled as she twisted the tendons and cartilage in his hand like spaghetti. Koster screamed. Then she wrenched the blade free. As Koster flailed to escape, he heard the insectlike sound of the rosary as it whipped round his neck. He felt the beads tighten, felt the cord pinch his skin. He tried to scream but the sound was choked off in his throat.
“Keep your fucking hands off my man,” said Sajan. There was a terrible thud. Then another.
Koster fell forward. The pressure on his neck was suddenly gone. He struggled upright.
Sajan was standing by Sister Maria, holding her head, pounding it against the side of the doorway. Then, without warning, Sajan fell to the floor.
Sister Maria had managed to grab one of her ankles.
Sajan screamed. She tried pulling away. Then she screamed once again and Koster knew why. The nun had jammed the tip of her thumb into the cut she had made in Sajan's heel. She plucked at the tendon like the string of a bass.
Koster leapt to his feet. He stepped forward and kicked Sister Maria, and she tumbled back through the doorway. She slid down the stairs out of sight.
Without pausing, Koster seized Sajan's hand and they scrambled away. The arcaded gallery of the triforium ran the full length of the nave, east to west. They passed through a doorway that led to a dark, narrow corridor flanked on one side by carved wooden paneling and on the other by great blocks of stone. They could see the choir and nave far below through the latticework. They ran through the pale dappled light, and they had almost reached the end of the corridor when they realized that the passage was blocked by a jumble of lumber ahead. Once again, they were trapped. There was no where to run.
They turned to go back, but as they did so, the nun reappeared at the head of the corridor. She charged. Savita was standing in front of Koster and he watched helplessly as the two women came together. The corridor was too narrow, too cramped for him to reach round to strike at the nun.
Sajan was using her elbows. She kept swinging them up and then sideways, catching the nun on the tip of the jaw. Sister Maria flew back to the paneling. But she was relentless. She kept punching. One blow caught Sajan on the side of the face and she almost fell through the paneling. They jabbed and they scratched at each other, but confined as they were in the narrow triforium, it was impossible to get much momentum.
Koster finally saw his chance. As Sajan stepped to the side, he reached out and struck at the nun. But as he punched, he exposed his left flank, and she kicked him—right in the balls.
Koster buckled. As he fell to his knees, his head struck the paneling. Koster groaned. He climbed to his feet. He took a step closer to Sister Maria, when she kicked him again. But this time Koster was ready. He blocked it, only to feel her right fist smash his face. He tumbled backwards.
In that moment, Sajan managed to slip in behind Sister Maria. She grabbed her blue veil. She yanked the other woman's head back, exposing her throat, and snatched at the rosary beads round her neck. Sajan tightened her grip. “And this is for cutting my face,” Sajan said as she hurled the nun forward.
Sister Maria's head crashed through the dark wooden paneling, splintering the intricate latticework. Koster leapt over the nun. He seized Sajan's hand—and they heard the sound of the panel tear loose. They turned just in time to see it collapse, to rip away from the gallery and sail through the air, striking the floor of the nave with a terrible crash. Light streamed through the gallery.
But the nun had not fallen. Somehow, she had managed to pull herself back from the edge. She faced them.
A great bloody gash ran from the top of Sister Maria's right eye to the tip of her jaw. Her veil had come off, and she stood there bareheaded. But instead of the luxurious brown hair Koster had expected to see, the nun was practically bald. Only a few clumpy gray strands trickled down to her shoulders.
Koster turned with a groan, pushing Sajan before him. They hobbled along the passageway. They had almost reached the doorway leading back to the stairwell when Koster felt something slice into his back. He stumbled and rolled, one hand pressed to the paneling, frantically trying not to fall. As he swung around to face the nun, the blade pierced his skin once again with such ease and dexterity—just under his ribs, in that fleshy part—that he didn't at first know what it was. The pain was unbearable.
“Wait here,” the nun said softly. He could smell her sweet breath on his face. “I'll come back for you later.” Then, astonishingly, she released him.
