by Nick Baker
The root of the problem—the poison—would have to wait; first, he had to negate its effects. He tried to think logically, analysing all the clues the woman had left for him. He had felt the increasing hammering in Spydre’s chest preceding the loss of a pulse and quickly deduced that the poison had caused the heart to beat faster and faster until it was completely overwhelmed; because of this, the heart was now beating in an uncoordinated fashion, and no blood was perfusing Spydre’s brain.
There has to be an answer, he told himself, desperately trying to recall distant lessons of physiologia from his days at the Academy. He had learnt that an electrical discharge originating from nerve-bundles deep within the heart caused its muscles to contract in a synchronised way, and extrapolating from this, he deduced that he had to interrupt the random pattern currently driving Spydre’s heart to return it to its regular rhythm.
As he racked his brains, he quickly determined what he must do. He lifted his hand and steadied it inches above Spydre’s chest. He began to focus deep within himself. He had done this many times before, and now, reflexively, it came effortlessly. He visualised the tiny charged bundles of matter coursing through his body, and drawing on his innate power, he displaced a mass of electrons from their random activity into an ordered stream of movement thus creating a potential difference in his arm. By fashioning the end point in his hand, an electrical charge slowly built there. Price felt the power grow, until eventually, with his fingers tingling unpleasantly, he lowered his arm. The moment his fingers touched Spydre’s skin, a current flowed from his hand. Spydre tensed then jerked spasmodically, but when the discharge ceased, his body sagged to the floor like a limp rag doll.
Price reached out and felt for a pulse but immediately knew he had failed. Perhaps Spydre was just too old or there was too much poison in his body, he reflected.
With time running out, he had to keep trying. Price compelled the charge to coalesce in his arm once again, and as the electricity built, so did the pain, yet this time he did not act. At last, when it felt as if he could bear it no longer, he lowered his hand, but even before his fingers connected with Spydre’s skin, there was a phosphorescent flash. Energy arced from his fingertips, and, as the electricity surged from his hand, Spydre recoiled, lifted from the ground in a spasm of temporary reanimation.
Price held his breath, not daring to look. Then, with a surge of relief, he discerned the almost imperceptible rise and fall of Spydre’s chest. He was breathing! Price bent forwards and checked for a pulse. There it was, fast and thready, but undoubtedly present. It had worked!
Despite this, Price knew that it was still not over. He could sense the strength of the poison, and did not doubt that the enfeebled old man might yet succumb. He had bought himself time, that was all; he had to think.
The woman, Atropos, had left clues to help him save Spydre. But why? She had implicitly forewarned him that Spydre was in danger, and even told him what to expect when he arrived. First, there was the moth pinned to the door, and then, the book on the table, and the incontrovertible link with the name, Atropos.
Atropos! Of course! It came to him in a rush; she had poisoned Spydre with atropine!
Price cursed himself; the clues had been there all along. Atropine came from the herbaceous shrub, deadly nightshade, and its Latin name, Atropa belladonna, was derived from Atropos. It was one of the most toxic plants known to man with dark, sweet-tasting berries renowned for their fatal effects.
It all fitted perfectly; he had just not seen it. When ingested, atropine produced dilated pupils, dry skin, rapid pulse, disorientation, hallucinations, and finally, coma; symptoms that had all been manifest in Spydre.
Price rechecked the body. Spydre was unconscious, yet his chest was rising and falling in tune with rapid, shallow breaths. There was no time to lose. He had to neutralise the poison. He reached for the desk and lifted the telephone lying askew on its cradle. He rapidly dialled a familiar number.
‘Come on, come on,’ he said, thrumming his fingers impatiently on the desk while waiting for someone to pick up the phone.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’ a voice said brightly.
‘Lily, quick. I need your help. Cornelius’ life depends on it.’
‘What! I thoug—’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain,’ Price cut in. ‘Just, please, do as I say. Go down to the laboratory. Look for two flasks in the reagent store: Indian snakeroot and Calabar bean. They should be close to one another. Grab them and bring them to Cornelius’ shop. Get here as fast as you can. I’ll be waiting. I’m relying on you, Lily.’
