The False Door
Page 23
“Restroom.”
“Which one?”
Cori pointed. “Over there.”
“Do me a favor. Go check it,” he said, his voice sounding urgent all of a sudden. “See if she’s still in there.”
Chapter 37
Airborne over the Mediterranean
6:08 p.m.
Chomping on a cigar, Nebola headed toward Shayna Brynstone. Despite the report from the school and the fantastic nonsense about auras, she seemed like a normal kid. Had they been wrong about her? If so, the CIA was wrong as well. Better not be the case.
The Shadow Chapter believed that the little girl had a remarkable ability, one that could produce profit for the organization. Erich Metzger had tipped them off about her. He had inside information that Taft-Ryder, an international pharmaceutical company, might have an interest in how the White Chrism had changed her. Metzger had never steered Nebola or the Chapter wrong before.
Shayna looked up, her gaze fixed on him. The kid reached for her stuffed kitty like it was a security blanket.
“Know what?” he said, making the question not seem like a question. “After we talked, I did some research on auras. Turns out you’re not the only one who can see them.”
The child cocked her head, studying him. “I’m not?”
“You said I had a red aura. I researched it. Tell me, Shayna, is there more red on the right side of my body or on the left?”
She considered him, then pointed to his right side.
“Ah, you see, that’s not bad at all. According to the experts, red on the right side represents great passion. I have a fiery personality. That’s what you’re seeing.”
“I don’t know about experts,” the child said. “I haven’t known too many mean people, but the ones who are mean all had the red glow.”
“Perhaps this time, Shayna, you were mistaken. Ever think about that?”
Nebola didn’t like children. Detested them, in fact, their whispery-sweet voices and doe-eyed purity. Still, he found one redeeming trait. Free of world-weary cynicism and victims of elastic imagination, children were a dream to manipulate.
He feigned a look of benevolence like something he imagined a grandfather might give. But not his grandfather. Not the red-eyed old man who prowled the edges of Nebola’s childhood memories, a man who could be dangerous if you got crosswise between him and his vodka.
Nebola could tell the Brynstone girl liked the grandfather look. He could see it in her eyes.
Children.
A dream to manipulate.
Vienna, Austria
5:11 p.m.
A century ago, Edgar Wurm’s people had migrated from Austria. Before today, he’d visited the country exactly one time. Given his feelings about his mother and her family, it had made better sense to avoid the place.
Since June, Wurm had tried to coax an invitation to visit the Tersch Haus, which possessed a scroll that he believed could prove critical to his mission. The Viennese castle wasn’t as celebrated as the country’s royal palaces. Its sole moment of glory came in the late sixteenth century when the Tersch Haus served as a summer residence for Rudolf II during his reign over the Habsburg Empire. Like its more famous Viennese cousin, the Schönbrunn Palace with its colonnaded Gloriette, the Tersch Haus was known for a lush garden that stretched to a magnificent hill. Wurm had learned about it from a relative in the Austrian army—service was compulsory here—who had shared that soldiers trained by running the hills at the Tersch and Schönbrunn palaces.
Looking around, Wurm decided that the castle was suitably depressing. He took a stab at geniality while traipsing up a gloomy marble staircase with Gustav Trenker, an older gentleman who served as administrator. After considerable expense, Wurm had persuaded Trenker to permit him a visit.
He followed the smaller man to a wing of the castle framed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and an arched medieval window. Wurm’s love affair with books began at age five when he had cracked open a Jules Verne novel. It had been a magical moment, exploring the mysteries of the seas with a complex and paranoid genius named Captain Nemo. As a child, Wurm dreamed about creating a vast library like the one Nemo kept deep inside the Nautilus. His school buddies didn’t understand his passion, and they had teased him about it, time after time, calling him Book Wurm.
Simpletons.
Wurm took a seat at the end of a long oak table in preparation for seeing the scroll. He was not allowed to take notes or to photograph the document, and Trenker insisted that he wear gloves to prevent oils on his fingertips from desecrating the ancient scroll. Fair enough. After debating the amount of time he could study the archives, the old man left him alone. At last. Relaxed now with an open thermos of coffee he had smuggled into the castle, Wurm inspected the aged document.
In May, he had discovered a journal in a French archive that had belonged to a fourteenth-century woman named Jeanneton. On one page, she had hinted that the Roman facemask had once been in the possession of a Greek named Kyros. If she had known anything more about him, she didn’t share it. Wurm had spent considerable time tracking down the historical figure, scouring the past to find the right person. Facing one false end after another, he finally decided that Jeanneton had been referring to a scholar of Greek descent named Kyros of Cyrene. Born in Libya, he had lived in various parts of Egypt during the fifth century.
Several weeks after learning about Kyros, Wurm had discovered that the Tersch Haus held in its private archive a deathbed confession that the man had dictated fifteen centuries ago. Known informally as the Kyros Scroll, it recounted events that he had shared in the final hours of his life.
Before dying, Kyros was desperate to record events about a woman who had served as his teacher and mentor. During the early 400s, Hypatia of Alexandria was considered to be the greatest thinker of her age, a person of dazzling intellect and beauty. She was a mathematician and an astronomer, a philosopher and an alchemist. And, most troubling for the time, she did not fear men.