Koster collapsed.
Sajan stood facing the nun. Her eyes widened as she noticed the bloodied blade in Sister Maria's right hand.
“There were leaves on the road,” the nun said, “but it wasn't that slippery. That wasn't the cause of the accident.”
The color drained from Sajan's face. There was no paneling near the door to the stairwell, and the solid stone balustrade had been replaced by an old metal rail. “What did you say?” Sajan glanced at the doorway. For a moment, Koster thought she might turn and make a run for the stairwell. In truth, he prayed that she would. But she didn't. She stood there, frozen, facing Sister Maria.
“I remember the little boy in the window,” the nun said. “What was his name? Marc, or Maurice. Yes, Maurice. Such a strong name for someone who just came apart in that way, when the car hit that ditch. He died instantly.”
“Maurice,” said Sajan. She took another step back toward the railing.
“But the man,” the nun said. “Your husband, Jean-Claude. It took him a long time to die. Several minutes. He suffered.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“I watched him. Those that seem the most innocent are, in fact, the most elegant killings.”
“You're lying.”
“Am I? Archbishop Lacey longed to silence the countess. The old woman's incessant attempts to publish the Gospel of Thomas, to spread Gnostic lies, were becoming a nuisance. But he didn't wish to make her a martyr. So I suggested the perfect solution. I told him he could get at the countess another way. Through her son. Your husband. Maurice was an unexpected turn of events. A bonus, if you will.”
The silver blade slashed through the air, barely missing Sajan's cheek.
Sajan grabbed the nun's wrist. She twisted it down with a powerful motion. The nun screamed and let go of her crucifix.
Koster watched helplessly as the two women struggled. They clawed at each other.
Then, Sister Maria seemed to trip on her robes.
Sajan punched her—once, twice—in the face.
The nun's head snapped back. She clung to the railing.
“God forgive me.” Sajan lunged, fingers pressed in a spear thrust, and struck the nun just under the chin, in the jugular notch.
Sister Maria flew backward. There was the sound of metal rending. The railing began to give way. The nun snatched at the air. But there was nothing to hold. She teetered on the lip of the precipice.
Sajan reached out, perhaps changing her mind, as if to grab at the nun's outstretched fingers. Her hand settled instead on Sister Maria's rosary beads. Sister Maria slipped backward, her arms cartwheeling in the air, and the rosary snapped as she fell. She somersaulted back through the beam of a spotlight. She twisted and rolled. Then her body struck the ambulatory with an audible crack.
Sajan still clasped the rosary tight in her hand. She watched as the prayer beads slipped from the thread, one by one, as they fell through the air, raining down upon the shattered body below.
Koster struggled to his feet, gasping. He made his way toward Sajan. In the distance they could hear the shrill cry of sirens approaching.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”
“What about Nick?”
“He's already gone to the safe house.”
Koster shook his head, shuddering from the pain. “I don't know how I know. I just do. Don't you trust me?”
There were tears in Sajan's eyes. She glanced down at the body on the flagstones below. “Yes, I trust you. Question is…”
Koster reached out and picked up her hand. He squeezed it and said, “With my life.”
IT TOOK THEM FORTY-ODD MINUTES TO MAKE IT DOWNTOWN in a taxi, and it was closing on noon when they finally arrived at the chapel on Avenue B. At first they had a hard time locating the place. The chapel was inside an apartment off Fourth Street. Ironically it was part of a soup kitchen run by the Little Brothers of Jesus, a French order founded in the wastes of North Africa by a monk named Charles de Foucauld.
“They're a Catholic order,” said Koster as he recoiled from the plaque on the wall.
“A Catholic chapel is the last place that anyone will be looking for us. Nick was clever in selecting this place. Besides,” said Sajan, “I know the Petits Frères. They have a retreat near Tamanrasset, in Algeria. They're an honorable group, perhaps the most Christ-like of all Catholic orders. We'll have nothing to fear here.”
