by Anton Gill
He looked through the document and, as he did so, his mind registered disappointment. Annika hadn’t affixed any translation, and the letter was, as she’d said, in medieval Latin. And Lopez was no linguist. He could get by in French and Spanish, and that was it.
And someone else had the document as well, now, since it hadn’t been in the apartment.
Someone they were racing against. Someone who had resources as great as INTERSEC’s own.
The letter ended. He could see the bold cross plainly made – Frid’s mark – and read his name written out beneath it, with another, that of the scribe.
But the writing on the scanned parchment continued. Not in the Roman alphabet, and in a different hand from that of the scribe. Something else, something strange, but distantly familiar. And at the very end, in a crabbed hand, a different person again had added a note in yet another language.
Lopez concentrated on the five lines that had caught his attention. Why was it familiar? Five lines of uncertain scrawl. Something Frid himself had copied out? It looked as if the writer had laboured hard in his task, there were crossings-out and corrections, but the whole matter looked complete. Hard to tell where one word ended and another started. Were they words?
Numerals! Numerals were more up his street.
Then it came to him. This was similar to the incised inscription they’d seen on the shank of the key.
He picked up the blue phone and started to tap in a number. But, halfway through, he stopped.
The temptation to crack this on his own was strong. But how much time did he have?
84
Vienna, AD 1946
The man in the dark-blue suit sat on the bed in his hotel room and looked at the box he held in his hands.
So far, so good. It had been a tough six months, but now it was January again, and much of the dust had settled. He could break cover. That meant facing new challenges, but it was still a relief.
Vienna was bundled in the misery of defeat; but what its cobbled streets and battered buildings concealed was an energetic renaissance based on a black market which carried on as if the four zones which Britain, France, the USA and the USSR had divided the city into had never been called into being. Austria stood in the middle of Soviet-occupied Europe, but it was unlikely that Vienna would suffer the fate which hung over Berlin; and the Hotel Sacher, on Philharmoniker Straße and just opposite the opera, was able to keep up appearances, depending on its ability to maintain the delicate balance between rationing and its black-market suppliers. The man had chosen to stay there not just because it was still the best hotel in town, but because spot checks were rare, and it was close to one of the American sectors.
The Swiss passport safe in his left-hand breast pocket, the wallet with its precious cargo of $500 in his right, he stood up, and wrapped the box in a black velvet cloth. He placed it carefully in his briefcase then pulled on his overcoat, taking a grey trilby from the table near the door.
He checked his watch. A short walk through the drizzle north to Herrenstraße and the Café Central, where his contact would be waiting for him at 19.00 hours. He’d arrive precisely on time. The passport, its stamps correct and giving his name as Aloysius Guttmann, would sweep aside any obstacles placed in his path by the occupying powers. Aloysius Guttmann was a respectable Swiss art dealer, in early middle age.
He was what Hans von Reinhardt had now become.
His contact was already there, plump and sleek, in contrast to most of the other customers. Sitting below the vaulted ceiling with its white marble columns, he was reading the café’s copy of The New York Times, and having difficulty with the stick-holder to which the paper was attached. In front of him on the table was a slice of Sachertorte, half eaten, a flute of Mumm and an espresso, made with real coffee.
As Reinhardt approached him, he rose politely, and the men shook hands.
‘Herr Guttmann, good to meet you.’
‘And you, Mr Lightoller.’
Harvey Lightoller, of Lightoller and Steeples, fine art and antique dealers of Madison Avenue, had a firm handshake and a look that gave nothing away. Reinhardt ordered a Stiegl helles.
‘Pleasant trip?’ asked Reinhardt.
‘It had its moments,’ replied Lightoller. ‘The train from Salzburg took four hours.’
‘Things will take a while yet to get up and running properly.’
‘I daresay they will. Anyway, off to London in a couple of days, as soon as I’ve concluded our business here. God knows what the flight will be like.’
