by Stephen Cole
‘It’s a grimoire,’ said Coldhardt. ‘An ancient book of supposedly magical beliefs and practices. The Guan Yin manuscript, to give it its full title.’
‘Guan Yin?’ Patch frowned. ‘Sounds like it came out of a Chinese takeaway.’
‘She is the Chinese goddess of mercy,’ Coldhardt explained patiently, ‘although her origins are in Buddhist mythology. The grimoire depicts her image on its title page.’ He paused. ‘Believed to have been compiled in the fourteenth century, written in an unknown language, the Guan Yin manuscript is said to contain a most precious secret. Something that wise men from Europe to the Orient coveted fiercely. They called it the Bloodline Cipher.’
‘A fourteenth-century code?’ Jonah straightened a little in his seat. ‘Things were just starting to hot up at that time, cipher-wise. The first cryptology manuals were published in 1379, mainly substitution alphabets –’
Motti yawned loudly. ‘Medieval cryptology manuals. Right. Remind me to get them out the library.’
‘Bloodline Cipher?’ Con looked puzzled. ‘What does that even mean – some sort of scrambled family tree?’
‘Maybe it was written by a Buddhist, tracing all his different reincarnations,’ said Motti flippantly. ‘You know, he starts as a bug, becomes a fish, then a cat, then a guy …’
‘Sounds like a real blockbuster,’ said Tye, pulling a face.
‘Whatever the contents, bad luck allegedly dogged the Guan Yin manuscript’s owners over the centuries.’ Coldhardt’s tone warned them the time for joking was past. ‘The book was believed lost for good after a Turkish museum displaying it caught fire in 1867. It is my hope we will know more about its contents after you have stolen it.’
‘It is worth a very good deal, yes?’ asked Con, all but licking her lips.
‘A colossal amount. To me, its worth could be incalculable.’
Jonah shuddered. ‘The woman who killed Budd and Clyde – or whoever sent her – must know its value too.’
‘There must be lots of secrets on Morell’s laptop, surely?’ Tye wondered. ‘We don’t know she was after the same info about how to find this grimoire thing.’
‘Except that Morell practically advertised the information’s existence,’ said Coldhardt drily. ‘He was a learned man but also naive. It seems he stumbled upon the location of this grimoire, and wanted to acquire it for his own collection. It wasn’t for sale – apparently it had been acquired in secret, illegally – so he needed someone to steal it for him. Morell contacted several people – myself included, naturally – to get quotes for the job. I gave him a most reasonable estimate.’
Con smiled. ‘Because if he accepted and told you where the grimoire was, you could steal it yourself, yes?’
Coldhardt returned the smile without warmth. ‘My dear Con, how well you know me.’
‘I still don’t get why anyone should twig he had the info on his laptop,’ Patch complained.
‘From the moment he contacted me, I arranged for him to be watched – and it seems others had him under observation too.’ Coldhardt steepled his fingers. ‘Morell was concerned about sending such compromising emails from his home address for fear they could be traced – either by the police or by … other authorities.’ Again, that wintry smile. ‘He double-encrypted the messages, drove to a hotel with Wi-Fi access and sent them from the car park so they couldn’t be traced back to him.’
Jonah tutted. ‘Piggybacking on someone else’s wireless connection without consent?’
‘Gee, that’s, like, breaking the law,’ Motti deadpanned, and Patch sniggered.
Tye turned to Coldhardt. ‘So was Morell going to give us the job of stealing this grim-thing or not?’
‘No.’ Coldhardt’s eyes narrowed. ‘He intended to take his custom to one of my competitors – Karl Saitou, a competent if unimaginative criminal.’
‘How d’you know what Morell intended to do?’ Tye pressed him.
‘Because Coldhardt got hold of the keys to decrypt the guy’s mail,’ Jonah explained. ‘That’s how come I knew the encrypted files were really from Morell and not tampered with.’
‘And those I have read so far make for very interesting reading,’ said Coldhardt. ‘In any case, before he could give the go-ahead to Saitou and arrange payment, Morell died. His body was too badly charred by the fire that consumed his house to be sure of exactly what killed him.’ Abruptly he slammed his gnarled old fist down on the table, making them all jump. ‘Such a waste.’
Jonah cleared his throat. ‘I suppose you must have known him a long time.’
