by Alex Archer
“Where are you staying?” Yuri asked.
“The Marriott Grand Hotel on Tverskaya Street.”
“Of course.”
Yuri placed their roller bags in the trunk, opened the door of the Mercedes, waiting for Gianni and Annja to climb into the backseat before saying a few words to the driver. Turning back to Annja, he handed her his card. “The driver will take you directly to your hotel, Miss Creed, and the fare is taken care of, courtesy of the Federal Migration Service. If there is anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable, you need only call.”
Annja thanked him and, as the driver pulled away from the curb, slipped Yuri’s card into her pocket.
You never knew when having a friend in the Russian immigration service could come in handy.
Chapter 7
The hotel was located on legendary Tverskaya Street in the heart of Moscow, within walking distance of Red Square. The driver took them there without delay and with a minimum of fuss. Upon checking in, they discovered that Sir Charles had reserved two adjoining executive-level rooms for them on the ninth floor, away from the hotel traffic.
The rooms were well appointed and spacious. From Annja’s window she could see the colorful spires of Saint Basil’s Cathedral and the long wall of the Kremlin itself. They wouldn’t have any trouble getting there in the morning. Annja quickly stowed the one bag she’d brought with her and then knocked on the door connecting her room to Gianni’s.
“It’s open,” he called.
Annja stepped inside to find him staring out the window at the Kremlin a few blocks away.
“I never thought I’d get this far,” he said wistfully, without taking his eyes off what was perhaps Russia’s most iconic building. Annja knew just how he felt. She’d been there herself, more times than she could count, when all the hard work had come together and she stood before the object of her search, wondering just how it was all going to turn out. She knew the mix of eagerness and doubt he had to be feeling because she was experiencing it, too. Tomorrow was going to be an important day for both of them.
“Shall we give Charles a call and let him know we’ve arrived?” she asked.
Gianni handed over the satellite phone Charles had given them. Annja made sure the speakerphone was activated and then placed the call.
“Any difficulties?” Charles asked, after they had exchanged pleasantries.
“No, no trouble here,” Annja told him, deciding that the encounter with her “number-one fan” was something he didn’t need to hear about for the time being.
“Good. Glad to hear that nonsense at the airport didn’t amount to anything.”
Gianni, clearly amused, glanced in her direction.
Their employer was well connected, indeed, if he’d heard about that already, she thought. Have to remember that in the future.
His point made, Charles went on. “I’ve arranged for you to meet an old colleague of mind, Semyon Petrescu, at the Cathedral of the Annunciation tomorrow afternoon. He is the curator of the rare book collection housed there and he has graciously agreed to give you a few hours to examine the Gospel of Gold. He thinks you’re doing research for a thesis, so let’s keep him in the dark about our true purpose, all right?”
“Thesis. Got it.” She had no idea what kind of thesis she was supposed to be writing, but she was sure she’d figure something out when the time came. Charles went on, providing the details of where and when they were to meet his colleague, which Gianni jotted down on the notepad next to the phone. After instructing them to call in tomorrow after visiting the cathedral, their employer bid them goodbye and disconnected the call.
Back in her room, Annja washed up, changed into her pajamas and climbed into bed. Despite the couple of hours’ sleep she’d grabbed aboard the plane, she was asleep moments after her head hit the pillow.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY ANNJA was up with the sunrise, the effect of the long flight lost in her enthusiasm for the search to come. She pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, pushed the coffee table and chair back against the wall to clear some space in the middle of the room and then reached into the otherwhere for her sword.
The broadsword slid smoothly into existence, appearing with the speed of thought, the hilt fitting her palm as if it was specially made for her and her alone. The weapon was finely balanced and in the time she’d carried it she’d become very skilled with it. That didn’t stop her from practicing, which was just what she intended to do now.
She spent the next forty-five minutes working through a variety of sword katas, stylized sequences of moves designed to mimic the attack and defense response of an actual sword fight. The physical practice allowed the motions to settle into her muscle memory so that they would be there at her beck and call when she needed them.
After her workout, she called down to room service and had them deliver a breakfast of bacon and eggs, which she ate with relish. Then she showered, dressed and was at her laptop doing additional background research on the cathedral when Gianni knocked on her door.
They left the hotel and walked down the street toward the Kremlin. From her morning’s research, Annja knew that the Cathedral of the Annunciation had been built by Ivan the Terrible’s grandfather, Grand Duke Ivan III, as part of his general expansion of the Kremlin. It was smaller than the other two grand cathedrals that were nearby, but from the time of Ivan the Terrible’s coronation as czar of Russia, the royal family had worshipped, gotten married and baptized their children inside the walls of this cathedral. Even after the capital had been moved to Saint Petersburg, the cathedral had continued to play an important role in the lives of the royal family.
It was a fitting place to begin their search for the library.
