Enigma Variations

by Bradley W Wright

  I typed a quick thanks then headed for the stairway Angela James had used when she showed me the flats, keeping low and moving from one cubicle to the next in case anyone came through.

  Upstairs, the corridor was deserted as Ashna had promised. I just had to hope Saint Martin had gone to the ritual and wasn’t skulking in his apartment with his electronics all turned off. The lock was a thing of beauty—a Corbin Russwin mortise. I was glad I didn’t have to pick it. Angela James’ key turned soundlessly and the latch clicked. I pushed the door open a crack, stepped inside, and pulled it closed behind me, resetting the lock.

  The flat was dark inside and still. I smelled cologne or maybe spilled alcohol—something aromatic like gin. I knew the layout from my tour and from studying the floor plans with Ashna. It was open plan. A short hallway led to the living room and kitchen. Above the kitchen was a loft that held the master suite. Off the hallway were a smaller bedroom and bathroom. I made my way down the hall and into the living room where moonlight from large windows illuminated the interior enough for me to see a desk against one wall, a sofa and chairs arranged around a dark colored carpet, a kitchen island. A rocks glass lay overturned on the carpet. Maybe the source of the smell. A sleek, silver laptop was positioned precisely in the center of the desk. To the side was a bundle of papers and a small lamp. I crossed the room, flipped the lamp on, and rifled through the papers. They were Wolhardt’s notes. I recognized the neat writing and carefully hand-lined charts. I should have been elated but, in the moment, I just felt tired and still shaky from the concussion. A shoulder bag was propped against the desk. I lifted it to the chair, unzipped it, and was about to put the notes and laptop in it when I heard a noise and froze. I heard it again—almost like a muffled whimpering, then someone thrashing and a wall being kicked. It was coming from the loft. There were stairs at the opposite end of the living room, leading up. I climbed them slowly. Upstairs I found a king sized four-poster. Saint Martin, hands and feet bound by duct tape, mouth covered also, was sprawled on the bed. His hands were stretched above his head and fixed with more tape to one of the posts. His eyes watched me suspiciously and he thrashed again, breathing hard through his nose. It was no use. They had bound him effectively. I went over and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth. He began gasping at once, taking in huge lungfuls of air. I waited for him to calm before speaking.

  “Are the papers downstairs Wolhardt’s original notes?”

  He gave me a suspicious look again. “Release me.”

  “First I need you to answer my questions. If you cooperate, I’ll let you go.”

  He considered for a moment. “Fine. Yes, those are the notes.”

  “Why bring them here?” I asked. It didn’t make sense to me. Why had they even brought Saint Martin? “Were you still working on the solution? When did you crack it?”

  “Yesterday. I gave it to him last night. He had another cryptographer go over my solution this morning. Some asshole American he flew in. No offense. They brought me here so they could keep an eye on me I guess. I didn’t expect this!” Saint Martin inclined his chin, gesturing toward his bound hands.

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Any copies you know of?”

  “None.”

  “And your solution. Is it written anywhere? Saved on the laptop?”

  “Only on the laptop. Except a copy I wrote out by hand. They’ve had me locked down. No internet access. No printer. They search my stuff. Won’t let me go out. It was part of the contract but I didn’t know how serious they were until I started the job. Jutting was here after they came in and grabbed me. He took the copy and put it in the pocket of his robe. He was wearing a black robe like a monk or something.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Maybe half an hour.”

  I nodded, thinking. “Is the file system encrypted? On your laptop.”

  “Of course.”

  “What will I need to access the data? Passwords?”

  “I’m not giving you that!” he exclaimed.

  “I guess we’re done here then.” I got up to leave.

  “Wait! I’ll tell you. It’s just a password.”

  I copied it into a note in my phone as he gave it to me, character by character. It was long and complex. “I’m going to test this,” I said and left him, heading back down the stairs. It took me three tries but the password worked at last. “Where is the solution stored?” I called up to the loft.

  “A folder under documents,” he said bitterly. “It’s called Enigma.”

  I found the folder and opened it. “Which file?”

  “Solution underscore final dot TXT.”