The old man gave him a withering look. ‘I was referring to his collection.’
Figures, thought Jonah, looking down at his cold coffee. ‘So Saitou won’t steal the grimoire ’cause there’s no cash coming.’
‘Bit of a coincidence that Morell was killed and his house ripped off by kids who happened to torch the place, isn’t it?’ Tye looked around at the others. ‘I mean, nothing suspicious there.’
‘He was into black magic and stuff …’ Patch had lowered his voice. ‘And that creepy manuscript was meant to have burned. Maybe it cursed him.’
‘And maybe your real name is Ass,’ Motti suggested.
‘It must be kids,’ said Con uneasily. ‘That’s why they left all the really valuable things in his house and took the electrical stuff they could sell on quickly, yes?’
‘Some youths have been arrested and charged,’ Coldhardt agreed. ‘But one of them claims they were coerced into committing the crime.’
‘They would, wouldn’t they?’ said Patch. ‘Everyone falls back on that old sob story when they get in bother.’
‘Well, in any case,’ said Jonah, ‘I checked all Morell’s secure files on the flight back, and none of them had been opened or tampered with since composition or sending. So it couldn’t have been one of your competitors who robbed his place, could it?’
Coldhardt waved his hand impatiently. ‘Such speculation is ultimately pointless – we have the laptop, and as Jonah has pointed out its information has not been accessed by anyone before us.’ He glanced at Motti. ‘We should be thankful to Mr Budd. Perhaps I didn’t part with my Mycenaean ring in vain.’
‘Sorry ’bout that.’ Motti took a stab at looking contrite. ‘But with Lady Crossbow on the warpath, smoke and fire and stuff all around …’
‘The house burned to the ground,’ Coldhardt went on thoughtfully. ‘As yet the ring has not been recovered.’
‘Probably pocketed by someone at the site,’ said Con.
But Coldhardt had already moved on, reaching for his multi-remote. The plasma screens flicked on to reveal the output from Coldhardt’s computer – one of Morell’s files, now decrypted.
‘This reveals the precise location of the Guan Yin manuscript,’ Coldhardt announced. ‘You expressed an interest in viewing Jonah’s medieval cryptology books at the library, Motti? Well, the library you’ll be visiting will most likely stock the originals. It belongs to one Professor Dominic Blackland in San Antonio, Texas.’
‘Ride ’em cowboy,’ said Motti wryly.
‘Now, agreed, Morell’s files have remained intact,’ Coldhardt went on. ‘But the fact remains he could well have passed the information to others verbally. I can’t afford delay. I want a workable plan delivered by this evening, and the Guan Yin manuscript stolen tomorrow tonight.’
Tye must have decided it was ‘state the obvious’ time: ‘That doesn’t give us long to work things out,’ she began falteringly, ‘I mean –’
‘I do not have long,’ Coldhardt said flatly. Jonah wondered what he meant by that, but it was anyone’s guess. ‘And remember, all of you – that manuscript is of paramount importance to me. Take no chances with its welfare. I must have it intact – damaged it is of no use to me …’
Jonah swapped the briefest of looks with the others, then dutifully studied the screens as they were. But his mind was crowding with images of fire – consuming Clyde’s body, engulfing Morell’s house
, spreading through the silent rooms of some old and musty museum. A book of dark magic, followed by bad luck and flames?
Coincidence, he told himself, swallowing hard. Too corny to be true.
‘We’re coming to get you, grimoire,’ he heard Patch mutter gloomily. ‘Is that your owner’s bad luck … or ours?’
Twenty minutes later, Jonah led the way out of the hub, blinking in the sunshine, heading for the hangout. He felt completely washed out, and the strong coffee had left his head buzzing like a dud transformer.
‘Tomorrow we could all die,’ Con announced. ‘Let’s have a picnic.’
‘Let’s have sex!’ Patch suggested.
‘Before or after we eat the picnic, stud?’ Tye teased him.
‘The one-eyed monster and his one-eyed monster.’ Motti held his stomach. ‘Suddenly I lost my appetite.’
‘I wish I lost my virginity,’ said Patch wistfully.
Jonah smiled. ‘Shouldn’t you wait till you hit puberty?’
‘What would you know, geek,’ Motti shot back. ‘You’re still waiting!’