‘I trust you’ll be comfortable.’
‘So do I.’
‘At least it’s safe to fly again, these days.’
Lightoller looked at him appraisingly. ‘Your English is excellent, Herr Guttmann.’
‘I’m working on it.’
They continued with more or less uneasy small talk until the beer arrived. The men toasted each other: ‘Zum Wohl.’
Lightoller was not given to small talk. He glanced at Reinhardt’s briefcase, then at his watch.
‘I think you have something which we might be interested in. Early thirteenth century, your telegram said.’
‘As far as I can judge.’
‘But the key is missing?’
‘Unfortunately.’
Lightoller sat back, finished his coffee, washed the taste away with a sip of champagne, ignored the cake. ‘That needn’t be too serious.’ He paused, briefly. ‘Do you have it with you?’
Reinhardt took out the box in its velvet shroud, and placed it on the table. Then he sat back while Lightoller unwrapped it.
The dealer held it up to the light in delicate fingers. ‘I think it’s earlier,’ he said at last. ‘Could be twelfth century.’ He paused again, not telling Herr Guttmann that the box could have been made as early as the eleventh, which would increase its value by a vast amount. If L&S bought it at a good price, they should make a killing at auction.
‘Very nice,’ he continued. ‘And the craftsmanship is beautiful. Far more sophisticated than one would expect in a piece of this age.’ He sat back, still looking at the box, turning it in his hands. ‘Yes, I think, with the right client, we might be able to do something with this. Have to have it verified, of course. There’s an acquaintance of mine at the Albertina, so we should be able to conclude this quickly. I gather that is your wish? And that you’d rather we paid for it in dollars?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d have to give you an order, to be drawn on the bank of your choice in the city of your choice, of course.’
‘That will be satisfactory.’
Lightoller looked at him. ‘Has it any provenance?’
‘Family heirloom.’ Reinhardt wasn’t worried. He had the necessary papers already forged. He’d produce them when asked. Mustn’t seem too eager.
‘Indeed,’ said Lightoller, his voice as delicate as his fingers. He rewrapped the box, tapped the velvet shroud with his fingers and sat back again. The judicious effect he sought was marred slightly as he was obliged to suppress a belch. ‘Had you a figure in mind?’ he asked, recovering his poise.
Two days later, Reinhardt boarded a train bound for Bern, via Salzburg and Innsbruck, with a change at Zurich. He was pleased with the way his business had been settled, and with the slip of paper from Lightoller and Steeples now in his wallet guaranteeing the substantial sum which would be awaiting him at J. P. Morgan’s when he arrived in New York later that month.
After he’d collected the letter from the deposit box in Bern, arranged matters with the lawyer there and used the man to have his travel documents rubber-stamped, he’d be ready for the final steps: first, Berlin, to recover the last item of his luggage; then, Hamburg, and the liner that would take him to America. His business in New York and, afterwards, at last … the steamer to Buenos Aires.
He settled back, alone by the window of a first-class compartment, and opened the Spanish teach-yourself book to page 62, Chapter X: COMMON PREPOSITIONS. He started to read
: There are certain prepositions which require the insertion of de before the following noun … His mind was contented. Everything was going according to plan.
But there are some things you cannot plan for.
There’d been a mix-up further down the line. Points had not been switched.
Reinhardt’s train thundered confidently on, as did the Zürcher–Wiener Schnellzug, in the opposite direction.
The head-on collision occurred at 2.35 in the afternoon. Reinhardt hardly had time to hear the screaming of brakes and the rending of steel. He saw his book jolted out of his hands, saw it fly through the air. He felt himself flying, flying.
He never saw the flames.
The next day’s Wiener Zeitung reported the news:
TRAGIC RAIL CRASH CLAIMS 17 DEAD, 49 WOUNDED
Herr Guttmann, incinerated in the crash, was never identified.
85
New York City, the Present
‘Where did this come from?’ Marlow asked. ‘And when?’
