by Rob Swigart
Lisa walked to the screen and touched the letters one by one, her hand up in the light. “Look at that,” she breathed, her voice was full of admiration. “Raimond Foix, you truly were a son of a bitch!”
Steve looked at Alain, who waggled his eyebrows. Ted and Marianne joined Lisa at the screen. “Yes,” Ted said, nodding. “I see. Very interesting.”
“What?” Steve demanded.
Ted said, “There’s another message. Some of the letters are darker than the others.”
“To me it looks like a little extra ink, like the writer had just dipped the pen before writing.”
“No,” Lisa assured him. “You can see a distinct difference. Raimond wrote over these letters with a different kind of ink. That’s why they look thicker under X ray. He did that, then washed the sheet and wrote those sayings of Thomas the same way a medieval monk might have scraped a bit of vellum clean and written a prayer book over the old text. Lines of text were written at right angles so there’s a cleaner background. Raimond knew I’d find this palimpsest. He hid another message in the letters.”
She spelled them out. “C A M O N D O S T A I R.”
“That’s it?” Steve said. “What’s a Camondo Stair?”
He looked at Ted but it was Marianne who answered. “Ah, well,” she said. “This would be a place in Istanbul called the Kamondo Merdivenleri.”
Ted said fondly, “This is just the sort of thing Marianne would know.”
She shrugged. “I took a tour once, before we were married, Ted. I remember things.”
“Even the Turkish name!” Steve murmured. “So what is it?”
“The Camondo were a family of prominent Jewish bankers for the Ottoman Empire. In the nineteenth century in Pera, north of the Golden Horn, they built a stairway, as much a sculpture as a stair, to make it easier to get to their Bank on the street below their residence.”
“What is this, a guide book?” Steve mused.
“You have all this on a hard drive?” Lisa asked the technician.
“Of course.”
She began collecting her things. “Please erase it. Permanently. No record, nothing anyone can recover.”
“But surely we should keep it?” Sully protested. “This document must be priceless.”
“Secure erase it now,” she ordered. “There must be no record – we can run this analysis again later if we must. Even one hard copy could be too many, but for now we need this. We will destroy it if necessary.”
He started to object, then shrugged. “You’re the boss.” He nodded at the technician who pressed a key. The images vanished.
“Thank you.”
In the parking lot next to the car she asked Alain if he could arrange for the plane to take them to Istanbul.
He nodded and got in the car. They could see him making a call on his cell phone.
She handed Ted the envelope containing the Procroft manuscript, keeping only the printed copy, folded twice. “Take care of this, please. Protect it. With your life, if necessary.”
“Of course. Marianne and I will take it back to our place in… you don’t need to know where. Alain has our number.” They got in their own car and drove away.
Steve said, “Excuse me, but what exactly are we doing?”
“Whatever the Order took from Rossignol, it was a diversion. He and Raimond fooled them. And us, I’m afraid. We never needed Rossignol’s disk. The real one’s in Istanbul.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know how I know, call it a hunch, but I’m sure of it. Raimond was too clever to have exposed the original like that. He and Rossignol gave their lives to buy us time. It means you were right, we do need the complete disk to read the message.”
“So we’re going to visit this Camondo Stair?”
She was already in the car. “Are you coming?”
He shrugged and followed, only dimly aware of an almost imperceptible but deep tectonic shift in their constellation. She had taken charge.
39.
Guardian of the Peace Philippe Dupond lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. Hours of watching the abbey from the concealment of this rusty tractor behind an old storage shed had gained him little. Not long before the nun and her keeper, along with their boss, had entered the office and begun working at the desk. The fat man threw something down and stood in the window, rocking onto his toes and beating himself with hands clasped behind his back. His agitation was interesting. After some time he had gone back to the desk and Defago showed him something. Then all hell broke loose: the fat man’s face had reddened and he started shouting.
Dupond wished he could hear, but he was not equipped for sound surveillance. This was regrettable, perhaps, but unavoidable. A parabolic mic was too large and clumsy and a laser mic too expensive and hard to explain. Better to stay as low-tech as possible, and glean what he could from watching. It was uncomfortable and difficult, but necessary.
No matter, he was well paid. Since he was also providing intelligence to the American Department of Homeland Security (at least that’s where he assumed his employers were from) as well as the police and Lacatuchi, he received three different paychecks. Though he feared his position with the Church might soon be compromised, the danger for the moment appeared minimal. After all, he was across the river and well concealed. Both Lacatuchi and Hugo thought he was in Paris looking for the Emmer woman.
What wasn’t clear was how long this cozy situation could last. He would have to confront Lacatuchi soon or it would be obvious he wasn’t as dedicated to the cause as the Prior General believed.
In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure what that cause was. They had kidnapped and probably killed the banker known as Rossignol. Now they wanted the girl, just as Hugo did, probably not for the same reason. What did she know or have that these people would go to such lengths to get? It had to be valuable.
To Hugo she was a murder suspect. The Americans wanted to interrogate her. Everyone wanted whatever she had. He would have to choose which party he would sell the information to first.