‘Ha!’ Patch raised his knuckles and Motti knocked his own against them. ‘What would I do if I didn’t have you to make my wisecracks for me? You are officially not allowed to get cursed by this book and die.’
Motti’s mood turned on a sixpence. ‘Just quit with the curse stuff, mutant, OK?’ he snarled, walking ahead. ‘I hate that hokey crap.’
‘Thus endeth the banter,’ said Jonah, shooting a look at Motti as he passed. ‘But I suppose if I’d lost an incredibly precious ancient ring I’d be in a bad mood too.’
Motti wouldn’t be drawn beyond a grunt and a glare. But just as they both reached the door to the hangout, Con slipped ahead of them and blocked their way.
‘I mean it,’ she said again. ‘About the picnic. Let’s all cut out for a few hours.’
Tye frowned. ‘Did you miss the bit where Coldhardt told us to work out how we break into a fort by tonight?’
‘No wonder poor old Morell had to cast about for cheap quotes for this job.’ Jonah sighed. ‘I mean … what the hell is this guy doing with his own fortress? Why can’t he own a bungalow?’
‘Everything’s bigger and better in Texas,’ said Motti moodily.
Patch looked up at Tye. ‘How long is the flight going to be?’
‘Too long,’ she answered. ‘Maybe a bit of fresh air today wouldn’t be so bad.’
‘Good.’ Con smiled, looking pleased to have got her own way as ever. ‘We could go to le Salève.’
‘And have a go on the cable car! Sweet.’ Patch nodded. ‘Tell you what, I’ll make us all some of my trademark super-stuffed sandwiches!’
Motti grunted. ‘I just lost my appetite again.’
Two hours later, Tye sat in the back of her silver BMW Hydrogen 7 with Patch and Motti. Jonah was up front with Con – he’d got his wish for a drive in the country, but she guessed it was a little less cosy than the one he’d had in mind. Con refused point blank ever to travel in the back seat – it gave her panic attacks so severe she flipped out; her parents had died in a car crash when she was a little girl, and she’d been trapped in the car with their corpses for hours before she could be cut free. Maybe it wasn’t so weird that Con had grown up determined to keep the world at a distance, Tye decided, or that her closest relationship was with her Swiss bank account.
Tye winced as an unexpected gear change sent the car lurching forward.
‘Jeez, Jonah,’ Motti complained, ‘could you pick a gear and stay there? A ninth grader on his first jump gives a better ride than you.’
‘Well, you’d know,’ Jonah retorted over the frustrated roar of the engine.
‘This is the last time I lend you my car,’ Tye promised. ‘I know you’ve got to practise, but …’
‘At least you get a break this way, Tye, no?’ Con pointed out. ‘You’re always having to drive us.’
‘And please, God, you always will,’ Motti muttered.
Tye smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘Just ’cause I’m the only one responsible enough to buy a saloon while the rest of you get sports cars.’
‘Got my image to think about, haven’t I?’ said Patch, thumbs hammering at his gloss silver Nintendo DS Lite. ‘God, I feel sick. I think I’m gonna be.’
‘Big surprise,’ said Jonah, hitting the rear electric windows to give him air.
‘Throw up in here and you die,’ Tye warned him.
‘On the other hand,’ said Motti, ‘throw up in your sandwiches and no one will know the difference.’
‘Scenic stop ahead,’ Con announced, indicating a layby where travellers could pull in and admire the view. Even before Jonah brought the car to a halt, Patch threw open the door and chucked his breakfast after it. Noisily.
‘Uh-huh.’ Motti smirked as he helped Tye out of the car. ‘He’s got his image to think about.’
They set off up the hillside with a coolbox packed with booze, a rucksack jammed fuller than a restaurant’s fridge, and a couple of briefcases filled with the notes, maps and papers that would help them plan the heist. None of them spoke as they meandered along in the sunshine, enjoying the summer sunshine and the breeze. Tye looked at a map of Texas, figuring out their route, the transport and clearances they’d need – transporting them there and back in one piece. She looked wistfully over at Lake Geneva far below, a vast pool of blue hemmed in by trees and buildings like sentries guarding its depths in their hundreds.
‘Here’s as good as anywhere,’ Con decided, sitting down on a small plateau halfway up a hillside.
