by Mark Frost
"The Queen sent for me," Doyle went on. "Months after our business with the Seven. An audience with Victoria herself: There I was, twenty-five years old, chatting with the Queen. She confirmed what you'd told me was true, that you'd been working for her all along. She never mentioned anything to suggest you might have survived...."
Why was he telling him what he must already know? Doyle realized he felt a compelling need to fill this gulf of silence between them with words and somehow bridge it, to find a way back to knowing him.
"She calls on me from time to time. Asks my opinion on one thing or another—I've never told anyone of our arrangement, at her request. But I continue to make myself available. Least I could do."
Sparks kept his back to Doyle, offering no reaction.
"And Larry works for me; five years now. Soon as I made my way in the world, I sent for him. He's a splendid secretary. Indispensable to me; you'd be proud of him, Jack. He owes it all to you, leaving that criminal life behind. I know how much he'd love to see you."
Jack shook his head, dismissing the possibility. Doyle had to rein back his anger again.
"But you're obviously still working for the Crown," asked Doyle.
Finally he spoke, slowly, almost disembodied: "Three years ago ... found myself outside the British embassy in Washington. Been in America for ... a while. Had them send a cable; coded message only I could have sent. Made its way through channels to ... the highest level. Response came back: Give this man whatever he needs. Stared at me like some new species pulled from the bottom of the sea."
Why was he so frigid and ungiving? With all his observational acuity brought to bear, Doyle could not penetrate the man's veil of silence. Perhaps a more emotionally straightforward approach.
"You've never been far from my mind, Jack. After what Larry told me, I thought you were lost to us. You never knew how much you meant to me, how my life changed for the better from knowing you. If there was some small chance you'd survived, I thought surely you would have found a way to let me know. ..."
"You would never have known," said Sparks sharply. "Not from me."
"Why?"
"This was circumstance. Unfortunate but unavoidable. Better you'd never seen me again."
"Why, Jack?"
Sparks turned to him, angry, the glassy scars on his face stark against his pale skin.
"I am not the man you knew. Put him out of your mind. Don't speak of him to me again."
"I must know what's happened to you...."
"Put a headstone over that memory. Move on. If you can't, there is no way for us to proceed: I'll leave and you will never see me again."
Doyle struggled to contain his frustration. "If there's no other way."
Sparks nodded again, satisfied for the moment. "Saw you on the ship, hoped you wouldn't get involved; still a chance you could avoid it...."
"Why should I now when I didn't before?"
"You are a man of position and reputation now. You have a place in this world. A family. More for you to lose."
"Involved in what exactly? And how would anyone find out about what part I've played in this?"
"The fourth man escaped the ship when we reached port...."
"That seems unlikely...."
"No one found him."
"Perhaps he threw himself overboard like the other one."
"He was the last one left alive; his primary responsibility would have been to survive—"
"And report back to whoever hired them."
Jack nodded. "This fourth man will tell them of your involvement."
Doyle's anger flared again. "So you suggest I'm now in danger."
"Greater than you imagine ..."
"Then for God's sake, stop talking in riddles and answer me plainly: I've had as much of this as I can swallow—I nearly lost my life a dozen times following your lead ten years ago, I'm under no obligation to prove myself to you again. You turn up out of nowhere like Marley's ghost with your secrets and mysterious connections and never a word in the last ten years, and you're right, Jack, I have gotten somewhere in the world, and I've a lot less patience for half-truths and pointed evasions, particularly where my personal safety is at stake. You can be blunt about what you're on about here or be damned as far as I'm concerned."
The silence hung heavy between them. Neither man gave an inch.
"So when you say 'they,' " said Doyle, "who exactly do you mean?"
Sparks stared at him, unblinking, seemingly unmoved, but after making a decision behind his impassive gaze, he took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Doyle.
A lithograph of a woven coat of arms, an interrupted black circle on a field of white, three jagged red lines darting through the circle like lightning bolts.
"I've seen this design before," said Doyle, as he took out the sketch he'd been carrying in his pocket and gave it to Sparks. "Scrawled on the baseboard of Selig's cabin wall. I believe he saw it on the arm of one of his assassins—a scar or tattoo—and wrote it himself just before he died."
"Do you know what it signifies?"
"Haven't the faintest. Do you?"
"For centuries something similar to this served as the official seal of the Hanseatic League."
Doyle rummaged through his schoolboy memories: "The Hanseatic League was an alliance of German merchants. Medieval. Formed for protection of their cities and trade rights in the absence of a central government."
"Their influence eventually spread to every court in Europe. They raised a mercenary army, fought wars to assert their authority. The city of Lubeck, now in Germany, was the seat of their power, which reached its peak in the fourteenth century when they were as strong a force as any sovereignty."
"But they were finally defeated."
"By 1700 the League had all but disappeared, although Lubeck, Hamburg, and Bremen even today are still referred to as Hanseatic cities."
"Why would their seal turn up in the middle of this business?"
