As soon as she’d seen Alec walking to the door, she’d realized Simon must have asked him to come. Her stepfather must have thought that Frank had passed on information to Alec, and as it turned out, he had been right. Earlier that evening, when Alec had told her about the coded message in the tulip book, it had been hard for her to keep silent. She’d wanted to cry out that she knew what the message would say. It would point them to the bulb of the Semper Augustus, the most valuable tulip in seventeenth-century Europe, the most exquisite tulip of all time. Even now, some people claimed that it had never really existed. They saw it as the holy grail of tulips, the embodiment of flawless beauty, an abstraction that no one could ever possess.
She knew better. The Semper Augustus was real. Frank had found it and selected her to bring the flower back to life. But he had hidden the bulb until they were ready to use it, and now nobody knew where to find it. Frank had been after the money that the new Semper Augustus would raise for the Fund, but Tara couldn’t care less about that. The only thing that mattered to her was the fame, the recognition that the experiment would bring her.
Two floors below, Damian looked at the papers stacked on the floor of the living room. On top of each stack was a sheet of paper with a year written on it.
“Emma, right?”
Alec nodded. “You know what she’s like,” he said and set to work.
Looking at his friend, Damian realized how much he didn’t know. He’d always thought Emma would raise the subject, and he had wanted to give her the chance to confess. But as the years went by, he felt less and less confident that she would. He could remember the scene as if it were yesterday. He’d returned home one night, earlier than usual, from a trip to France to buy antiques. Alec had arrived in Amsterdam the day before and was staying with them. In the front hall, Damian had called their names, but no one answered. Halfway up the stairs, it occurred to him that they’d probably gone to a restaurant for dinner and were still out on the town somewhere. But when he called out again to double-check, Emma came rushing downstairs. As soon as he saw her, he knew. A thousand things seemed to give it away: her flushed face, her tousled hair, and most of all, the nervous look as her eyes met his. She kissed him and lowered her head.
“Em?”
Without a word, she turned away and went back upstairs. Since that night, they had never discussed it.
Damian took another look at Alec, who was rifling through the papers. Ever since their school days, everyone had said how different the two boys were— Damian calm and deliberate while Alec was brash and impulsive. Sometimes he felt that he had adapted to those expectations, that his personality had been shaped by others and now was set in stone. But these days, Damian’s caution was working against him, and his instincts felt sharper than ever. Frank’s death seemed to have jolted him awake.
Unless he talked to Emma about that evening, he would never know for sure. But did he really want to know? It wouldn’t change the way he felt about her, or would it? And if it would, was he willing to take the risk? He could choose to share the rest of his life with a woman who was dreaming of another man. Damian’s parents had set a bad example— his father had grappled with exactly the same dilemma. In the end, he had decided to confront his wife, and they had separated soon after.
For the first time in his life, Damian was truly scared. Scared that when the bomb went off, it would destroy the precarious balance that he and Emma had found and sweep away everything that mattered to him. But was the status quo really so wonderful? Or was he so obsessed with perfection that he went around pretending everything was perfect and under control? If so, he was only fooling himself, and it was time to stop.
“Alec,” he said, “I . . . um . . . I want to ask you something. I . . .”
“Damian, she’s holding something back.”
“Emma?’
Alec looked startled. “No, not Emma. What gave you that idea? I’m talking about Tara.”
“Oh, right. What do you mean?”
“Before Emma showed Tara to her room, she pulled this out of Frank’s papers. She told me she’d thought of it as soon as she heard Tara’s last name. Here, take a look, it was sent in two thousand five.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: to be continued
Just a quick update: I’m still working hard to scrape the money together. Don’t worry, though, I’m sure we’ll find it somewhere. I realize you’re eager to get started, but you’ll have to be patient. Please continue with the preparations, so we can get faster results later. As you know, time is of the essence.
Warm regards,
Frank
Damian looked up. “I had no idea Tara and Frank were in touch in the first place, let alone that they were working together so closely.”
“No, neither did I.”
“What do you think they needed the money for?”
“I don’t know. It sounds as though she needed it fast. Damian, suppose she was losing patience, for what ever reason, and decided to put pressure on Frank?”
“You think she was responsible for Frank’s death? How would she stand to benefit?”
“And who would you say did stand to benefit?”
“Well, he left all that money to science. But Tara just explained to us why he did that. How does she fit into the story?”
“I don’t know,” Alec said. “Let’s have another look at that e-mail.”
He read it one more time, carefully, and said, “Tara’s domain name— alab—do you have any idea what it stands for?”
A minute later they were seated at the computer together, staring at the screen.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Damian nodded. “She must be involved somehow. This can’t be a coincidence.”
Alec read aloud: “‘The Ancient DNA Laboratory specializes in isolating genetic material from extinct organisms, fossils, and ancient skeletal remains.’” He pointed at the screen, “Click on Organization.”