Lily immediately hung up, sensing the urgency in her father’s voice.
Price returned to the body still lying prostrate on the floor. Spydre had not stirred following the convulsion that had restored him to life. His face was deathly pale and his breathing barely perceptible.
Price laid a hand on Spydre’s brow and gently stroked the deformed face of his friend. ‘Hold on, Cornelius, you can do it. You’re as tough as an ox. Help is on its way,’ he muttered as much to himself as to the old man.
He had done all he could. He squeezed Spydre’s hand, willing him to hang on. All he could do now was wait. He just hoped that Lily would get there before it was too late.
15
THE STONE OF MADNESS
Bibliotheca Philosophica Hermetica
LIQUID LEX SLIPPED QUIETLY into Holland, arriving at a time when he was most likely to avoid the attention of the local authorities. He was travelling on one of many false passports, but because of the nature of the assignment and the equipment he was carrying, he remained wary. He had avoided the usual major ports and airports, and opted to travel via a circuitous route to minimise the risk of an impromptu search.
Lex had begun the journey by persuading a local fisherman in Harwich that a quick trip across the North Sea was far more financially rewarding than scraping a living from the ever-decreasing fish reserves the man’s livelihood depended on. Lex almost changed his mind when he saw the ship—a decrepit fishing smack that looked more suitable for the scrap heap than the open seas. The wily captain somehow managed to persuade Lex of the vessel’s seaworthiness, and promised an uneventful passage, despite Lex’s unwavering suspicion that the vessel would sink with the first big wave to cross its bows.
Lex spent the crossing in a small berth below decks, preferring the disgusting blend of diesel oil and stale fish to the sight of the little boat labouring against towering waves that threatened to engulf it at any moment. He passed the time reading the Racing Post and reviewing a selection of recent betting slips—losers every single one—and although this merely added to his discomfort, he managed to take solace from the boat remaining afloat.
The boat moored in The Hook after a longer crossing than the captain had promised and Lex disembarked the moment the boat was secured. He slipped ashore with a cargo of illicit goods safely packaged within a nondescript, black metallic case. He had hoped for some sleep during the crossing, but the thought of the unstable goods in his possession rolling around with the incessant pitch and fall of the boat somewhat tempered his desire for rest. As an expert in explosives, Lex knew that the liquids carefully secured and insulated within the case were far more stable than the prototypes he had used in his early years as a thief. Nonetheless, he could not help wonder whether passport control would have been a safer option than the risk of plummeting to the depths of the North Sea after a brief show of pyrotechnics.
At last, thankful to find himself safely, but a little unsteadily, on terra firma, Lex paid the fisherman handsomely for the crossing and agreed to rendezvous in a week’s time. After a short bus trip up the coast to The Hague, he took the train to Amsterdam.
Following his arrival at the Centraal station, he set off on foot through the charming old city, crossing several canals on the way to the Jordaan, a sprawling, provincial district lying to the west of the Grachtengordel and the main canals of the central city. Here, he fou
nd a comfortable yet unobtrusive hotel overlooking one of the city’s many waterways in preparation for his assault on the Bibliotheca Philosophica Hermetica.
Lex had not skimped on his research before setting off from London, working on the old adage of ‘know your enemy well’, where, metaphorically speaking, the library was his enemy. The library was the personal collection of Joost Ritman and consisted of over 20,000 printed books, manuscripts and incunables, making it the world’s largest collection of works devoted to the Hermetic tradition. The library had opened its doors to the public in recent years to reveal a collection of rare and valuable books on the subjects of Hermetica, Alchemy, Mysticism, Rosicrucianism, Kabbalah, Freemasonry, Theosophy, Anthroposophy and Esotericism, to name but a few.