"There have for the last two hundred years been persistent rumors that the League did not die out with the consolidation of Germany as originally believed. That a form of the League survived as a secret society, with its resources and objectives intact."
"Who would have been responsible for that?"
"The merchants themselves initially. After the League dissolved, they still needed to protect their ships and caravans so they formed a militia, a private police force. And lacking the skilled men required for that work, they began to recruit criminals and thieves from port cities around the world, training those members rigorously, making them expert in arms, munitions, killing techniques.
"Through the years, this rogue branch began to prey on its employers and finally seized outright control of the organization. This renegade form of the League has survived to this day, headquartered in Eastern Europe."
"An international guild of thieves," said Doyle.
"Smuggling. Pirating. Trafficking in contraband. Stealing for themselves or as commissioned."
"And you suspected them in the theft of the Vulgate from Oxford prior to our sailing."
"Yes."
"And you think the same men, or elements of that organization, are after the Book of Zohar as well."
"Yes."
"But as to the question of who they might be working for or why ..."
Jack shook his head.
"Someone in America," said Doyle.
"Yes."
"The Vulgate Bible would have been transported here as well. On an earlier ship."
"Correct."
"But we don't know where."
Jack shook his head.
Doyle felt a satisfying and familiar meshing of the gears of their thought. This felt more like the old Sparks, the two of them alternatively sprinting ahead of each other on a chase for buried truth.
"Then we must trace these thieves back to whoever commissioned the crime," said Doyle.
Sparks raised an eyebrow. "How would you do it?"
; "Let them steal the Book of Zohar—or think they have— and follow them."
The slightest smile appeared at the edge of Sparks's mouth. "Yes."
"You'll need the full cooperation of Lionel Stern—"
"I have it."
"You'll have mine as well."
"No. You're here on business. Couldn't expect you to—"
"Jack. You know me better than that."
They looked at each other:
And I know you better than you think I do, my friend, thought Doyle. I'll go along with this if only to get to the bottom of what's happened to you.
"We'll start tonight, then," said Sparks, moving toward the door.
"I have an obligation."
"Afterward..."
"Where shall we meet?"
"I'll come for you."
Sparks left the room, silent as a cat.
BETWEEN DENVER AND PHOENIX
"In Hebrew Kabbalah means 'to receive,' as in the receiving of wisdom.... I don't wish to burden you, are you sure you want me to explain all this?'' asked Jacob Stern.
"Absolutely," said Eileen. "I'm fascinated."
"Well, it's a long train ride. In Kabbalah it is written that God created the world along thirty-two paths of secret knowledge; these are represented by the numbers one through ten and the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Each number has a secret spiritual meaning that corresponds to one of the ten power centers in the physical body. Each one of the twenty-two letters has a numerical value and a visual significance in the way it is drawn, in addition to its sound that forms language. Each of these different paths to knowledge is of equal importance in deciphering the mystery that lies behind creation. Do you follow?"
"I think so," said Eileen without much assurance but encouraged to try by the man's soft, infectious happiness.
"The student of Kabbalah uses the sound of certain powerful words in meditation to create a higher consciousness in himself; the numerical significance of its letters is analyzed according to numerological values which reveal hidden meanings; the shape of the letters provides a basis for studying visually coded information, like the mandalas of the Hindu. Each discipline exercises a different area of the mind but all are equally valid ways for the aspiring student to move closer to enlightenment."
Night was falling rapidly outside the windows of their moving train; the lights of Denver fading behind them as they snaked through the sparsely settled foothills to the south. Even in the dwindling twilight, one could sense the ponderous weight of the Rockies lying to the west; Eileen wasn't sure which seemed more dense and impenetrable, those mountains or the response she'd gotten from Jacob Stern to her simple query: What is it you do, exactly?
"There are only two qualities of reality that we as human beings can experience: One is physical matter, the other is information." Stern held up a bright green apple. "There are the atoms or particles that make up the form of an object: matter. There is the idea of the object that exists only in our minds: information. One has no meaning without the other but the combination of these two qualities is life. An apple, for instance." He took a big bite and chewed vigorously, smiling. "Would you care for one?"
"Thank you," said Eileen, taking the apple he offered from his bag.
"They are called Granny Smiths; isn't that fantastic? What an image; this wiry old grandmother running around the orchard."
Eileen laughed; he could go on talking about anything he liked as long as he made her laugh.
"It is the same with these old books I study," he said, pulling a leatherbound volume out of his valise. "To a person who has no experience of them they are nothing but funny symbols printed on pages bound together and wrapped in a cover. A primitive could make no sense of this object!"
"Neatly summing up how I felt about schoolbook Latin," said Eileen.
"Of course; because they couldn't convince you of its relevance to your fifteen-year-old existence. But to a scholar whose whole life has been spent preparing, or even better to a prophet whose mind is not clouded by the influence of the physical or animal soul..."
At which point Bendigo Rymer, who had been straining to eavesdrop from the seat in front of them—outraged that Eileen had abandoned him for this interloper—fell into a heavy, untroubled sleep.