They saw it right away. Heading the list of sponsors was the Science Capital Fund.
“Bingo.” Alec printed out the Web page and tucked it into his pocket. “The question is what she’s not telling us. And why she never mentioned her connection to Frank.”
“It pisses me off,” Damian said. “She’s lying straight to our faces.”
“But maybe this is the breakthrough we’ve been hoping for,” Alec said. “We’ll find out soon enough. She’d better have an awfully good reason for not telling us about it.”
Damian nodded.
“So what was it you wanted to ask me?” Alec said.
“Oh. Uh . . . nothing. Forget about it.”
As Damian was getting into bed, Emma opened her eyes.
“Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping yet, just lying awake thinking.”
“About what?”
“About us, and how happy I am to be with you.”
Damian turned to face her and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. “Really?” When she gave him a puzzled look, he said, “I know what happened, Em, between you and Alec.”
Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip started to tremble. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “but I had no choice, it had to happen sometime. Do you understand?”
Damian sat up. Now that he had heard it from her mouth, he was more shocked than he had anticipated.
“To be honest, I don’t. How many times did it happen?”
Emma threw off the covers and rose to her knees on the bed. Holding out her hands, she said, “Just once. I swear, Damian, it was just that one time.”
He looked at her. “And now?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? What are your feelings for him now?”
“I’m crazy about Alec, you know I am. I always have been. But I married you.”
Damian climbed out of bed and looked her straig
ht in the face. “The question is, why? Because Alec wasn’t ready? Because he had to sow his wild oats? Is that it?”
Emma slid off the bed, wrapping her arms around his waist and gazing up at him. “It’s simple, Damian. I married you because I love you. Obviously I should have brought this up earlier, instead of waiting for you to mention it. Alec and I thought you knew—”
“And you were right.”
“—so we figured you understood that it would never happen again. Damian, maybe I shouldn’t say this to you, but Alec and I should have slept together a lot sooner. Then we could have put it behind us, and this would never have happened while we were married.”
He spun away from her and headed for the bathroom. He pulled the door shut and leaned his forehead against the cool wood. He thought about slamming his fist into the door but stopped and let his arm fall to his side. He’d thought he had accepted the situation, come to terms with it, but Emma’s words felt like a slap in the face.
Was this what he wanted? To share his life with someone who’d betrayed his trust? His stomach cramped with pain and nausea. He went to the sink and turned on the faucet. The cold water burned against his face.
FORTY-THREE
“And?” Wainwright asked, as Dawn walked into his office. “Did you find anything else on those tapes yesterday?”
“Good morning to you too, sir. Yes, I found something. I just don’t know whether it means anything.”
“Go on.”
“I printed it.” She put the stills on his desk. “Here, have a look.”
After a few seconds, Wainwright said, “I see a man writing in the condolence book. What about it?”
“Do you see anyone else in the picture?”
Wainwright shook his head.
“Now take a look at this one.”
She laid a second photo over the first.
“Okay, there’s a crowd of people in this one,” Wainwright said. “So he was there twice.”
“Exactly. He wrote in the book once, then came back and wrote in it again when everyone else was long gone.”
“And do we have this condolence register?”
Dawn shook her head. “I assume Alec Schoeller has it.”
“Bugger, we should have taken it with us. Who is this man, anyway?”
“His name is Simon Versteegen,” she said, doing her best to imitate the guttural g that Simon had used when he gave his name at the funeral.
“Never heard of him. Williams, why don’t you get in touch with your friends in the Dutch police? Ask if they know anything about him. Don’t make too much of it— it’s probably nothing, but it’s all we have to go on. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and find our first real lead.”
“We know he had been holding a book with gold leaf.”
“Did you happen to look at his bookshelves while we were there? There was gold leaf on more than half of those books, either along the edges or on the binding. That’s no use to us.”
Dawn flipped through her Rolodex and picked up the phone.
At that very moment, on the other side of the North Sea, Ben van Dongen was pulling the rubber band off his lunch box. He lifted the lid and moaned, “Oh no, not again,” at the sight of the Nutella sandwiches and mandarin orange. His little boy would soon be making the same face at the sight of his father’s liverwurst on brown bread. Ben picked up one of the sandwiches and took a deep breath. Just as he was about to take his first sugary bite, the telephone rang. He licked the stray Nutella off his fingers and picked it up.
“Van Dongen.”
“Hi, Ben, this is Dawn Williams at Scotland Yard.”
Two years ago they had met at an international conference on crime fighting. They’d hit it off right away and spent most of the two-day event in each other’s company. Since then, they had exchanged a few e-mails, but it had been several months since the last message.
“Dawn, how are you? Great to hear from you. It’s been awhile. How’s life in rainy England?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How are things with you?”
“Can’t complain. Are you still working for Wainwright?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s a good man— difficult sometimes, but sharp, very sharp. I read an article about him recently, when you caught the serial killer. Good job, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“But I suppose you’re not just calling to catch up. Is there anything I can do for you? Are you still working on the Schoeller case?”