Her father, Theon of Alexandria, had rescued a relic in the final moments before a temple associated with the Great Library of Alexandria had collapsed in flames. He cherished the helmet that had once belonged to a Roman cavalry soldier because it contained a code that Theon could never decipher. For the next fourteen years, he kept it among his most cherished possessions, dying before he could solve its riddles.
After a decade of effort, Hypatia of Alexandria had managed to decode the secrets that Quintus had inscribed on the helmet. She had teamed up with a reluctant student, Kyros, to uncover the truth. On a March night in 415, they made what Kyros called a “discovery of grave importance,” one that pointed to a “dangerous mystery.”
Did his scroll reveal what they had found?
Hell, no. Not even the site where they had found it.
Wurm pounded his fist against the table. It was like Kyros was taunting him from his deathbed.
Kyros had dedicated the last section of his scroll to a gruesome event. In detail, he described how he had become an eyewitness to an assassination that remained shocking to the present day. Wurm sensed that it was tied to the helmet and its secrets.
At the dawn of the fifth century, Alexandria was a volatile world of shady dealings and bloodthirsty power plays. The city was a historical time bomb, ticking with conflict and tension. Triggering the explosion, Hypatia was ensnared in a dramatic power struggle between Orestes, the Roman governor of the province of Egypt, and Cyril, the bishop of Alexandria.
Although Hypatia was admired throughout much of the known world, her enemies began to outnumber her friends. Inside the shadows of Alexandria’s temple, monks called her a witch and accused Hypatia of drinking the blood of infants to preserve her timeless beauty. Kyros dismissed the gossip as jealous nonsense, but the peril was real.
The fallout came the morning after making her discovery with Kyros. Hypa
tia was riding in her chariot through Alexandria, a ballsy thing to do back in the day because women did not dare to drive chariots. A small army of monks pulled Hypatia from the chariot and dragged her to a church. In the past, Bishop Cyril had hired the monks to offer personal protection. It was rumored they had even committed murder. Killer monks? Wurm thought, shuffling in his chair. So it seemed. He took a drink of black coffee, then continued reading the scroll.
The monks ripped at her clothes, slashing open the robe to reveal Hypatia’s bare breasts. Even three decades later, wasting on his deathbed, Kyros couldn’t believe they would commit such an atrocity inside a church. She was assaulted inside the sanctuary to hide their actions from the citizens of Alexandria.
Because formal weapons were not permitted in the church, they had carried roofing tiles shaped like oyster shells. Hypatia had screamed and fought, but they attacked from all sides. Like bloodthirsty animals, the men had cut open her bare flesh and scraped her down to the bone. After flaying her, the monks hauled Hypatia’s dismembered body to a local courtyard and burned her on a pyre.
Four hundred years before Hypatia’s assassination, a pagan mob had tied a rope around the neck of Saint Mark the Evangelist. He had been dragged to his death on the streets of Alexandria. Kyros had understood that history had repeated itself, but in an even more brutal fashion. The greatest thinker of his time was gone.
So were her secrets.
After sixteen centuries, historians still hadn’t decided if Bishop Cyril had ordered the assassination of Hypatia. From what Wurm could determine, Kyros believed the bishop was responsible, but he lacked evidence to support the accusation. Fearing for his life, Kyros had given the Roman helmet to Orestes, the governor of Alexandria. What became of it after that?
Kyros claimed that Quintus’s helmet had been cut into six pieces and scattered across the known world. The sections had vanished from the pages of recorded history until Jeanneton de Paris described seeing the bronze facemask in her journal almost nine centuries later. In an entry toward the end of her life, she had made a passing reference to “the Devil’s Gauntlet,” but said nothing more. Wurm assumed it was a glove that perhaps belonged to the same soldier who had worn the helmet. The thing had to be significant or Jeanneton would not have mentioned it. His curiosity was aroused and he had hoped to find mention of it in the Kyros Scroll. No luck there. Whatever it was, the Devil’s Gauntlet was lost to history.
Wurm rolled the scroll and downed the last of his coffee. For the first time, he had a suspicion about where to find the missing Scintilla. He had to contact John Brynstone at once.
Chapter 38
Cairo
6:41 p.m.
Cairo in the summer was cruel. It was worse still if you were stuck in the back of a dust-coated taxi. Rashmi Raja checked the time. She was running late.
How long would he wait before leaving?
She glanced out the window. In the distance, feluccas drifted on the serene Nile, their sails glowing with vibrant color. It was a haunting sight. At night, green lights dotted a mosque tower among a backdrop of restaurants and hotels farther down the great river. It was a striking city if you could ignore the chaos.
Back at the Cairo airport, she had slipped away, leaving behind John Brynstone and Cori Cassidy. It wasn’t her style to offer up explanations or excuses—she simply left when the time seemed right.
A good disappearance took artistry. She was a virtuosa.
Raja was wearing the blue diamond necklace she had taken as a souvenir from Paskalev’s house. In the back of the cab, she spritzed herself with a Narciso Rodriguez perfume, then checked the time again.