They rang the bell and entered the building. As they moved through the foyer, a young man in blue jeans with close-cropped black hair came out of his office to greet them. “May I help you?” he asked politely. “The kitchen is closed. It's early for dinner.”
They must have seemed a dreadful sight. “The chapel?” asked Koster. “This way?” He pointed at the end of the corridor.
The young man looked at the T-shirt wrapped round Koster's stomach, mottled with blood. “Do you need to go to a hospital?” He had a French accent.
“No,” Koster answered, looking down at the floor. The driver on the cab ride downtown had asked the same thing. “No hospitals. We just need to pray.”
The young man shrugged. Then, he pointed over his shoulder, and Koster and Sajan slipped away.
The chapel had once been the living room of a narrow railroad apartment. It was tiny, with barely space for a handful of benches and a small altar at the far end of the room. A simple cross, made of wood, hung from a nail on the wall. A couple of windows looked out onto Fourth Street, the sunlight filtered by shutters.
A man sat in the corner, his face hidden by shadows.
“You made it,” said Koster. He crossed the room quickly. He dropped his hand on the man's shoulder. Robinson didn't move. “Nick?”
“I saw Macalister die.” Robinson swiveled. “I watched him take his last breath.”
“Yes, I know,” Koster said.
“And they raided my temple in Harlem. They must have tracked us by satellite. The temple's been burned to the ground. All those gospels… The God machine… All those years…”
Robinson staggered to his feet. It was then that Koster noticed his arm. The belt Sajan had applied at the cathedral was cinched round his bicep, but the wound was still bleeding. “All gone… Thanks to you,” Nick concluded, as he turned toward Sajan.
Sajan moved through the chapel. The shadows from the shutters mottled her face. “You know why I did it, Nick. You lied to us. You made us believe you were after the Gospel of Judas, but you just wanted the God machine. I'm sorry Macalister's dead. And I'm sorry they burned all the gospels. But don't try and make me your… your…”
“Judas.”
“I was going to say scapegoat.”
“You betrayed us,” Robinson said. He pulled out his Glock. “And you broke the Freemasons' code. You know what that means.”
“Yes, Inspector General.”
“Put that gun down,” said Koster.
“Get out of my way, Joseph. She's the one who's responsible for handing over the map. Every piece that she got out of you, with her kisses and lies. How does that make you feel? She gave them the God machine.”
“You gave it to them,” Koster said. “If you hadn't started this, they never would have found anything.”
“I said get out of my way.”
“I didn't do it for money or glory, or under duress.” Sajan shook her head. Despite her look of defiance, Koster could see there were tears in her eyes. “I did it because the God machine… It should have never been built. And I believed Michael Rose when he swore he'd destroy it. I believed him. I had to. It may lead you to God, but… along a false road. What is religion without faith, Nick? What's the point?”
Robinson leveled his Glock at Sajan and Koster lunged at the gun. He and Robinson crashed to the floor, knocking over the benches.
Sajan screamed.
Koster grabbed at the barrel with both hands as they rolled. Then Robinson managed to slither on top of him, sitting square on his stomach and chest. Koster could feel the cuts in his belly tear open.
They balanced there for a moment. Slowly but surely, the barrel inched closer. Koster heaved, he pressed and he pushed with a gasp. It was now only inches away from his face. Then, Robinson teetered. Koster yanked at the gun with his last ounce of strength, and it skittered out of Robinson's grasp.
“It's over, Nick.” The gun trembled in Koster's hands. “No one's killing anyone. The killing ends now.”
“Over? It's not over, Joseph. There are other gospels still out there. Other clues to the God machine.”
“Savita's right, Nick. The God machine's a dead end.”
Robinson looked up with surprise. “I thought you told me it worked. I thought you said you saw God.”