Lopez adjusted his glasses. ‘About an hour ago. Encrypted sender. No way to trace it. I called Graves immediately after I called you, and left.’
‘And that’s it? No one else in the office knows?’
‘No one outside our section,’ Lopez said. ‘If that’s what you mean. I put it on a stick, locked the computer down, got in a cab and came straight over.’
They were in Graves’s loft in Greenwich Village. She was seated at the beechwood table in the airy living and dining area. Marlow and Lopez stood by the low armchairs and sofa which encircled a glass-topped coffee table.
Lopez hadn’t been home. He’d decided to wait for daylight and, with it, came the realization that it would do no good to try to go it alone. There was no way he’d be able to translate the new information without Graves’s help, and he’d realized after his moment of madness that the risks he was running wouldn’t be worth the possible benefits. He just wasn’t cut out for it. He recognized, at the same time, that he knew he was too scared to drive home in the dark. There might be watchers out there.
He’d rung Mia again, who was furious at being woken, and waited until dawn. The light of day brought comfort and clarity. He knew he’d wasted precious time. He prayed that no one would catch him out in the lies he’d told Marlow to cover his tracks.
Lopez had arrived first, at 7 a.m., and Graves plugged the stick into her laptop as soon as he’d explained its content. She’d done a printout, and started work immediately.
Marlow arrived five minutes later, wearing an old Arran pullover and battered jeans.
‘How long will it take?’
She looked up. ‘Give me half an hour.’
Lopez thought: They’ve got a night’s start on us, and it’s my fault. ‘I’ll make coffee,’ he said. He wondered if Annika’s body had been discovered yet.
He busied himself behind the counter of the open-plan kitchen, glad of something to do. Marlow finally relaxed enough to sit down, but he was lost in thought and ignored the coffee Leon put next to him.
‘How did you know this was important?’ Marlow asked suddenly. His tone was friendly. Nevertheless, Lopez’s heart jumped as he felt Marlow’s eyes on him.
‘I don’t know – instinct, I guess. The manuscript looked as if it might belong to the timeframe we’re looking at.’
Marlow said nothing more. Whatever he was thinking about absorbed him completely. From time to time he consulted his watch, and whenever he did so he also looked up at the old railway-station clock fixed high on one wall of the room, as if seeking confirmation from it.
The only sound was the gentle clunk of the clock’s minute-hand. Graves would occasionally get up and take heavy tomes from her bookshelves, spreading them out on the table and consulting them, her pen scratching on a yellow pad.
At last she looked up, took off her glasses, rolled her shoulders to relax them and stretched her arms, out and up.
‘Done?’ asked Marlow.
‘It’s done.’ She looked at Lopez. ‘You were right about the code, Leon. It’s close to the one on the shank of the key. Some variations, though – my guess is that it was created later by someone who had access to the key and managed to decipher what was written on it – maybe Dandolo himself.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘It still beats me why Yale couldn’t do anything with –’ She stopped herself as Marlow glanced at her. Her decoding of the inscription on the tablet – which Bishop Adhemar had mistakenly printed, giving him the mirror-image which he’d taken for a positive – had to remain between the two of them. Marlow’s look had warned her.
Marlow cast a quick look at Leon to see if he’d picked up on the momentary tension in the air, but he was occupied in pouring coffee for Laura.
‘Yes, and it’s linked to the artefact, that’s for sure. But as I said, it’ll take time to unlock the other code.’
‘Well, we’re not going to ask Yale for help on this one,’ said Marlow, looking again from one to the other of them.
Lopez thought he felt his boss’s eye rest on him a moment longer than was necessary.
‘I could sure as hell use a drink,’ said Graves, pushing her coffee cup away. ‘Leon, there’s a bottle of Chablis in the fridge.’
‘Tell us what you’ve got,’ said Marlow. He noticed she was wearing her emerald ring once again, and another, plain, on the little finger next to it. Plain, but broad enough to cover the little heart tattooed there.