The official entrance to the Kremlin was through the Savior’s Gate, located in the base of the gothic-turreted Spasskaya Tower. A small crowd of tourists were gathered outside, taking pictures of the clock hanging high above on the tower’s face, and Annja and Gianni were forced to thread their way through them to reach the entrance where a guard was checking IDs.
Annja noted several people crossing themselves and doffing their hats as they passed through the gates and she was reminded of how the tower was reputed to be possessed with miraculous powers and would supposedly protect the Kremlin from enemy invasion. Horses passing through its gates were said to shy in fear, and legend had it that Napoleon’s own horse had reared in fright when he’d tried to enter without showing his respect.
They handed their passports to the guard when it was their turn and told him they had an appointment to see Dr. Petrescu. The guard gave them visitor badges and let them through.
The cathedral was located on the southwest corner of Cathedral Square, where it was directly connected to the main building of the Grand Kremlin Palace complex. Its nine golden domes shone in the morning sun as they approached, their glow reflecting off the white limestone facades beneath. They entered through the doors decorated with gold foil at the top of the south staircase as they’d been instructed, Annja cataloging the fact that it was this staircase, rather than the eastern one, that had been added by Ivan the Terrible in 1570.
Another guard sat behind a desk just inside the doors and they repeated their goal to him. He picked up the phone, made a quick call and then asked them to wait. A few minutes later a man came down the hall toward them, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Given the lines on his face and his thinning gray hair, Annja guessed he was in his early sixties. He smiled as he saw them and when he got closer extended his hand.
“I am Semyon Petrescu and, unless my instincts are off, you must be Ms. Creed and Mr. Travino.”
They shook hands.
“Sir Charles tells me you’re interested in taking a look at the Gospel of Gold, is that right?” Semyon asked as he ushered them past the guard and headed back down the hall in the direction he’d come.
“It is,” Annja replied, stepping in beside their host and letting Gianni bring up the rear. “I’m g
athering data for a thesis on the decorative art and illuminated manuscripts of sixteenth-century religious texts, a study that wouldn’t be complete without a section on the Gospel of Gold.”
Annja was confident her knowledge of the subject would be enough to provide a convincing cover for them and hoped all the while that Semyon wouldn’t ask Gianni any questions. Thankfully he didn’t, and by the time they reached the room where they were to examine the almost five-hundred-year-old manuscript, Annja and Semyon were chatting like old friends.
The examination room was typical of those she’d used at other facilities, just a small square room with a table in the center and decent lighting overhead. A metal case rested on the tabletop, two pairs of white cotton gloves lying beside it. A surveillance camera hung from the ceiling in one corner.
Their host led them over to the table and then went around to the opposite side. He took his own pair of white gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on, indicating with a nod that they should do the same.
“A few reminders,” he said as he turned the case toward him and punched the combination into the keypad lock set in the top. “Gloves must be worn at all times and photography of any kind, with or without flash, is strictly prohibited. Written transcripts of the entire volume are available, complete with reproductions of the artwork, and I can have one of these made available to you should you need it.”
He said something else after that, but Annja didn’t hear it, her attention riveted on the gold-and-jewel-encrusted tome he lifted out of the specimen case and set on the table in front of them.
The Gospel of Gold.
It was an oversize book, long and wide like an accountant’s ledger, and several inches thick. The cover was filigree gold, inset with uncut precious gems—topazes, tourmalines and sapphires from the looks of them. It drew her forward like a moth to a flame.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Semyon asked.
It certainly was.
Chapter 8
Up close, Annja could see five circular enamels set in the cover, one on each corner and a larger one in the center. All five were surrounded by wreathed inscriptions linked to one another in nielloed gold. The image in the center was that of the risen Christ, while those in the corners represented various saints praying or studying.
It was a stunning piece of workmanship, made all the more so by the knowledge that the work had been done by hand in the sixteenth century.
“My office is just down the hall,” Semyon said, “so if you need anything, dial 475.”
He pointed to an old-fashioned push-button phone hanging on the wall in the corner. He didn’t mention the state-of-the-art security camera that hung from the ceiling above it. It was positioned so that most of the room would be visible, but Annja doubted the feed would be monitored 24/7.
Then again, this was Russia… .
Satisfied that all was in order, their host left them to it.
Annja and Gianni spent the next several hours going through the Gospel one page at a time, carefully examining each one before moving on to the next. As they had decided the night before, Annja concentrated on the text of each page while Gianni focused on the artwork that decorated the borders and surrounded the drop cap that started each section of text. If Gianni’s research was correct, somewhere in the Gospel’s gilded pages were instructions to find the map that would lead them to the library.
The workmanship was beautiful. The scribe had used bold clean strokes and the words and images seemed to jump right off the page at her. It was hard to believe this was a book that had been produced more than four hundred years ago.