  I opened the file and found strings of tabular numbers and letters. My head had started throbbing again and I was beginning to feel like I had been in the asylum for too long. I closed the laptop and shoved it in the bag with the notes. Back upstairs, I used the knife from my tool set to cut the tape binding Saint Martin’s hands to the post.

  “You’ll be able to work your way out of that tape,” I said, examining the bonds. “It will take a while but you can do it. Meanwhile, I’m getting out of here.”

  “Wait!” Saint Martin hissed. “I gave you the password. Take me with you. Jutting is insane. He’s planning a kind of ceremony. He thinks the solution points to some crazy magic spell.”

  “I’m aware of that. I can’t take you though. Sorry. When you get yourself free, go down the hall to the right. There are stairs that let out into the grounds at the rear of the building. Get over the wall without being seen and you can cut across the fields and into town.”

  “They’ll find me.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help you more than I already have.”

  I heard him struggling to sit up in the bed as I hurried down the stairs and out of the flat. I would need plenty of luck to get out of the building. But first, I needed to get Saint Martin’s handwritten copy of the solution from Jutting’s pocket. I didn’t want to leave him with any kind of proof that he had a solution before Wolhardt.

  Chapter 21

  The Ritual

  July 5-6: Powick

  My watch said eleven fifty-one. I had nine minutes to somehow infiltrate the ritual and get close enough to Jutting to slip the paper out of his pocket, assuming it was still there. If he was wearing a robe he must have been already dressed and on his way to the chapel so there was a good chance he would still have it. I hurried down the corridor, trying to move silently.

  At that moment, I wanted more than anything else to just find the nearest exit and make my escape into the cool night air. But I knew I couldn’t go without at least trying to retrieve the last bit of evidence. I didn’t want to leave anything behind that Jutting could use to get out of paying the reward to Wolhardt.

  I crept back downstairs without meeting any guards on the stairs and was in a vestibule, peeking around the doorway into the candle-lit hallway that led back to the chapel, when I heard heavy, clomping steps coming down the stairs behind me. I moved back into a shadowy corner, pulling up my hood and pressing myself against the wall. A moment later a figure emerged into the vestibule, evidently in a hurry. He paused for a moment, patting the pockets of his black robe as if checking to make sure he had not forgotten something. As he did so, he turned half around and I saw his face in profile. I remembered that face with its white goatee and florid cheeks. It was Archibald Matthews. Maggie had introduced me to him in Seattle at the symphony performance and Jutting, I realized now, had said Matthews’ name on his call with haggis face. Maggie had mentioned that he was very wealthy and he had told me himself that he was interested in the Enigma Variations. He must have been rich enough and obsessed enough to join Jutting’s black magic club. I imagined all the invitations would have gone to men like Matthews—super wealthy illuminatus wannabes.

  Regardless of why he was there, he was just the break I needed at that moment. Matthews turned toward me, his vaguely annoyed expression turning to shocked surprise as I stepped out of the shadow
s and pressed the stun gun to his chest. His body stiffened, the expression frozen on his face, and I caught him as he fell.

  The vestibule had three exits—one into the corridor, one to the stairs Matthews had just come down, and one leading back into the offices behind the lobby. “Sorry Archie,” I said as I hefted his floppy bulk and pulled him through the last of these. His heels, encased is stiff leather dress shoes, dragging along the wooden floor, sounded weirdly like one of those toy trains on a string made to delight toddlers and drive parents to distraction. The idea of a toddler pulling a train arrested my mind for a moment and I had to shake it off. Something definitely wasn’t right in my head. I sat Matthews down in an empty cubicle, and whipped the robe off of him. It was loose and came off easily. A nearby supply closet yielded a roll of packing tape. I covered his mouth with a piece, wrapping it all the way around the back of his head, then quickly bound his hands and feet. He wasn’t unconscious but he was dazed. I thought it was very unlikely that he would have recognized me, out of context and from just a brief glimpse of my face in the shadows. Stepping back, I pulled the robe on quickly. Matthews was about the same height as me and the robe was not made to fit closely so it seemed fine. I pushed Saint Martin’s laptop bag around so that it hung across my back under the robe. It was a little bulky but not too conspicuous I hoped. My phone said eleven fifty-eight. I took a calming breath, pulled the hood up, and headed back out, through the vestibule and down the hallway toward the chapel.