Graves took a sip of the wine Lopez had poured her. ‘This is what Frid writes,’ she said. ‘He was obviously close to Dandolo. As he was a Viking, he was probably a bodyguard. My guess from this is that he became a confidant because he was the one man around the doge whom Dandolo thought to be loyal and simple-minded enough to be trusted. This is a kind of will. But it’s more than that. Maybe it’s just that, at the end of his life, Frid needed to get things off his chest. By the time he dictated this, Dandolo was long dead. That’s the background.’ She paused, looking at them, then put her glasses back on and picked up her papers. ‘He writes first about his personal bequests, and then hints that there are greater riches still to be found if anyone should ever be bold enough to seek them. He says he writes this in contradiction of his master’s instructions, but only after a long struggle with his conscience. He says he would have made the journey to unearth the treasure himself, if infirmity hadn’t prevented him from doing so.’ She looked up. ‘He was already old by the time Dandolo died, but he might also have been injured, wounded, who knows?’
‘What riches?’ asked Marlow; but he’d already guessed the truth.
‘Dandolo ordered him to arrange things at his burial. He was to be buried’ – she consulted her notes – ‘with a certain box, with its key, and a tablet of clay. These were to be secreted about his person, concealed in his robes, without anyone else knowing.’
‘That would have been difficult,’ said Marlow. ‘Dandolo must have invested Frid with the authority to oversee the burial. That way, he would have had total control of it.’
‘Everything was buried with him, in accordance with his instructions,’ Graves went on, ‘and the funeral took place on’ – again she consulted the papers she was holding – ‘what looks like 25 June 1205, in Constantinople. The doge was buried, again according to his instructions, in the aisle of Hagia Irina. Though the funeral was one of great ceremony, the grave was to be covered over, unmarked. Everyone approved of this as a mark of the doge’s great charity, piety and modesty.’ She looked up. ‘In the doge’s hand lies the treasure I urge you to seek.’
She fell silent.
‘Falls into place,’ said Marlow.
‘Yes.’
‘But no one knows where anything, other than the key, is now. The key was found by Adkins and his team, and taken from them.’
‘But they can’t have found the box or the tablet,’ said Marlow.
‘No.’
‘So where are they?’
All three of them fell silent again.
Graves shook her head. ‘The code will take a while.’
‘You’ve done well so far,’ said Marlow. ‘Keep on it.’
Lopez thought, what if the others – the people who have the original – get there first? His stomach grew hollow, but he didn’t dare level with his colleagues. All he could do was pray. There was something else. Marlow knew he was good with numerals. Why hadn’t he been asked to collaborate?
‘And the other writing? The stuff in Old Norse?’ Marlow continued.
‘It is Old Norse – you were right. It was penned by a kinsman of Frid’s – someone who knew how to write, but only just – after Frid’s death. It says he doesn’t understand the Latin, but he’s preserving the document, as it must be important, since Frid killed the scribe he dictated it to as soon as the job was finished.’
‘Let’s get on with the rest,’ said Marlow. ‘Leon, get back to INTERSEC. Trace whoever sent this to you. And – give this priority – do a search: museums and specialist antique dealers worldwide. We need to find that box.’
‘OK,’ said Lopez, happy to be away from them. All he wanted was for this nightmare to be over.
Marlow looked troubled after Lopez had gone, and Graves asked him why.
He shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. But Leon and I go back a long way – there was a bad business in Paris and I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for him. But he’s holding something back. I can feel it.’
Graves shrugged. ‘I think he’s OK. He wouldn’t go out on a limb.’
‘Hmn.’
‘He won’t pick up that you didn’t ask his help with the code?’
‘Better that than him knowing what it is before we’re sure he’s solid. And what can he do? He knows he’s covered,’ said Marlow. ‘And he has no copy.’ A moment’s pause. ‘We need that box.’