“Don't you get it?” Koster tossed the gun to the rear of the chapel. “We've turned technology into our god. We worship at our widescreen TVs. Cell phones and wireless systems are not just status symbols; they've become fetishes. We've connected the world through the Internet but no one goes into their backyard to play anymore. We're killing the earth just to sustain all this crap. Creating carbon emissions. Generating nuclear waste. Just to power the grid that supports our electrical addiction. Technology isn't intrinsically bad, but does it have to come at the expense of humanity, the life of the planet we live on? Must it preempt even the spiritual plane? Savita was right, Nick. You don't need a machine, a device to touch God, any more than you need a cathedral to pray, as opposed to someplace like this.” He waved his hand at the chapel.
“I didn't lie when I told you I saw what I saw. I saw… everything. Judas was indeed Jesus Christ's confidant, his best friend, just as the Gospel of Judas revealed. Judas knowingly let himself be vilified for more than two thousand years as his greatest expression of love for his master. God knew Judas was the perfect vehicle to pass down the first piece of the map. The El Minya schematic. Who better to reach up from the grave with this knowledge than Judas? Who had a more compelling incentive? God knew we would interpret Judas's motive to reveal the God machine as that very human desire for the apostle to clear himself, to set the record straight about his role in Christ's crucifixion.
“All along the Masonic fault line through history,” he continued, “God has passed on this secret knowledge to us, once piece at a time. To Abraham, da Vinci and Franklin; to Turing and Boole; to Tesla and Edison. And now to Savita. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” Robinson struggled to his feet.
“For our technology to advance far enough for it to rival His presence in our lives.”
“I don't understand.”
“We had to fashion the God machine in order to know that it isn't required,” Sajan said. “Is that it?”
Koster nodded.
“Then what Nick did was part of the plan. Completing the God machine was essential.”
“That's the paradox,” Koster said. “Like sin and free will. God gave us a choice. He waited for Mankind to evolve to a point where technology has become like a deity, a god unto itself, like the Demiurge. Then He delivered the last piece of the map. Only once we could build the machine could we learn its true meaning.”
“And what is its true meaning?” Robinson sounded bewildered.
Koster smiled. “The ultimate God machine is the human brain, which God gave us. When it's tuned to the phi frequency, through the ritual of prayer, the brain provides direct access to God. The holy spark is within us, within each of us, just as the Gnostics proclaimed. No intermediary—no human, such as a priest, no machine—is required. I didn't understand that. Not until I met you.” He turned toward Sajan.
“All those things I said about Nick in his office; I said them to test you, to be sure of your love for me. I should have just accepted your feelings on faith.” Koster hesitated. “Love isn't a mathematical proof. It was only after you betrayed me that I realized none of that mattered. Regardless of what you did, I loved you. Plain and simple. In the same way, you don't need a machine to connect you to God, to open a doorway. You just need to believe.”
“So,” said Sajan. “What you're saying is that it was your love for me that turned you…”
“… as it can turn anyone…”
“… into a God machine.”
“No batteries required,” Koster said with a soft laugh.
“Your love for me,” said Sajan. “Let's just be clear about that.” And she smiled her most luminous smile.
“I don't see what's so funny.” Robinson sat on one of the benches. He hung his head in his hands. “Even if what you say is true, the gospels have all been destroyed. Franklin's journal… Priceless documents… Macalister's dead… And, in case you've forgotten, every cop in the city is looking for us.”
“I don't think we need to be concerned about Rose anymore,” Koster told him. “That's why that sniper in the cathedral pulled back. And without Rose, there's no incentive for the government to continue their manhunt. On the contrary, I'm sure they'll be more than happy to try and sweep this whole thing under the rug. It would be another huge embarrassment for the Alder administration if this ever got out. Especially for Vice President Linkletter.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“I saw Pastor Thaddeus Rose when I went through the God machine. He's not talking to his son Michael for a very good reason. He's away on a retreat, all right. A permanent one. Pinned behind drywall, wrapped in plastic, in the basement of Michael's mansion in the Hollywood Hills. He's been dead for over a week. Apparently, he caught Michael with a teenage parishioner in his office, and things got out of hand.”