Late. Late. Late.
Would her fiancé mind?
Probably, if he was like the last one.
Raja didn’t know that for certain since she had never met Mani. Tonight would be their introduction.
Her mother had arranged the marriage. The wedding was scheduled for October, based on the moon’s phase and other considerations. The day was coming up fast.
Honking horns serenaded the bustling traffic in the heart of Zamalek, a district of Cairo on Gezira Island. The taxi rolled to a stop. Raja climbed out and darted across the street to a trendy restaurant where a fusion of American hip-hop and Arabic music drummed over the crowd noise. She gave her name and a woman about her age led the way to the patio. The aroma of sheesha cut a sharp tang in the air. She spied a man waiting at a table.
Must be her fiancé.
Mani stood when he saw her. Taller than the last one, but still a good inch shorter than Raja, he had moody eyes and aggressive eyebrow hair. He dressed well, which made sense. Her fiancé came from crushing wealth.
Raja embraced him, then bristled when she touched his shoulder. Clumped under his shirt, a thatch of back hair crushed down beneath her hand. The creepy forest back there was probably thick enough to cast its own shadow. Raja had an ugly thought about spending her honeymoon night with the Wolfman. Shuddering, she put it out of her mind.
“Your photographs fail to do you justice, Rashmi. You are more beautiful than I was led to believe.”
A voice inside her mind responded, And you are more hairy than I was led to believe.
He motioned for her to take a seat. Their table was located near a man dressed in a black suit and a woman wearing a matching veil. She watched them as she slid into her chair.
After getting the compliment out of his system, her fiancé made a show of checking his wristwatch, then glared at her.
“Are you aware of the time?”
“I had a little trouble getting away.”
“Is that so? Will you at least apologize for the insult of arriving late to our dinner?”
She thought it over.
“See, that’s a bit of a problem. I don’t really do apologies.”
“I must confess, Rashmi, this is not how I imagined our first meeting.”
“I know.”
His eyes grew more severe. “You ask a great deal of me. Do you know it? My job carries significant responsibility. I had to abandon my work and turn it over to a man whom I do not trust.”
“If you don’t trust an employee then why don’t you fire him?”
“I cannot fire him,” he snapped. “Please know something. I did not fly to Cairo to listen to you tell me how to run my business.”
She looked away, distracted. A cat had slinked onto the patio. The animal curled along her smooth leg, then wandered over to greet guests at the next table. In Cairo, cats roamed everywhere.
“Did you bring it?” she asked, looking back at her fiancé.
“Such mystery in your request. Why do you ask this of me?”
She looked down.
“Rashmi,” he continued, “I need you to explain your actions.”
“I cannot do that, Mani.”
“Come on. You called me at my office. You told me about a key hidden in your home. I drove there. I unlocked your safe. I removed the strange object.”
“Then you brought it here to Cairo?”
“As you requested, yes.”
He reached down and raised a bag, then returned it to the floor near his feet. She beamed, flashing white teeth.
“I do not understand, Rashmi. Why did you not ask this of your sisters or your brother?”
“They can’t know what I’m doing here.”
“I will be your husband in a few months. It is imperative that I know. I ask you again to explain yourself.”
“There are aspects of my life you cannot know. Neither can my family.”
A smile crossed his lips. “You know, you are a mysterious young woman.”
She reached down under the table, snatching the bag. He lunged for it, but didn’t get there in time. She pulled back and brought the bag to her chest. The couple at the next table took a sudden interest.
<
br /> “Thank you for bringing this,” she said.
He looked at her sharply. “This entire affair does not set a good precedent for our marriage.”
“Probably right about that.”
She scooted back her chair and stood, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
“And where do you think you are going?”
“Come, Mani.” She stared down at him. “Let’s talk.”
He tossed money onto the table. Grumbling, he followed.
The temperature was burning out on the street. Without wind, the heat seemed intense, making it almost a labor to breathe.
“It is my hope that you have supervised the details of our wedding. Can you offer me a sense of your progress?”
“The wedding?” She shrugged. “Been too busy.”
Apparently, she had found his breaking point. Mani’s temper erupted.
“You are a foolish woman. Many have warned me about your ways. I was told you have spent too much time in the United States. I have heard that you are an ‘Americanized’ woman. I see now for myself the truth in their warnings.”
His words didn’t injure her. In truth, she didn’t care about his opinion. He was probably right, after all. Her fierce independence didn’t play well in her native India, but she was too Indian for her adopted country. She was damned, it seemed, in both cultures.
“Mani, I have bad news,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Bad news,” he repeated with a burnished look. “How could you have news worse than not planning our wedding? How could you have news worse than summoning me out here only to play mysterious games?”
“Let me give it a shot. The marriage is off.”
He didn’t hear. He was too busy ranting.
“You think I am so foolish? This is a complete waste of my time.”
She placed her hand on his chest, feeling the crunch of hair beneath the shirt. “Be quiet, Mani. Listen to what I have to say. I will not marry you. I am breaking off our engagement.”