  A guard stood at attention outside the door. It was the woman who had accompanied Jutting when he visited me in the electrical room. I kept my head down, face shadowed by the cowl, and took short, hurrying steps like an older, less active man.

  “They’re about to start,” she said, opening the door for me. I bustled through, not looking up until I was well into the nave where I paused for a moment, eyes adjusting to the looming darkness of the chapel. All the windows were draped with black tapestries. The only light came from the raised dais in the apse where giant candles glowing red on round stone plinths were arranged in a wide circle. From across the nave, the circle of candle flames had a hazy, dreamlike appearance. I could see shadowy figures in black robes moving slowly in what seemed to be a procession. Some were already stationed just inside the circle of candles. Others were taking up their places. I hurried forward, stepped up onto the dais, and crossed over the boundary of flame to join the round, finding an empty space with my back to the chapel. I had no idea what I was doing. I would have to attempt to follow along with whatever happened. My vision doubled for a moment and I could feel a vein throbbing in my forehead. I needed to sleep. Maybe I needed a doctor too. Letting my eyelids droop closed for a moment, I tried to pull myself together then opened my eyes again and examined my surroundings.

  In the center of the circle was an altar like the one I had seen in Jutting’s basement—ancient looking stone, hand hewn blocks pitted with age, stacked into a low dolmen shape like some megalithic tomb transported from a mist shrouded moor. A primitive lamp—just a shallow stone bowl full of oil with a wick—burned with a guttering flame on the altar. A book, bound in leather with brass hasps, a gold chalice, a curved knife, and a wand of dark wood capped at both ends by silver ferrules were carefully arranged around the lamp. Behind the altar stood Jutting, the only figure with his hood down, bristly gray hair and oblique planes of cheekbone, forehead, nose like rough carved stone limned by the firelight. Harsh shadows gathered in the creases of his mouth and in the corners of his eyes. His head was slightly bowed and he wore a beatific expression that contrasted with and fought against the cruelty of his face, as if an internal struggle was animating him against his will, playing out across his features. We all stood silently, frozen in that tableau for nearly a minute. Finally, Jutting raised his eyes, focused, exerting control. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead.

  "We call upon the horned god whose name is oak king, two face, hanged man, the frozen winter field, the ripe vine,” Jutting intoned. “Leader of the hunt. Lord of death and resurrection. Keeper of the summerland. Lord of the underworld. Cernunnos. Ammon-Zeus. We request a sacred space. We request a circle of protection. Let it enclose our company as a corral encloses cattle. Let it ensure our safety. Let a wall of power surround us. Let the hoard of your servants stand without. Let the forces of chaos be barred from our circle. We ask in your name, Baphomet.”

  “Baphomet,” a whispered chorus issued from the assembly.

  “Baphomet,” Jutting repeated.

  “Baphomet,” they whispered again.

  “Baphomet,” Jutting said again, raising his hands up in the air as if lifting a heavy ball of energy. He held the pose for a moment, then lowered his hands, reaching out and opening the book to a page marked by a red silk ribbon.

  “Tonight, we gather to work magic,” Jutting continued. “An ancient magic. Passed down from Thoth to Hermes Trismegistus to Solomon to Pythagoras to Albertus Magnus to Benvenuto Cellini. This book, the grimoire of none other than Cellini himself, holds the ancient knowledge. It shows us the way to power. It allows us to open the gateway and command the forces of chaos. None shall stand against our army.” An answering murmur came from the figures around me but Jutting held up his hand. “Silence. I have given all of you the proof of this book’s authenticity. You know that Benvenuto Cellini called up an army of demons. Tonight, we will duplicate his great achievement. The enigma has been decoded. It points to this book. Chapter thirteen which is titled Negromanzia.” Jutting’s voice echoed through the chapel with an edge almost of hysteria. “Twelfth page. The invocation itself is written in no language known to man. Copied down by the hand of Cellini himself as he learned it from the cursed Sicilian priest. I have communicated with each of you individually. I have told you what is necessary according to the diagrams in the grimoire. Is there any man here who dissents? If so, you may leave the circle now.” Jutting paused, scanning the figures who surrounded him.