Lex wondered what all the fuss was about over a library crammed full of stuffy old books, and with no fabulous jewels or fine art to whet his fancy, he could not work out the appeal of dusty old tomes on subjects he considered, quite frankly, bizarre. Still, a book was a book, and one he was committed to recovering. In order to finalise his plan, Lex was keen to discover the interior set-up of the library, the location of Piotrowski’s manuscript and the security arrangements of the building—a major problem owing to his reluctance to enter the library for fear of being recognised by a sharp security guard; after all, his face was extremely well known to Interpol. He was also worried that the library had been primed about the interest in Piotrowski’s manuscript thanks to the meddling of Price and his Council cronies, and so despite usually preferring to work alone, Lex elected to gather information from an insider, despite knowing from bitter experience that this would only increase the possibility of ending up in a stinking Dutch prison, an option not particularly high on his agenda.
Lex began a covert surveillance of the library immediately after checking into the hotel, and soon established the comings and goings of two security guards working there by day. Each evening after the library shut its doors to the public, the guards retired to a local bar to relax after a day of unrelenting boredom. Dressed in their smart, black uniforms, the men stood out like sore thumbs amongst the early evening masses. Lex soon discovered that the men were employed by a private security firm—ARC International—as evidenced by a small logo fashionably emblazoned on the breast pocket of their jackets.
On the fifth evening after his arrival, the guards ambled a short distance from the library on Bloemstraat to a bar on the adjacent Prinsengracht where they began to unwind over a few cold beers. The men chatted amiably against a backdrop of the early evening water traffic meandering along the nearby canal and they did not stop to draw breath when Lex slid surreptitiously behind a table within earshot of their own.
Although the conversation was little more than light banter, everything changed with the arrival of a man he had not seen during his reconnaissance of the library. The man was scruffily dressed in a pair of faded denims, and following his reluctant acceptance into the party, there was a distinct change in the nature of the conversation. As the evening wore on, the exchanges gradually became more heated, and although the men spoke rapidly in Dutch, Lex gleaned that the newcomer was a disgruntled ex-employee of ARC. The discussion eventually degenerated into a full-blown argument over the man’s recent dismissal, despite the guards having heard it all before, and it was not long before they made their apologies and left the man to quietly seethe over the perceived injustices of his life.
On a whim, Lex opted to stay put and concentrate on what he intuitively saw as the likeliest source of the information he desperately craved. He watched the man drain his beer in double quick time then return to the bar to order another. On his way back, Lex jumped to his feet, seemingly heading for the exit past the disgruntled man. With a feigned stumble that would have graced the Maracanã, Lex expertly dislodged the contents of the man’s brimming glass onto the floor, causing the man to flare up in a further show of fury.
‘That was my beer!’ he shouted indignantly, squaring up aggressively to Lex.
Lex smiled with nonchalant grace. He held up two hands to pacify the man and accompanied the gesture with the most disarming smile he could muster. ‘I’m so terribly sorry, I’m English,’ he said, in a halting yet passable Dutch, as if this was a reasonable excuse for the accident. ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he added in his native tongue.
The man’s ruddy complexion paled and his shoulders relaxed, seemingly appeased.
Seizing his chance, Lex held out a hand. ‘My name’s Leonard Lincoln,’ he said, introducing himself with the alias inscribed in his passport. ‘My friends call me Len,’ he added amiably.
The man studied Lex as the prospect of another beer quickly calmed his rage. ‘And my name’s Thjiis … Thjiis Ackerman,’ he replied, in a softly spoken manner belying his recent behaviour.
Without hesitation, Lex pulled up a chair and hailed the waiter. He ordered two more beers and began a slow but meticulous softening-up process, painting the picture of himself as a hapless tourist before starting to gently probe the unsuspecting Thjiis about his circumstances. It was not long before the men were happily ensconced in conversation as if they had known each other for years, kindred spirits of sorts, following Lex’s sorry admission that he had embarked on his travels after losing his job following a dispute with his employers.
Thjiis frowned briefly at this juncture before he launched into a vicious diatribe about his own recent bitter experience, having been dismissed from his post at the library after fifteen years of unwavering service because of a disagreement over the time he had spent smoking a cigarette during an allotted break.