“Yes, actually that’s what I’m calling about. The investigation is still in progress, and I have a question for you. There’s a Dutchman we’re looking into, and we’re wondering if you’ve ever heard of him.”
“What’s the name?”
“Simon Versteegen. Does it ring any bells?”
The line went silent. She was on to something, she could tell. She put Ben on speaker and reached for a pen and paper.
“Simon Versteegen. Yes, I know the name. Why do you ask?” In the background, she could hear him rattling away on his keyboard.
Come on, Ben, don’t hold out on me now, Dawn thought. “He was at Schoeller’s funeral.”
“So they knew each other?” He sounded excited.
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“Would you be so kind as to tell me what’s going on? Where did you hear his name? Have you talked to him?”
“Uh, no, not exactly. They found him at his home yesterday, murdered. I just got the report.”
“Yes,” Dawn hissed under her breath. Then she asked, “Did you find him? Did you see him?”
“No, it wasn’t in my district. So you’re telling me Schoeller and Versteegen knew each other? If you’ll send me the report on Schoeller, then I can—”
“Whoa, Ben, not so fast. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. How was Versteegen killed?’
“Hold on a sec, I’ll open the file. Let me see, where was it? Okay. His head was smashed in.”
“Was he tortured?”
“Tortured? I don’t know, I’ll have to ask. Wait, I’ll just skim through the report . . .”
After a few seconds he said, “I don’t see anything about torture here, though the killer really did a job on his cranium. But anyway, this isn’t the final version.”
“I want to see it.”
“You want to see what?”
“The body, the photos of the crime scene, everything.”
“Wow, that’s a tall order. I’ll have to talk to the rest of the squad— it’ll take some time.”
“The two murders are related, Ben. I’m sure of it. This can’t be a coincidence. If we want to solve the crime, we have to find the connection between the two men. To start with, I need to know exactly how Versteegen was killed, and I mean exactly.”
“Hmm.”
“How about this. I’ll take the next flight over and bring our report with me. In the meantime, you can make what ever arrangements you need to make so that I can look at your information. And remember, I need to see the body too. Is that a deal? I’ll call you back as soon as I know my arrival time.”
Before Ben could start protesting, Dawn hung up. Ben sighed, scrolled through the numbers in his cell phone, and pressed a button.
“Hague Police Department, Nieveld speaking.”
“Good morning, Felix, this is Ben. Everything okay there? Good. Listen, I’m going to need your help.”
FORTY-FOUR
Damian slid a cup under the espresso spigot. He had woken up at five thirty, his conversation with Emma still echoing in his mind, making it impossible for him to get back to sleep.
Her admission that she had slept with Alec had rattled Damian much more than he’d expected. He’d been sitting in his study for three hours already, looking through auction catalogs for interesting antiques. That had kept him busy for a while. As he stood in the kitchen, his cell phone rang, and he quickly returned to his study to pick it up.
“Hello, Mr. Vanlint, this is J
acob Wolters.”
“Good morning, Mr. Wolters. You’re at work early today.”
“Yes, I wanted to get back to you as soon as possible about the progress we’ve made.”
“You figured out the code?”
“Well, no, not exactly. We have managed to confirm that the manuscript is authentic. The paper and the handwriting both date from the seventeenth century, no doubt about it. I also showed it to our cryptographer. The good news is that we now know for sure what type of code we’re dealing with.”
“That certainly sounds like good news. What type is it?”
“It’s a Vigenère cipher. Of course, that’s also the bad news.”
An awkward silence followed.
“Sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me? Why is it bad news?” Damian asked.
“Ah, right, I thought you might have heard of it. It’s a fairly well-known encryption method, invented about four hundred years ago by Giovanni Batista Belaso. For a long time it was absolutely unbreakable, but these days we know how it works. It’s a fairly straightforward system.”
“And . . . ?”
“The problem is, Mr. Vanlint, the message can be deciphered only with the help of a key, a code word, and we don’t know what that word is.”
Damian’s heart sank. Alec was right. Every time they thought they’d come a little closer, they found themselves right back where they’d started. Every flash of insight revealed a new problem.
Noticing Alec in the doorway, Damian motioned to him to come closer. Pointing at the cell phone, he mouthed, “Wolters.” Then he put the phone on speaker and wrote “Vigenère cipher” on a slip of paper that he pushed toward Alec.
“So without that word, there’s no way to crack the code?” As Damian spoke to Wolters, he looked up at Alec and shook his head.
“No way whatsoever. The Vigenère cipher uses polyalphabetic substitution. That means you use a tabula recta— a square table of alphabets— to replace the letters. It’s a kind of table— each row is a complete alphabet, but the alphabet keeps shifting forward, one letter at a time.”
The Tulip Virus Page 17