".. .a great holy book is not just a document for the study of God or even an instrument for the communication of the will of God. It is in itself the divine body of God, embodied in a form which allows the person who studies it to penetrate and merge with the book, and in this way enter the secret heart of our Creator."
"You're saying these books are somehow alive," said Eileen.
"In a way, yes. This is complicated. Are you familiar with how a telephone works, my dear?"
"Not exactly."
"Neither am I. But as I understand it, there is a mysterious substance in the little part that you hold and speak into...."
"The mouthpiece."
"Thank you; a substance that when we speak into this mouthpiece vibrates and turns our words into an electrical signal which runs along the wires to the other person—don't ask me how—where there is more of this magical substance in the part they listen to—the earpiece, yes?—that also vibrates and turns these signals back into the words we spoke over here so they can understand them. Isn't that fantastic?"
Three feet away, Bendigo Rymer began to snore, a foghorn cutting through the clacking of the train.
"So holy books are like this substance."
"Yes. The word of God has been received by them on their pages, translated into words and numbers and sounds so that someone who approaches with the proper education can eventually decipher and understand. God speaks in one end; we listen on the other."
"If that's the case," asked Eileen, taking another bite of apple, "why isn't everybody in on the mystery?"
"Not everyone is ready. A person must achieve a high degree of purity before studying this material or the power of the information would rip them apart like a hurricane. There is a saying: The vessel must be made strong for the passing down of wisdom."
With a thud, the silver flask he'd been sipping from slipped from the sleeping Rymer's seat to the floor at Stern's feet. Eileen tucked the flask back under Bendigo's arm, grateful that she hadn't been drinking tonight; she'd indulged altogether too much recently, comfort in place of company, and it was time she tapered off. She rested her head against the seat, more relaxed than she could remember, tranquilized by the gentle rocking of the train and the steady sound of Jacob's voice.
"This has traditionally been the role of the priesthood, in every religion: to help men and women prepare for the receiving of spiritual information from the higher realms."
"All my priest ever did for me was try and stick his hand up my skirt," said Eileen, instantly regretting it.
"Well, that is the great challenge of living, isn't it?" said Jacob, not at all embarrassed. "Humans are divided beings attempting to reconcile our two natures: the spiritual and the animal. That's why I wear this ribbon around my waist, by the way; it is called a gartel, symbolically it separates the higher and lower parts of our nature and serves as a constant reminder to me of our ongoing struggle. We are all, in our own way, trying to make this tikkun, this healing or repair inside, to reconcile our divided selves. Every individual is responsible for making the tikkun in his own life; it is the primary responsibility of living. They say if enough people are able to do this work, one day such a healing may come for the entire world."
"Think the world's fallen from grace, do you? We're all hopeless sinners and the like."
"You are English, are you not?"
"Dear me, is it still so obvious?"
"Only in a most delightful way. But let me ask you: Is there any doubt in your Church of England that man is a completely wicked, sinful wretch?"
"Of the worst sort. And my experience with men bears that out."
Jacob laughed. "This is the feeling most people have about their life, you know.
That they have failed their God, or themselves, in some fundamental way."
"Is that what you feel, Mr. Stern?"
Stern looked at her, his blue eyes as bright as shiny buttons, joy radiating from him as steadily as heat from a coal fire. What an attractive younger man he must have been, thought Eileen, instantly deciding how wonderful her life would be now if she had met him then.
"There is no question," said Stern, "that we human beings are sad and broken creatures. Look around; it requires no great vision to see that things are not as they should be. If there was perfection in the world, why would man and woman be separate beings, for instance? Why are there differences of color or religion, country or family that cause such blind hatred and bloodshed? The most unimaginable cruelties seem never to fall outside the capabilities of man."
"Yes. It's all quite hopeless, isn't it?" she said, staring dreamily into his eyes.
"They say that in every creation the creator reveals his personality; if so then the Creator of this world must Himself be a terribly wounded and incomplete being. In this way, perhaps we do resemble our God. And if there is such a God, surely he must be in exile with us, suffering as we do, struggling on his own path toward spiritual perfection. The path we are all stumbling along. The history of humanity tells us there is an undeniable progression in spite of all our violence and pain, a slow, gradual moving toward the light—in Hebrew 'light' has the same numerological value as 'mystery.' Perhaps one day we will all achieve this 'enlightenment.' "
Eileen tried to disguise a yawn. Jacob smiled.
"One of the great disadvantages of growing old; you think you know so much but nobody else has the endurance to listen to you."
"No, it's quite interesting, really," said Eileen. "I just haven't had any reason to think about such things for the longest time."
"Who does? Only crazy old men locked in their basements with a thousand books. Real life, families, making a living; who has time to worry about suffering when suffering takes up so much time?" said Stern, laughing.
"You really are the most wonderfully peculiar man," said Eileen.
"This is a compliment?"
"I mean it to be. Different. Unusual. Out of the ordinary."