‘Have you heard of the Bibliotheca Philosophica Hermetica?’ Thjiis naively enquired.
When Lex shook his head with a suitably puzzled expression, he was treated to an unrelenting fifteen-minute lecture on the wonderful world of Ritman’s library according to Ackerman.
It was apparent from the way Thjiis spoke that he had been happy working at the library and immensely proud of the responsibility invested in him as a guardian of all the treasures it housed. He spoke of the books with eager pleasure bordering on reverence, and, judging by the way he recounted the subject, he was clearly a disciple of the Hermetic tradition.
Lex allowed the man to speak without interruption, and as Thjiis’ confidence grew—in direct correlation with his blood alcohol level—Lex knew it was only a matter of time before he could prise the information from his victim to help him get the book. He feared Thjiis’ increasingly droopy eyelids and slurred speech was a herald of alcohol intoxication, but as Thjiis continued to take regular draughts from his glass, it only seemed to increase his vigour. All Lex had to do was to ensure Thjiis’ glass remained full while maintaining his own sobriety, which he surreptitiously managed by tipping his beer into a large earthenware pot next to the table, only adding to the vim of the plant and its green, sharply serrated palmate leaves elegantly draped over the table. ‘Pot’ being the operative word, Lex considered, recognising the vegetation’s distinctive appearance as almost impossible to mistake.
After Thjiis’ eloquent oratory regarding the library’s treasures, Lex casually enquired about the various sections of the building and the locations of the books it housed. It was like lighting the blue touch paper and retiring, allowing Lex to sit back and let the information flow. It was not long before he had learnt the entire layout of the library from top to bottom as Thjiis divulged where various sets of books were housed from Rosicrucianism, Anthroposophy and Theosophy on the ground floor to Hermetica and Alchemy on the first and second floors, and most crucially, the location of a collection of rare books on the third floor.
Following the conclusion of Thjiis’ discourse, Lex smiled reassuringly. ‘It sounds like a treasure trove, this library. You must miss it.’
‘It’s just not fair,’ Thjiis replied dolefully. ‘I worked there for fifteen years and just because of one small lapse, they got rid of me, just like that. I hate those smug so-and-sos at ARC.’
&
nbsp; ‘ARC did you say?’ Lex said in surprise, raising his eyebrows in a none too theatrical manner.
‘Yes. They’re a stupid, small-minded company run by a bunch of over-inflated egos. Why do you ask?’
‘What a coincidence!’ Lex replied, exaggerating a look of astonishment. ‘I was recently doing some consultancy work for ARC myself. I’m afraid things didn’t work out. I was developing a security system for them in the Middle East. Unfortunately, the contract fell through. ARC lost a lot of money, and guess what?’
Thjiis nodded knowingly.
‘Yep, they blamed me. Made sure I’d never work in the security business again.’
‘Typical!’ said Thjiis. ‘What did you do after you lost your job?’
‘Well, here I am. I had a bit of money saved up, so I decided to do some travelling … at least until I could think of something better to do. Sounds like we both owe ARC, eh?’
‘I’d do anything to get back at them,’ Thjiis replied, staring dejectedly into the depths of his glass.
Lex paused dramatically for a moment before he pounced. ‘I can think of a way.’
Thjiis regarded him with mounting excitement. ‘How?’ he exclaimed a little too loudly for Lex’s liking, causing a group at the next table to turn round and see what all the fuss was about.
Lex surreptitiously touched an index finger to pursed lips.
Thjiis dipped his forehead in acknowledgement and leant conspiratorially over the table to hear what Lex had to say next.
‘Do you know anything about the library’s security system?’ Lex enquired.
‘Of course,’ Thjiis replied, whispering now. ‘Why do you ask?’ he added suspiciously.
‘Let’s just say I know some people who’d be extremely interested in that kind of information.’
‘What! They’re not planning to steal something, are they?’