Beauty aside, however, after hours of careful observation they could find nothing that pointed to the location or even the existence of the map that Fioravanti had mentioned in his journal. They’d been through the complete text and, having arrived at the blank page at the end, Annja was ready to admit they might need to rethink their approach.
She was used to setbacks and suggested they take a break, come at it again later with fresh eyes.
“Damn it!” Gianni swore, getting up from the table and pacing in frustration. “We can’t give up now. It’s here somewhere, I know it is!”
“No one is giving up,” she said soothingly, glancing over his shoulder at the camera on the other side of the room, hoping he’d recognize the unspoken warning in her eyes. She didn’t want to offer their hosts any excuse for removing them from the room. “I’m just suggesting we take a short break—that’s all.”
With her gaze still on her companion, Annja reached out to close the book and in the process her fingers brushed across the surface of the end page.
Something tugged at the cotton glove covering the tip of one finger.
One-one-hundredth of a degree less pressure and she never would have felt it.
She looked down at the page in front of her but didn’t see anything that was immediately obvious and a second pass with her gloved finger across its surface didn’t turn up whatever it was that had snagged it in the first place, either.
But something was there.
She was certain of it.
A tingling sense of anticipation built in her gut, the one that she usually experienced just before a big find. And that told her she was on to something here.
It occurred to her that the glove might be the problem, that the thickness of the cotton was keeping her from feeling whatever was on the page.
She didn’t want to be caught on camera violating the rules they’d agreed to abide by.
Gianni had stopped on the far side of the table from her, his body positioned almost directly in front of the camera.
She slid the book closer to his end of the table, then moved around to his side and gave him what she hoped would appear to any observer like a friendly, one-armed hug. Supporting a stressed-out colleague.
As she leaned in close to him, she whispered, “Block the camera with your body. I found something.”
His eyes widened, but he did as she asked.
With her hands in front of her and both of their bodies between the book and the camera, Annja pulled her glove off and ran the tips of her fingers across the empty page.
Now she could feel it, a series of raised bumps, as if someone had pushed down on the other side of the page with a pointed object. Not hard enough to be seen with the naked eye.
You’d have to know it was there in order to find it.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on what she was feeling.
Three numbers.
2-6-8.
That was all.
Concerned that the Gospel of Gold had been out of closed-circuit view for too long, Annja pulled her glove back on and stepped away from the table, revealing to the camera that the book was in the same place it had been a moment before.
Gianni was practically shaking with his need to know what she had found so he dropped his voice and she quickly filled him in.
“Three numbers?” he said. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He swore in Italian, and even if she hadn’t understood every word he said, she still would have been able to get the gist of it.
“What’s the problem now?” she asked.
“It’s another bloody code, isn’t it?”
It more than likely was a code. It wasn’t a set of compass directions or GPS coordinates; there weren’t enough numerals for the first and it would be a few hundred years after the book was manufactured before GPS would be anyone’s idea.
Gianni might not like codes, but Annja did. Codes, puzzle boxes, riddles—she loved them all. Fioravanti had used a substitution code, so it made sense that his colleague would do the same. And if that were the case, then each number stood for something specific.
But what?
She looked down at the numbers again.
2-6-8.
Certain things stood out immediately. All the numbers were not only even, but they were also divisible by two. And when you added the first two to
gether, you got the third.
But what do the numbers represent?
She glanced at Gianni to see him flipping through the pages at the beginning of the Gospel, clearly looking for something specific.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Not sure yet,” he replied. He found the page he was looking for and began running his finger down the text, counting to himself as he went. “Hang on…”
But a moment later he leaned back away from the book in frustration. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
But Annja was getting that feeling again and she wasn’t ready to let the puzzle go quite yet.
“I want to hear it.”
Gianni sighed. “I thought the numbers might stand for specific words in the text. The first number would represent the word, the second the line on which it is found and the third the page number. So 2-6-8 would be the second word on the sixth line of the eighth page of the text.”
Annja could feel her pulse pick up as she realized he might be on to something. “That’s good, Gianni. Really good!” She turned the book toward her.
“Well, the word the is going to get us really far.”
Annja stopped to think it through. Gianni was right; one word wasn’t going to get them very far. But what if the means to find the next word was wrapped up in the instructions for the first?
In the first clue, the first two numbers, 2 and 6, combined to equal the third, 8. What if she stuck with that pattern? she thought. Combined the second and third numbers to get the fourth, the third and fourth to get the fifth, and so on?
She pulled the book closer and tried it out. The first five combinations gave her the words the, Judah, Yaweh, dawn and worship. Not exactly the kind of revelation she was looking for. And she couldn’t continue with the process, because the next combination would result in a line number that was greater than the lines on any given page.
“What did I tell you? Useless,” Gianni said, after watching her work for a moment.