  Feet shifted nervously. I heard a stifled cough. Jutting waited another thirty seconds. His face was damp with sweat now, shining in the candlelight. A minute went by. No one spoke. Jutting lowered his eyes to the altar, smiling. I looked down too and for the first time noticed that thin red lines had been painted on the boards beneath my feet. They led to the altar, intersecting and continuing—a star inscribed on the floor, points touching the edge of the circle. It took a moment for my malfunctioning brain to remember the word pentacle.

  “We call upon the triple goddess,” Jutting spoke softly, looking up. “Consort of the horned god. Whose name is the plowed field, the three phases of the moon, huntress, mother, witch. We call her in her form as maiden. To consummate the sacred union which births creation. The union of male and female power which opens the gate. Which calls forth and binds the underworld to our will. We call your name. Hecate.”

  “Hecate,” the whispered answer came from the men surrounding me.

  Jutting intoned the name again and again and the robed figures answered him. It seemed to drone on and on. I was unsteady on my feet, feeling hazy. My vision blurred, doubled, sharpened back to hallucinogenic clarity. A smell like freshly turned earth filled the chapel. Gradually I become aware that a figure in white had emerged from the shadows of the transept. Two black robed companions led her toward the circle, carrying censers from which thick, perfumed smoke snaked in sinuous billows. Her face came into focus, emerging from darkness into the red glow of the candles. It was Victoria Butler. She was dressed in a Greek chiton, tied at the waist with gold cord. Her face was blank, emotionless, but she did not seem to be drugged or entranced. She walked forward under her own power. Once inside the circle, she continued forward on her own. As she reached the altar, Jutting stepped back. Victoria faced him, back to the altar for a moment, then lay back. I saw her shiver as her skin touched the cold stone. Jutting stepped forward. Was he really going to…? It was inconceivable. At first I didn’t believe what I was seeing but Ashna’s joke about naked orgiastic sex
rites had not been far off the mark. I stood there, stunned. She was his niece. I considered darting forward, picking the paper from Jutting’s pocket while he was otherwise occupied, and fleeing in the resulting confusion. It was too risky though. I needed a better opportunity.

  Without missing a beat, Jutting began to read from the book. His voice was guttural, spitting out each word. The sound was barbarous—a forgotten or made up language of hard consonants and long vowels. My vision filled with holes, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. Colors shifted and separated. A rational corner of my brain wondered if I had been dosed with some kind of psychedelic. Was it possible? I hadn’t consumed anything. I had hurried into the ritual at the last moment. It had to be the concussion. I swayed, unsteady. The air felt hot and close. I needed to stay alert. The droning of Jutting’s voice continued, reaching a crescendo. I focused my eyes on the altar. I saw his hand reach out, feeling across the stone surface until his fingers found and closed around the handle of the knife. Quickly, he raised it in the air. I followed the path of the knife up, watching the blade glint in the light of the lamp, reflecting a multitude of candle flames. Jutting’s face blurred and I thought I saw, superimposed over his features, some other face even cruder and more cruel than Jutting’s, full of cold hauteur and writhing with blood lust. Above that face, spectral horns curling up, shimmering in the darkness. All at once, I understood what was about to happen. I saw Victoria’s eyes go wide with shock. I fumbled for the stun gun in my pocket and ran forward as the knife flashed toward her throat, describing a golden arc. I was too late. I couldn’t get there in time. Someone else lumbered ahead of me though, already rushing the altar, a bulky shape in black. A second blade flashed silver in the dark—a sword that pierced Jutting at the breast bone, running him through, throwing him back. The knife flew from his grasp and he screamed, an unholy, primeval howl ripping through the darkness. I saw him fall and, standing over him, Lester Dworkin like an avenging angel, bloody sword in hand. Someone ran forward and Dworkin turned, swinging the sword wildly. I dodged, knelt at Jutting’s side and thrust my hand into his left pocket, then his right. The paper was there. He looked up at me in confusion, life draining from his eyes. There was a thunder of feet around me and voices yelling. Jutting tried to speak but his mouth filled with blood which bubbled over, running down his face in a red sheet.