Patch dropped his rucksack and set about removing the food. ‘As her ladyship commands.’ Con grabbed a chicken leg and bit into it hungrily.
‘Route-wise,’ said Tye, ‘to keep a low profile I think I’ll fly us into the tiny airport at San Angelo and take a hire car down to San Antonio. Should take us three, maybe four hours on the interstate.’
‘Or twelve if Jonah’s driving,’ Motti put in.
‘Ha, ha,’ said Jonah. ‘And what do we find when we get there? What’s the dirt on Blackland?’
‘Coldhardt gave me his file.’ Motti cracked open a beer. ‘Blackland’s from a rich family, Texan to the T-bone. Had his own fort built from scratch in honour of his ancestors who fought in the Texas War of Independence.’
‘Sweet,’ said Patch, hefting a huge, clumsily cut sandwich with chutney oozing out of it. ‘So Blackland don’t need to work, he just sits on his bum reading weird old books all day, is that it?’
Motti shook his head. ‘Daddy was big in the oil biz, but Blackland prefers digging other shit out the ground.’
Con hazarded a translation. ‘An archaeologist?’
‘All nice and respectable on the surface. But Coldhardt reckons he’s more of a tomb raider on the sly. Not declaring all his finds and smuggling them off to his stronghold.’
‘Just how fortressy is Blackland’s place?’ Tye asked, hunkering down. ‘I mean, it’s not like we’re going to be storming the Alamo, right?’
Motti pulled a face. ‘Can’t promise you Mexican bandits, but we’ll have a small security force in the grounds to take care of.’
Jonah nodded. ‘I hacked into Blackland’s bank account, found the firm supplying his security and checked out what he’s bought from them. Afraid the rest of that fort’s defences are a little more high-tech than men with old rifles wearing racoons on their head.’
Motti took a big swig from his beer bottle. ‘Don’t diss my heritage, geek.’
‘So what shouldn’t we know about this place?’ asked Patch.
‘I’ll come to that,’ said Motti. ‘But once we’re past security, biggest problem we might run into is that every book in Blackland’s library has been fitted with long-range active RFID tags, our target included.’
Tye frowned. ‘What tags?’
‘Radio Frequency Identification,’ Jonah clarified, as Motti passed him a picture of the house. ‘Kind of like barcodes with go-faster stripes. Indu
ctively powered chips that transmit all kinds of information using radio waves.’
‘Including their location?’ Con wondered.
‘Yep.’ Jonah lowered the picture. ‘And it looks like Blackland’s got high-gain antennae to keep tabs.’
‘So even if we can make it away with the manuscript,’ said Patch, spitting sandwich everywhere as he spoke, ‘its little tag’s gonna be shouting for help.’
Motti nodded. ‘And an aerial like that could track it a hell of a way.’
‘Can’t we take it out?’ asked Tye. ‘I mean, if it’s a tag –’
Jonah shook his head. ‘They can be as small as half a millimetre and thin as a piece of paper. A tag’ll take time to find – time we may not have. But maybe if we make a conductive foil box to damp the tag’s signal …’
The five of them planned and ate and drank all afternoon, discussing the problems they would face, throwing thoughts and doubts and suggestions at each other. And as the plans began to crystallise, Tye felt a twisted surge of pride. All our lives we struggled to be something, to be taken seriously. And look at us now. We can do this. And since Blackland had most likely got hold of this manuscript illegally, it seemed only fair that he should lose it in the same way …
While Patch helped Motti type up their proposals to show Coldhardt, she and Jonah busied themselves packing up the remains of their feast and Con went off to bin the empties. Then a thought hit Tye with a prick of sudden coldness: It won’t always be like this. She’d had so little stability in her life, and yet this last year, since Jonah was recruited … Even if he did her head in sometimes, with him around it felt like a proper balance had been reached in the group.
I want to keep hold of today, Tye thought, with the wide-open blue sky and good tastes on her lips and a safe bed waiting back home when she was ready. Tomorrow they would be rushing headlong into risk and danger. All that certainty would be gone.
Tye looked out again over the city’s stone sentries massed amid the trees beside the lake, trying to picture the landscape as once it had been, remembering the wild sweep of the Léogane mountains she had played on as a child before her mum left and her world fell apart. The only thing that stays the same, she thought, is that everything must change.