by P. W. Child
Nina was heading for the cathedral. She drove as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself, but she was steadily losing her composure from sheer worry for the others. When she turned left out of Tunis Strasse she kept her eyes on the towering spires that marked the location of the Gothic church and hoped that she would still find Sam, Purdue, and Agatha there. In Domkloster, where the cathedral was situated, she drove much slower to bring the engine to a mere hum. Movement at the base of the cathedral startled her and she quickly applied the brakes and switched off the headlights. Agatha’s rental car was nowhere to be seen, naturally, because they could not lead on that they were there. The librarian had parked the vehicle a few blocks away, from where they had moved to the cathedral on foot.
Nina watched the strangers in uniform combing the area for something or someone.
“Come on, Sam. Where are you?” she said quietly in the silence of the car. The scent of real leather filled the car and she wondered if the owner was going to check the mileage when he came back. After a patient fifteen minutes the group of officers and dog catchers called it a night and she watched four cars and a van drive off one by one, in different directions to where their shifts had sent them that night.
It was almost 5 a.m. and Nina was exhausted. She could only imagine what her friends felt like by now. The very thought of what could have happened to them terrified her. What were the police doing here? What were they searching for? She dreaded the ominous notions her mind produced—how Agatha or Purdue fell to their death while she was in the toilet right after they told her to shut up; how the police were there to clean up the mess and arrest Sam, and so on. Every alternative was worse than the one before.
A hand slammed against the window and Nina’s heart stopped.
“Jesus Christ! Sam! I’d fucking kill you if I weren’t so relieved to see you alive!” she exclaimed, holding her chest.
“Are they all gone?” he asked, shivering violently from the cold.
“Aye, get in,” she said.
“Purdue and Agatha are still up there, trapped by the assholes down here until now. God, I hope they have not frozen up there yet. It’s been a while,” he said.
“Where is your com device?” she asked. “I heard you screaming about it.”
“Got mugged,” he said plainly.
“Again? Are you a magnet for a pounding or what?” she said.
“It’s a long story. You would have done it too, so shut it,” he panted, rubbing his arms to get warm.
“How will they know we are here?” Nina wondered out loud as she slowly veered the car to the left side and idled it gently toward the lurching black cathedral.
“They won’t. We just have to wait until we see them,” Sam suggested. He leaned forward to look up through the windshield. “Go to the southeast side, Nina. That’s where they ascended. They’ll probably . . .”
“They’re abseiling,” Nina chipped in, looking upward and pointing to where the two figures were suspended on invisible threads and sliding downward bit by bit.
“Oh, thank God, they are okay,” she sighed and threw her head back, closing her eyes. Sam got out and motioned for them to get in.
Purdue and Agatha jumped in the backseat.
“Though I am not partial to profanity much, I should just like to ask what the holy fuck happened there?” Agatha shouted.
“Look, it’s not our fault the police showed up!” Sam yelled back, scowling at her in the rearview mirror.
“Purdue, where’s the rental car parked?” Nina asked while Sam and Agatha went at it.
Purdue gave her the directions and she drove slowly through the blocks while inside the vehicle the shouting match continued.
“Granted, Sam, you did leave us up there with no warning that you were checking out the situation with the girl. You just left,” Purdue argued.
“I was relieved of my communication by five or six fucking twisted Germans, if you don’t mind!” Sam roared.
“Sam,” Nina urged, “let it go. You’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Of course not, Dr. Gould!” Agatha barked, now directing her rage at the wrong target. “You simply left the base and broke communication with us.”
“Oh, I thought I was not allowed to make one bloody peep over that com, Agatha. What, did you want me to send smoke signals? Besides, there was nothing on the police wire about this area at all, so save your accusations for someone else!” the fiery historian shot back. “The only response from the two of you was that I must keep quiet. And you’re supposed to be a genius, but that is base logic, sweetheart!”
Nina was so pissed she almost drove past the rental car that Purdue and Agatha would drive back.
“I’ll drive the Jag back, Nina,” Sam offered, and they got out of the car to switch seats.
“Remind me never to entrust my life to you again,” Agatha told Sam.
“I was just supposed to watch a bunch of thugs take down a young girl? You might be a cold, indifferent bitch, but I step up when someone’s in danger, Agatha!” Sam hissed.
“No, you are reckless, Mr. Cleave! Your selfish ruthlessness is no doubt what got your fiancé killed!” she screeched.
Instantly, silence fell over the four of them. Agatha’s hurtful words struck Sam like a spear to the heart and Purdue felt his heart skip a beat. Sam was dumbstruck. For the moment he had nothing but numbness in him, save for his chest, where it ached intensely. Agatha knew what she had done, but she was aware that it was too late to correct. Before she could try, Nina struck her down with a devastating fist to the jaw, jolting her tall body sideways with such force that she landed on her knees.
“Nina!” Sam cried, and went to restrain her.
Purdue helped his sister up, but he did not side with her.
“Come, let’s go back to the house. There is still a whole lot to be done tomorrow. Let’s all cool down and get some rest,” he said calmly.
