The Book of Secrets

by Tom Harper

  It hadn’t lasted long after that.

  But for the first time in months, he didn’t care; he stared at the picture and barely noticed Gillian. He magnified the picture, zooming in on the T-shirt. A dark blue shield filled the screen, the single word BROWN blazoned on it across Gillian’s chest. Behind, wrapping his vast forearms around the shield, loomed an enormous brown bear.

  The bookshop had an Internet connection but it was down. Nick ran to the stairwell and checked the store directory. EDUCATION AND CAREERS: BASEMENT. He took the elevator. There was hardly anyone down there: people coming back from Christmas vacation hadn’t yet had time to remember how much they hated their jobs.

  He found what he was looking for in a dead-end aisle near the back of the store: Inside the Ivy League by J. B. Morford. He flipped through the photographs of gothic cloisters and blonde girls with too-perfect teeth clutching copies of Shakespeare. He didn’t have to go far.

  Brown University Student

  Body: 7,740 (approx.)

  Mascot: Bruno the Bear

  He squatted down on a rubberised grey stool and balanced the laptop on his knee, checking there was no one to see him. The Cryptych program opened at once. Nick clicked on the picture.

  Enter Password:

  b r u n o

  Password incorrect

  Enter Password:

  B r u n o

  Password accepted

  XXIV

  Paris, 1433

  I woke on bare stone. My skin was clammy and cold, my bones stiff as iron. I was naked except for a short cloth around my waist. My head ached, and when I opened my eyes the harsh winter light made me wince.

  I heaved myself up. I could not find my clothes, so I pulled a hanging off the wall and wrapped it around my shoulders. It trailed behind me, dragging a broad road in the dust as I walked barefoot through the empty house. When I came to the tower door I paused. The ache in my head pounded to a new intensity. I knew what I would find.

  I had not realised how bad the tower had become in those last frenzied weeks. Everything was filthy. Black residues crystallised in jars that I had not washed out; the ghosts of failed experiments congealed where I had abandoned them. Several parts of the table were crusted with bird droppings. On the floor in front of the cold furnace lay our broken egg. Shards of glass glinted like a shattered crown, the fallen sword beside it.

  I heard a sound at the door and turned. Tristan stood there wearing a brown cloak, a fresh cup of wine in his hand. Heavy circles rimmed his eyes. Half of me expected him to pick up the sword and slice off my head, like Herod in the painting. Half of me would have welcomed it.

  He looked at the slug of cooled metal among the broken glass. It was dull and grey, little different from the lead we had filled it with. Of the powder which I had laboured so long to produce, there was no trace.

  We had failed.

  I spent the day picking through the detritus of the laboratory. I swept the grate. I filled a barrel with water and scrubbed out every cup and vessel I had touched. The chill of the water made the ache in my head worse, but I forced myself to continue until everything was clean. Then I went outside and tipped a bucket over my head to clean myself. I arranged the tools in racks and put the remains of my materials in boxes and jars. There was nothing else I could do. The day was a void, an empty space between the ill-fitting fragments of my life. I could not stay there. But I did not know where to go.

  That evening, three of Tristan’s friends came to play cards. He lit a fire in the hall and fetched a barrel of wine. Normally I would have avoided them and locked myself in the tower, but I could not go there that night. Nor did I want to retreat to another corner of the house. Now that I was alive to my surroundings again, they terrified me.

  I had nothing to say to Tristan’s friends. I gathered they were all younger sons of more or less noble families, idle youths with no purpose but to spin out their fortunes until their brothers inherited. I said nothing and concentrated on my cards. Not on the game – I gambled as little as I could, though more than I had, and endured the hilarious cries of ‘Alms, alms’ every time I reached out my hand. But the cards themselves entranced me. They were beautiful: a wild menagerie of birds, beasts, flowers and men that flitted in and out of my hands with the firelight. In the ashes of my soul I felt a small ember begin to glow again. Twice I lost games I might have won by holding on to cards just because I wanted to examine them more closely. The creatures were drawn with rare skill, delicate lines so sharp they almost seemed to be carved into the paper. They reminded me of the figures I had incised in gold at Konrad Schmidt’s workshop.

  That thought stirred a memory, though not one I could quite grasp. I worried at it while I lost the next two hands, then decided to concentrate on the game.

  It was not complicated. The goal was to husband your cards until you held either five consecutive numbers from the same suit or four identical numbers across the five different suits. On each turn a player discarded one card in his hand and took another, either the one the previous player had discarded (which he could see) or one from the deck (which he could not). When he had taken the card he could raise his bet, and if he did the next player had either to match it or to forfeit the round.

  All night I had been playing in the most perfunctory way, offering tiny bets on my own account and then surrendering at the first challenge. The others had quickly noticed, and made a separate game of offering derisory bids, clapping and cheering me to match them and then abusing me when I refused. And yet now, as I looked at my cards, I saw that fate had dealt me a tantalising hand. Three eights – beasts, birds and stags – and the ten and Jack of stags.