“Do you mean that we're free to walk out of here?” asked Sajan. “No one's after us? That's impossible!”
Koster smiled. “We can walk—or, perhaps, I should say hobble—out of here. But I wouldn't exactly say that we're free.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are things that I saw,” Koster told them. “Some were wondrous.” He paused, grasping for words. “I saw my son Zane. And Mariane too. They reached out and touched me, and all of the pain and the guilt I've been carrying around in my heart all these years simply vanished. It was suddenly gone. Like my Asperger syndrome. I saw Maurice and Jean-Claude. They were happy, Savita. I saw Franklin and Franky. And then there were things…” He shook his head. “Terrible things. Things I saw that I'll never forget. The God machine wasn't the only device Franklin built.”
With the utmost of delicacy, Koster leaned over and kissed the cut on Sajan's cheek. “I saw things about you,” he murmured.
“What kind of things?”
“Does a red polka-dot bikini on your twenty-sixth birthday ring a bell?”
Sajan pushed him away. “That's not fair!” she began. Then, she wrapped her arms round him, pulled him close. She kissed him and said, “You know, that bikini still fits me.”
WHEN FRANKLIN AWOKE, HE FOUND HIMSELF WALKING along the path to Dock Creek. It was a startlingly beautiful autumn morning. The air was cool and crisp, and the sky a cerulean blue. The fruit trees, the maples and oaks, that girdled the footpath were crimson and gold, and the stench that invariably wafted in from Dock Creek was noticeably absent, overcome by the aroma of wood smoke, the burning of leaves.
Franky was waiting for him at the footbridge. He was standing right there, in his midnight blue trousers, with that pale red chemise that Deborah had sewn for him—the one with the bone-colored collar and cuffs.
The sight of his son filled Franklin with a rush of exquisite delight so profound that he had to stop for a moment just to gather his breath.
Franky giggled and waved. He tore up the path toward his father. He ran and he ran, and he kicked at an apple that sailed through the air, spinning and coming to rest but a few feet from Franklin.
Franklin stared at the fruit. It was perfectly round—like a ball, cannon shot, like the great globe itself. Spinning. He ran forward and kicked it, but missed. He slipped on some leaves, wet with dew, and flew back on his arse to the footpath. But, somehow, the fall did not hurt him. He stared up at the sky through the boughs of the trees, at the buttery sunlight, and realized that the pain of his gout and his gallstones had vanished.
Franky came up beside him, blocking the sun. He stared down at his father and smiled. Then he held out a hand.
Franklin reached out to grab it when, for the first time, he saw his own fingers. They were strong and un-wrinkled, and uncovered with spots.
Their hands came together, Franky's fingers so tiny and pale next to his. Franky leaned back to help him get up. But the boy was too light, and Franklin fell back to the ground, with Franky upon him.
They rolled through the leaves. Franklin held the slight body, afraid to let go, afraid to relinquish the scent of his skin, the warmth of his cheek on his face.
“Is it you?”
The boy giggled again. He rolled onto his back right beside him, and stared up at the white cotton clouds.
“Am I dreaming?” asked Franklin. “If I am, do not wake me.”
“No, Father,” the boy replied. “You're not dreaming.” Franky turned and looked at his father. “You're home.”
Born in Chicago, raised and educated throughout Europe, and a graduate of Amherst College, J. G. Sandom founded the nation's first digital ad agency (Einstein and Sandom Interactive—EASI) in 1984, before launching an award-winning writing career. Sandom has authored six thrillers and mysteries, including Gospel Truths, The Hunting Club and The Wave, and three young adult novels under the pseudonym T. K. Welsh, including The Unresolved and Resurrection Men. He is currently working on a sequel to The God Machine. Visit the author at www.JGSandom.com.
THE GOD MACHINE
A Bantam Book / May 2009
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2009 by J. G. Sandom
Bantam Books and the Rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90644-8
www.bantamdell.com
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