Nina was shaking madly, spittle moistening the corners of her mouth as Sam held her injured hand in his. Purdue gave Sam a consoling press on the arm as he passed him. He felt truly sorry for the journalist who had watched the love of his life get shot in the face right in front of him a few years before.
“Sam . . .”
“No, please, Nina. Don’t,” he said. His glazed eyes stared torpidly forward, but he was not looking at the road. Finally someone said it. What he had been thinking all these years, the blame everyone absolved him from out of pity, was all a lie. He caused Trish’s death after all. All he needed was for someone to say it.
Chapter 22
After a very uncomfortable few minutes between their arrival back at the house and bedtime at 6:30 a.m., the sleeping arrangements were changed somewhat. Nina slept on the couch to avoid Agatha. Purdue and Sam hardly said one word to each other when the lights went out.
It had been a very trying night for all of them, but they knew that they would have to kiss and make up if they were ever going to get the job done to find the reputed treasure.
In fact, on their way home in the rental car Agatha suggested she take the lockbox with the journal and deliver it to her client. After all, that was why she hired Nina and Sam to help her and since she now had what she was looking for she wanted to cut and run. But her brother convinced her otherwise, eventually, and suggested in turn that she should stay until morning and see how things turn out. Purdue was not the kind of man to give up a good chase of a mystery and with the incomplete poem, it all just provoked his inexorable curiosity.
Purdue kept the box with him for good measure, locking it in his steel valise—a portable safe, in effect—until morning. That way he could keep Agatha here and prevent Nina or Sam from taking off with it. He doubted that Sam would bother. Since Agatha spat that obliterating insult about Trish, Sam had reverted into some dark, melancholy mood where he refused to speak to anyone. When they got home he went to take a shower and then went straight to bed without saying good night, without even looking
at Purdue when he came into the room.
Not even a lighthearted baiting, the type Sam normally could not resist joining in on, could push him to action.
Nina wished she could talk to Sam. She knew this time sex was not going to fix another Trish meltdown. In fact, the very idea of him still folding like that over Trish only convinced her more that she meant nothing to him in comparison to his late fiancé. It was odd, though, because he had been fine about the whole horrid affair in the past years. His therapist was pleased with his progress, Sam himself admitted that he did not hurt anymore when he thought of Trish and it was clear that he had found some sort of closure at last. Nina was certain that they had a future together, should they be so inclined, even through all the hell they had walked hand-in-hand.
But now, all of a sudden, Sam was writing detailed pieces about Trish and his life with her. Pages and pages went into the culmination of circumstances and events that led to them both ending up at that fateful gun-running incident that changed his life forever. Nina could not imagine where it had all come from and she wondered what had picked that scab on Sam.
With her emotional confusion, some contrition for clocking Agatha, and a whole lot of bewilderment born from Purdue’s mind games regarding her love for Sam, Nina finally just gave up her conundrum and let the rapture of sleep take her away.
Agatha stayed up latest of all, nursing her throbbing jaw and aching cheek. She would never have guessed someone as small as Dr. Gould could pack such a punch, but she had to admit that the small historian was not someone to push to physical action. Agatha loved to occasionally engage in some close combat martial arts for fun, but she never saw that jab coming. It only proved that Sam Cleave meant the world to Nina, much as she tried to play it down. The tall blonde went down to the kitchen to get more ice for her swollen face.
When she came into the dark kitchen, a taller male figure stood in the faint illumination of the fridge light that streaked vertically over his chiseled abdomen and chest from the ajar door.
Sam looked up at the shadow that entered the doorway.
At once, both were frozen in awkward silence, just staring at each other in surprise, but neither could look away from the other. They both knew that there was a reason they came to the same place at the same time while the others were absent. There were amends to be made.
“Look, Mr. Cleave,” Agatha started in a voice just above a whisper, “I am deeply sorry for that low blow. And it is not because of the corporal punishment I suffered for it.”
“Agatha,” he sighed, his hand held up for her to stop.
“No, really. I have no idea why I said that! I categorically do not believe it to be true whatsoever!” she pleaded.
“Listen, I know we were both furious. You almost died, I got the shit kicked out of me by a group of German assholes, we all almost got arrested . . . I get it. We were all just high-strung,” he explained. “We’re not going to get this secret unveiled if we are divided, you know?”
“You are correct. Still, I feel like snake shit for saying that to you, just because I know it is a sore spot for you. I meant to hurt you, Sam. I meant to. That is inexcusable,” she lamented. It was uncharacteristic of Agatha Purdue to show remorse or even to explain her erratic actions. That was a sign to Sam that she was sincere, yet he could not forgive himself all over again for Trish’s death. Oddly enough, he had been happy for the past three years—really happy. Inside, he thought he had closed that door forever, but perhaps it was because he was busy writing the memoirs for the London publisher that the old wounds still had the power to yoke him.
Agatha approached Sam. He noticed how attractive she really was, had she not had such an uncanny resemblance to Purdue—that was just a right cock blocker for him. She brushed against him, and he prepared for an unwelcome close encounter when she reached past him to get the tub of Rum Raisin ice cream.
Good thing I didn’t do anything stupid, he thought sheepishly.