  I bet my usual pittance and watched the other players, wondering if I should pursue the set of eights or the sequence of stags. Tristan took the two of birds and discarded the five of stags – a good sign. His friend drew a card from the deck I could not see, made a sour face and discarded the nine of stags.

  ‘No bet.’

  I tried to be calm. I pretended to study my hand, to hover between the deck and the discard pile. I took the nine. Now I had the eight-nine-ten-Jack of stags, but also the three eights. The thought that one more card could win it was like liquor in my blood: not for the money, but for the joy of beating Tristan and his friends. Just once would be enough.

  But I could not pursue one path without sacrificing the other. The cards were hard to read: I counted and recounted the images to be sure I had the right numbers. Somewhere around the table were two eights, either one of which would complete my set. Equally, the seven or the queen would complete my run of stags. The decision paralysed me.

  ‘How long does he need to decide to give up?’ asked the player to my left. His name was Jacques; the deck was his. I longed to find out more about it, but could not bring myself to ask him.

  I looked at my hand again and noticed that one poked slightly above the others. The eight of birds. I pulled it out and threw it down on the table, followed by a quarter penny. On such fine quantities do the balances of our lives tip.

  The other players reacted with predictable hilarity to my bet. They made great sport of rummaging in their purses, scratching their heads and crossing themselves in mock distress. All except Jacques beside me, who had stiffened the moment I played my card. I would not have noticed if I had not been so alive to the possibility of winning myself. While the others were still distracted he smoothly palmed the eight of birds and raised my bet to a penny.

  The game went round the circle. On my next turn I drew blind from the deck, praying for the seven or the queen. I cupped the card in my hand and tilted it up to the firelight.

  Eight wild men leaped out at me, brandishing cudgels, exposing themselves, making cruel mockery of my hopes. If I had not given away the eight of birds on my previous turn I would have won.

  I threw the card back on the table, not even pretending to consider it. Despair took hold of me: out of pure devilment, I tossed another penny into the betting
pot. It prompted an unguarded glance from Jacques as he swept up the card. Now he had two eights thanks to my mistakes, plus whatever he had originally been dealt.

  I sat and watched the other players, wondering if they held the cards I needed. Two of Tristan’s friends clearly had nothing, and soon threw in their hands. Those were shuffled and returned to the deck. With Tristan I could not find the pattern in the cards he chose to take or leave; he never raised the bet, but met every increase with a cool stare. As for me, I drew blind every time and prayed. All I got were a succession of birds and flowers. My only consolation was that Jacques seemed to do the same. He never took the card he could see, but tried his luck like me in the deck. And I knew that so long as I held my two remaining eights, he could not get the four he needed.

  My small pile of coins shrank to nothing and still I did not have the card I wanted. I drew another and threw it back almost without looking. Jacques drew from the deck, made a pretence of shuffling it into the cards he held, then threw it back. A piece of silver followed it onto the table.

  ‘Anyone to raise?’

  Tristan swore and put down his cards. I looked at mine – a run of four stags, including the eight, and the eight of beasts. I had no doubt Jacques meant to raise me out of the game. It was as close as I had come to winning all night. And I had no more money.

  ‘Here.’

  A second silver coin landed on the table, rolled across the varnished wood and fell onto the pile. I looked at Tristan.

  ‘That is for you. Now no more bets. Play to see who wins.’

  I loved him more that moment than ever before – though afterwards I thought he did it to annoy his friend. They were a pack of wild dogs who would tear into each other at the least sign of weakness.

  But for now it was just the two of us. Jacques moved to the other side of the hearth so that he sat facing me. Half his face glowed in the firelight; the other half was lost in shadow. The others sat on the sidelines and made bets among themselves – what suit the next card would be, how many turns it would take to win, whether the card I threw down would be higher or lower than Jacques’. With no gambling of our own to do we played quickly. Our hands darted over the table like flies on meat, peeling off the cards and getting rid of them almost in one movement.

  Jacques picked up the five of stags and discarded it. For a moment I wondered if I should take it and hope for the six – but then I would have to surrender one of my eights to him. I peeled another card from the deck, tipped it up, and was halfway to discarding it when I registered what it was.

  The eight of flowers. I felt a pain in my stomach; somewhere in heaven, God was surely laughing at me. For the third time that evening I held three eights – and I could not do anything with them. I threw the card back onto the table.

  Jacques picked it up, as I knew he would. He tucked it into his hand and plucked out another with a flourish. I watched it go down on the table. A queen sat in a meadow admiring her reflection in a mirror, while a dwarfish stag grazed on the hem of her outspread skirts. The queen of stags.

  My hand shot out to take it – but was held in mid-air. Jacques grasped it, squeezing until my knuckles cracked. He held it while he laid out his other cards with his free hand. Four eights. Flowers, wild men, birds – and beasts.