All this only increased her value. There could be great profit for a lowly policeman. He raised the binoculars and watched the monk and the nun leave the room.
Lacatuchi again stood at the window looking directly at him. For a brief moment Dupond thought he must have seen him, but there was no recognition on the bland, puffy face, only a scowl, as if he hated the very water flowing between them.
The Prior General returned to his desk and picked up the phone. A moment later Dupond’s portable vibrated in his jacket pocket. He let the binoculars dangle while he fumbled for it. He raised them again and answered.
It was odd watching Lacatuchi talk in close-up and hearing him speak in his ear at the same time. The Rumanian was saying, “You have a new mission.”
“Yes?”
“Say, where are you?” Lacatuchi asked, looking out the window, again directly at him. “It sounds like you’re outside.”
“I am outside.”
“I don’t hear any traffic. Are you in the country?”
“Of course. I’m taking a walk. Sometimes I need a break. It’s not easy doing two jobs at once.”
This ready response threw Lacatuchi off guard. “Ah.” For a moment he seemed about to say something else, but thought better of it. “Defago and Sister Teresa,” he continued. “I want to know what they’re up to.”
“You want me to spy on them?”
“Get close to them. Let me know what they’re doing.”
“Am I looking for anything in particular?”
So the tension between Lacatuchi and the others was increasing. Interesting.
“Not anything – everything,” Lacatuchi said. “Where they go, who they see, what they do. They’re becoming… unreliable.”
“What makes you think that?” Even from here Dupond could see how tensely the man gripped on the receiver and absently stroked the bony bend in the bridge of his nose.
“I have my reasons.
Follow them, call me any time if they do anything out of the ordinary.”
“I hardly know what ordinary would be.”
“Never mind. Just report everything.”
Five minutes later his cell phone rang. “What about my suspects?” Hugo demanded.
“I thought the case was closed. The Ministry…”
“My suspects!” Hugo’s voice was hard; the Ministry was not going to stop his investigation and he no longer cared who knew it.
Dupond looked around, as if Lisa Emmer and Steve Viginaire might be lurking nearby, but everything was quiet. He could see one or two of the few remaining inhabitants at the far side of the flax fields. No traffic disturbed the access road to the abbey. Lacatuchi had turned off the lights and left the office. The buildings looked as deserted as this village.
He wasn’t going to tell Hugo he didn’t know. “I’ll get them,” he said. “I know where they are, but I’ll need a couple of days.”
Hugo answered promptly, “You have until tomorrow afternoon, Dupond. My office, four o’clock sharp.”
Was it a threat, an order, or a request? Hugo seemed to borrow his dialog from the cinema. Merde, he though, he would have to give Hugo something just to keep him off his back. It occurred to him that the Americans had let slip Rossignol’s true name. That should keep him off my back for a while, he thought.
“Excellent, Dupond,” Hugo replied with evident satisfaction. “That should help with the Quai d’Orsay.”
Dupond smiled his relief the captain hadn’t asked how he learned it. He had no easy answer.
Time passed. He was finishing his sandwich when the van drove away from the abbey, leaving a plume of dust settling slowly in its wake.
Although he was on the other side of the river he wasn’t worried. There would be no more trains and buses for him. Despite Lacatuchi’s insistence he use public transportation “for security reasons,” today he had used his nondescript Peugeot parked next to the old tractor. It was streaked with rust but he kept it in excellent condition. He drove along the road by the river with one eye on the van on the opposite bank. He could intercept them at the bridge a few kilometers upstream.
He imagined the stolid driver at the wheel of the van carefully maintaining forty kilometers per hour. In the back would be the nun with her nervous rosary and Defago wearing his dour expression.
Though they were responsible for a number of deaths, Hugo had seemed more interested in catching the Emmer woman. Guardian of the Peace Dupond had to wonder why. It was almost as if Hugo really had dropped the investigation of the murders. Was he really so convinced the woman was responsible, despite all the evidence to the contrary?
All right, he thought, Quai d’Orsay and the Americans both wanted the Emmer woman. Good. An opportunity like this seldom came along. Despite the menace of the nun and her keeper, Dupond would seize it. If it was something physical and he could get his hands on it, he could sell it to the highest bidder. If it was information, he might extract something from all three clients.
He regretted losing the Emmer woman Saturday at the Bastille but traffic had been bad and there had been others pursuing her. She had disappeared in the confusion.
He hoped he could find her before tomorrow morning, but it didn’t seem likely unless the monk and nun did it for him. He would have her tomorrow for Hugo, or he wouldn’t. He had to report to Lacatuchi, and he would have to give the Americans something, too. Well, he’d just have to improvise.
The van stopped and the driver walked to the river’s edge.
Dupond continued on to the bridge. The van, now out of sight behind him, would catch up. There was no other road.
Once he had crossed the river he backed among some trees to wait. A few minutes later his patience was rewarded. The van swept by and he eased onto the road behind it.
It was easy to follow. By mid-afternoon they had passed through desolate outskirts and deep into the heart of Paris, stopping on a side street near the Place de la Bastille. His quarry went into a bland nineteenth century apartment building. Dupond parked two cars behind the van and checked the address on his police computer: the owner was the Dominican Order.