Agatha looked him square in the eye as if she knew what he was thinking and stepped back to hold the frozen container against her bruised welts. Sam scoffed and smiled, and reached for a lager in the fridge door. When he closed the door, dousing the streak of light to drape the kitchen in darkness, a figure stood in the doorway, the silhouette only visible by the backlighting of the dining room. Agatha and Sam were surprised to see Nina standing there for the moment, trying to see who was in the kitchen.
“Sam?” she asked into the dark before her.
“Aye, lassie,” Sam answered and opened the fridge again so that she could see him sitting at the table with Agatha. He was ready to intervene in the impending chick fight, but there came nothing of the sort. Nina simply traipsed in toward Agatha, gesturing for the ice cream tub without saying a word. Agatha passed Nina the frigid container and Nina sat down, holding her torn knuckles against the pleasant soothing of the ice-cold container.
“Aahh,” she groaned and let her eyes roll back in their sockets. Nina Gould was not going to apologize, this Agatha knew, and it was fine. She deserved that clout from Nina and in some odd way it was far more rewarding to her guilt than Sam’s graceful forgiveness.
“So,” Nina said, “anyone got a fag?”
Chapt er 23
“Purdue, I forgot to tell you. The housekeeper, Maisy, called last night and asked me to let you know that she fed the dog,” Nina told Purdue as they set the lockbox down on the steel table in the garage. “Is that code for something? Because I fail to see the purpose of placing an international call to report something so trivial.”
Purdue only smiled and nodded.
“He has codes for everything. My God, you should hear his chosen similes for lifting relics from the archeology museum in Dublin or altering the compounds of active toxins . . .” Agatha gossiped loudly before her brother interrupted.
“Agatha, could you kindly keep that to yourself? At least until I have cracked open this impenetrable case without rupturing whatever is inside.”
“Why don’t you use a blowtorch?” Sam asked from the door as he sauntered into the garage.
“Peter doesn’t have anything but the most basic tools,” Purdue said, scrutinizing the steel box from all sides to determine if there was some trickery afoot, perhaps a hidden compartment or pressure-point method to open the lockbox. About the size of a thick ledger, it had no seams, no visible lid or lock; in fact, it was a mystery how the journal was placed inside such a contraption in the first place. Even Purdue, who was not unfamiliar with advanced systems of storing and transporting, was baffled by the design of the thing. Still, it was only steel, not any kind of impregnable metal devised by scientists.
“Sam, my duffel bag over there . . . .bring me the spyglass device, please,” Purdue asked.
When he activated the IR-function, he could survey the inside of the compartment. The smaller rectangle inside confirmed the size of the journal and Purdue used the device to mark each measurement point on the scope, so that the laser function would not move beyond those parameters when he used it to cut open the side of the box.
On the red setting, the laser, unseen apart from the red dot on its physical mark, cut with seamless precision along the marked measurements.
“Don’t hurt the book, David,” Agatha warned from behind him. Purdue clicked his tongue in annoyance at her redundant advice.
With a miniscule ribbon of smoke the fine orange line in molten steel progressed from one side to another, then downward, repeating its path until a perfect four-sided rectangle was cut in the flat side of the box.
“Now just wait for it to cool down a bit so we can lift the opposite side,” Purdue remarked as the others gathered, leaning over the table to better see what was about to be revealed.
“The book is larger than I thought it would be, I must confess. I imagined it a regular notepad-type thing,” Agatha said. “But it is a proper ledger, I reckon.”
“I just want to see the papyrus it is apparently paged with,” Nina comme
nted. As a historian she found such antiquities almost holy.
Sam had his camera at the ready to record the dimensions and condition of the book, as well as the script inside. Purdue pried the cut lid open and uncovered a tanned, leather-bound pouch instead of a book.
“What the hell is that?” Sam asked.
“It’s a codex,” Nina exclaimed.
“A codex?” Agatha repeated, fascinated. “In the library archives where I worked for eleven years I constantly worked with them to reference the older scribes. Who would have thought that a German soldier would use a codex to record his daily goings on?”
“It is quite remarkable,” Nina said in awe while Agatha delicately removed it from its tomb with gloved hands. She was well versed in the handling of ancient documents and books and knew the fragility of each kind. Sam snapped pictures of the journal. It was as extraordinary as the legend predicted.
The front and back covers were made of cork oak, flat panels smoothed and treated with wax. With a heated iron rod or similar implement the wood was burnt to inscribe the name Claude Ernaux. This particular scribe, perhaps Ernaux himself, was not at all skilled in pyrography, because in several places charring stains could be discerned where too much pressure or heat was applied.
In between, a stack of papyrus sheets made up the contents of the codex and on the left it lacked a spine, like that of contemporary books, boasting instead a series of twine ties. Each tie was worked through the drilled holes on the side of the wooden panel and that ran through the papyrus, most of which had been torn free from wear and age. Yet the book retained the pages in most places and very few of the sheets were completely loose.
“This is such a big moment,” Nina marveled as Agatha allowed her to touch the material with her bare fingers to fully appreciate the texture and age. “To think, these pages were made by hands from the same era as Alexander the Great. I bet they survived Caesar’s siege at Alexandria too, not to mention the conversion of scrolls to books.”