  Tristan kicked the table leg in anger. His two friends whooped and crowed. Still holding my fist, Jacques swept the pile of money towards him.

  ‘Wait.’

  My hand was in agony, but I barely noticed the pain. I clenched my teeth and put my cards face up on the table. Four stags and the eight of beasts. Another eight of beasts.

  I shook off Jacques’ grip and slid the two cards together. They were the same. Not similar or alike – identical. Perfect copies, two coins struck from the same die.

  Tristan realised first. The other two were slower, but quicker to react once they understood they’d been cheated. They flew at Jacques and knocked him off his stool; they tried to pin him down but he was stronger. He sent one reeling back with a kick to the groin, clubbed the other with a fire iron and sprinted for the door. Tristan sprang after him, the others limping behind as best they could.

  I picked up the card and followed. I found Jacques in the muddy yard in front of the house, held down by his friends as with cries of ‘Cheat’ and ‘Jew’ they kicked, punched, beat and bit him. Tristan, in particular, was possessed by a relentless frenzy that I feared would kill Jacques.

  I could not let that happen. I ran to the writhing mass of bodies and forced my way through, ducking the indiscriminate blows. The others thought I wanted to join in the attack, and that this would be hilarious – they pulled Tristan away, shouting that the servant should have his revenge. One of them sat on Jacques’ legs, though there was no need for it. His shirt was soaked in blood; his lip was split, and one eye could hardly open. The fingers on his left hand had been crushed under a boot.

  I knelt astride Jacques’ chest and held up the card. My breath steamed in the cold moonlight.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  Jacques twisted his head and spat a gob of blood onto the ground. A tooth rattled on the stones.

  ‘A man in Strassburg.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  He shook his head. ‘How did he do it?’

  Jacques misunderstood my question. ‘He sold them to me.’ The others were getting bored. ‘Kill him,’ one shouted.

  I ignored them. ‘Where can I find this man?’

  ‘At the sign of the bear.’

  He coughed out a spray of blood. Several droplets landed on the card and I pulled it away hurriedly. I pushed myself up and walked away, trying not to listen to the gleeful screams behind me. I felt dizzy with blood and wine. I stared at the card in my hand – all that mattered in that vast cursed house.

  How many others existed in the world? And how had their creator made them so perfect?

  XXV

  New York City

  The card divided, dealing itself out into the left and right panes of the window. One showed a copy of the card indistinguishable from the encoded picture in the centre. In the other panel, three lines of text appeared.

  177 rue de Rivoli

  Boite 628

  300-481

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Nick looked up so fast he almost knocked the laptop onto the floor. A sales assistant was looking down at him with a pile of revision guides stacked in her arms. He leaned over the laptop screen to shield it.

  ‘Can I help you find something?’

  Nick snapped the laptop shut. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘There’s an Internet connection in the café,’ the girl said helpfully.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He walked slowly back up the stairs to ground level, hugging the laptop to his chest. Already, the elation of breaking the password had been overtaken by confusion. When the phone in his pocket vibrated against his hip, he almost didn’t notice it.

  The screen announced two missed calls, both in the last ten minutes. There must have been no signal in the basement. He checked the numbers. One was Seth, the other a local number he didn’t recognise. He rang Seth.

  ‘Nick?’ He answered almost at once. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘What is it?’ Seth must be in a car. Nick had to shout to make himself heard over the rumble of traffic in the background.

  ‘Bad news. The kid’s changed his story.’

  Something that sounded like a rocket roared past Seth’s phone.

  ‘Now he’s saying he maybe didn’t see you in the hallway when the gun went off. Maybe it was just before, or just after.’

  ‘What do you mean? It was the gunshot that made him run for cover. He- Hello?’

  A blare of silence cut him short. When Seth came back, his voice was disjointed, almost unintelligible.

  ‘You need – Royce – Gillian – arrest you -’

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ Nick shouted. ‘I’m just heading into the Holland Tunnel. Traffic’s pretty ba
d. I’ll call-’

  The signal died in a flat drone. Nick stared at the handset. Feeling numb, he hit REDIAL, just in case. Seth’s voicemail answered at once.

  His head was beginning to ache again; his whole body shivered with fatigue. Why would Max change his story? Was it his mother trying to protect him? Getting revenge for all the nights she’d complained of Bret’s pot smoke creeping out from under their door. It was so unfair he wanted to hit something.

  The phone rang again. Shoppers browsing the tables of discount paperbacks shot him disapproving glances. He looked at the number displayed on the phone – a local number. What if it was Royce?

  The ring forced him into a decision. He answered. ‘Nick? It’s Emily.’

  ‘How are you?’ The words were reflexive, an unthinking verbal handshake. It was only as he said it that he realised something seemed wrong.

  ‘I’m terrified.’ She sounded it. ‘Nick, someone’s following me.’

  Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, the words tumbling over themselves in her anxiety. He thought he could hear a hiss like running water in the background.

  ‘Where are you now?’