He called Lacatuchi, who told him to keep watching. “I’ve been on duty since early this morning,” he complained.
“Five hundred euros extra,” Lacatuchi snapped, terminating the call.
With a grin Dupond tilted his seat back, pulled his hat over his eyes and made himself comfortable. It could be another long wait.
40.
By 16:35 local time Lisa, Steve and their guide were looking up at the Camondo Stairs.
From the narrow street on which they stood, twin flights of white concrete steps bracketing a tall planter ascended to a single flight of four steps, which in turn led to another set of semicircular flights cupped around another smaller planter. Four more steps led up to a third pair of staircases to the street above. People flowed up and down the street, the stairs, and the street above. Cars honked, boys carried hanging trays with glasses of tea or small cups of Turkish coffee. A line of hardware shops stretched off to their right.
It was Monday and thirty-four degrees centigrade in Istanbul, with scattered clouds and a light breeze out of the southwest off the Sea of Marmara. The Citation had landed at Sabiha Gökcen Airport on the Asian side. Despite the fearsome traffic Ilkay, the slim, elegantly dressed guide Alain had arranged for them, made record time bringing them over, sweeping across the Bosphorus and down to the old European town of Pera just north of the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn. Now he stood to one side with an amused expression, as if anticipating something pleasant. The breeze ruffled his thin, graying hair and he smoothed it down.
“Not that impressive,” Steve observed. “A one block flight of concrete stairs. They just build moulds and pour. Not even carved.”
“But they’re charming, Steve. Lovely curves, balanced, harmonious, serene, don’t you think?”
“Right.” His expression was sour. “Now what?”
“I don’t know.” Lisa looked at Ilkay, thinking he must be hot and uncomfortable in his dark business suit, starched white shirt and red tie, but he met her gaze openly with raised eyebrows and clicked his tongue. He must be used to it. “All right, let’s take a look.” She started up the right-hand flight, examining the treads and risers and sliding her hand along the balustrade. She stopped to read the plaque on the middle planter. In Turkish and English it informed her the stairs had been built between 1870 and 1880.
At the top was a street called Kartçinar Sokak and the Sankt Georg Austrian School. Otherwise the area seemed to be mostly residential.
When they had descended the other side and crossed the street she murmured, “It is lovely.”
“Yes,” Steve agreed. “But we’ve come a long way and we’re not getting anywhere.”
“Not true, sir! We’ve climbed to the top and come down again.”
He had to laugh. “Full circle.”
“What do you see when you look at them?”
Steve tilted his head and squinted. “I don’t know. A child’s drawing of a dog, perhaps. Or a four-legged spider.”
“How about a spiral?”
“That too.”
“A caduceus — two snakes twined around a baton?”
“OK, maybe, but that’s a symbol for medicine. What would it have to do with the Camondos, or the Pythos?”
“The caduceus was also the symbol for Hermes, messenger of the gods. It was his job to lead the dead and protect thieves and merchants.”
“Very good, then, Greek mythology might be appropriate. But the Camondo were bankers. Don’t you think it might be a bit insulting to say they were thieves? Merchants, perhaps, but even that seems a stretch.”
“Sensitive about bankers, are we? And still dubious.” She started up the left stair again and stopped so suddenly Steve bumped her. “A helix!”
“Excuse me?”
“A double helix. Oh, it’s obvious once you s
ee it.” She looked back with a smile and started up again.
He followed, shaking his head.
“Don’t you see?” she continued, leaning over the balustrade to examine the outside edges. “This stairway was built a century before the discovery of DNA.”
“You’re daft.”
“If the Camondos were connected with a Pythos, this would be announcing the most important discovery of the twentieth century. Or a way of stressing the importance of genetic heritage.” She paused on the four steps in the middle and, balancing on her stomach over the banister rail, she examined the outside of first one side, then the other. “I wonder,” she murmured.
“Daft,” he repeated, leaning over beside her. “What are we looking for?”
“Probably this.” She rubbed her fingertip over one of the aggregate pebbles in the outside edge of the capstone.
He breathed, “I’ll be damned.”
“Very likely, M. Viginaire.”
He was dubious. “You’re saying the Camondos had this symbol carved on one of the pebbles? That’s insane.”
“Delta enclosing a Phi: Delphi.” She was irritatingly smug.
He straightened. “It’s not possible. First of all, it’s so small you can barely see it. Second, why is it still there? The plaque says the stairs have been repaired.”
“Ask him why it’s still there,” Lisa suggested.
Ilkay’s smile had grown even wider. “It has been our responsibility to assure it was always there. Those instructions have been standing for over a hundred years.”
Steve frowned. “OK, OK, but in the end this doesn’t bring us any closer to the disk.”
“Of course it does,” she said. “The Camondos were keepers of the disk.”
“Fine. So where is it?”
Her smile was strange. “In a bank. Right, Ilkay?”
“A bank is most correct.” The Turk swept his hand along the row of buildings across the street below them, all banks. “This is the street of banks. In one of the banks I work.”
Lisa grinned at Steve. “You see? And what do they have in banks, M. Viginaire?”
