The Magdalene Cipher

by Jim Hougan

  On the other hand, Dunphy thought, why should they be? Jersey was an island, which meant that there were only two ways to leave—by boat and by plane. So there was no need, really, to follow him on Jersey itself. All Blémont had to do was to watch the airport and the docks. If he did that, he’d know exactly where Dunphy was going and when he’d get there.

  And that would make the surveillance hard to spot. There might be someone on the ferry with him—or there might not. If they preferred, they could pick him up when he debarked at Saint-Malo. In either case, he wouldn’t be alone. Dunphy was sure of that.

  So when the ferry arrived at Saint-Malo, Dunphy made it a point to be the last man off. Standing beside the gangplank, he scanned the docks for what he thought would be a two-man team. But it was impossible to sort the people out. There were customs officials and tourists, businessmen and housewives, shop girls and workmen. Any one of them might have been working for Blémont—or none of them.

  Leaning against the deck rail of the Emeraude Lines ferry, it occurred to Dunphy that Blémont’s reaction time might not be all that good. The Frenchman traveled a lot, and he might easily have been abroad when the call came from Jersey, reporting Thornley’s arrival at the Banque Privat. In that case, Blémont would have arranged for Dunphy to be tailed until he himself could get to the scene. Blémont was, if anything, a hands-on guy and, no doubt, would want to handle the interrogation personally.

  Still, there wasn’t any choice. If Dunphy remained where he was, standing on deck, he’d soon find himself on his way back to Jersey. After six or seven trips like that, they’d slap him in the bin, and that would be the end of that. Accordingly, he took a deep breath, stood up, and straightened his shoulders. Then he sauntered down the gangplank with his bag full of money, shook off a choir of taxi drivers, and wandered into the port.

  The air was cold and damp, but the port was lively, its restaurants brightly lighted, packed with people, and fragrant with garlic and olive oil. Hungry, he bought some francs at a bureau de change, then stopped at a kiosk for something to read. Though the Herald Tribune was available, he settled for Le Point, not wanting to seem conspicuously American. Finally, he picked a restaurant and found a table that was agreeable—one where he could sit with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door.

  No one.

  Beginning to think that perhaps he had not been followed after all, he ordered a bowl of cotriade a—a sort of chowder—and a tall glass of Belgian beer. Then he leafed through Le Point. Although his spoken French was clumsy, at best, he could read it well enough, and soon found a story that interested him. It was a think piece about the Middle East peace talks, highlighting the CIA’s role in negotiations between the Palestinians and the Israelis. According to the article, a key sticking point had been the question of Jewish access to the Temple Mount. This was said to be “the spiritual epicenter of Israel,” a Jerusalem hill on which the First and Second Temples had been built. It was purported to be the last resting place of the Ark of the Covenant, and the predestined spot where the Third, and last, Temple would one day be constructed.

  But only, as it happened, over the dead bodies of a great many Arabs, who’d worshipped for centuries at the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque—each of which stood upon the same hill (and, in fact, upon the ruins of the earlier Temples), and were themselves among the most sacred sites in Islam. Israeli officials, fearful that pious Jews would spark unending riots if they tried to worship on the Temple Mount, had made it unlawful for Jews to pray there. Now, Israeli negotiators and their CIA helpmates were seeking Arafat’s assistance in getting equal time for Jewish prayer on the Mount.

  It was an interesting story, and somehow tied up with Biblical prophecies about the end of the world—which Scripture declared would occur when the Third Temple was finally built. Funny to think, Dunphy thought, that the CIA should be involved in eschatology. But, then again, why not? If Brading had been telling the truth, the Agency was into a lot of strange things.

  Once again, Dunphy glanced up from his magazine and scanned the room. There was a man at the bar who’d been on the boat. He was maybe thirty-five or forty years old, with platinum hair, a medium build, and acne scars. Loden coat with staghorn buttons. Smoking. Dunphy couldn’t quite see his face, but his hair was unforgettable. No mistake.

  And the young couple at the table by the door. Dunphy had seen them on the dock in St. Helier, buying their tickets. They must have come into the restaurant while he was reading.

  But so what? Everyone had to eat somewhere—even Blondie. That didn’t mean they were following him.

  Still, he wished he had a gun. After kneecapping Curry and ripping off Blémont, getting strapped would not be an overreaction. Especially since he was walking around with nearly half a million dollars in cash—motive enough for a lot of people to take him out, including a great many who didn’t even know him, much less hold a grudge against him.

  But first things first. The cotriade was terrific. He wiped the bowl with a crust of bread and washed it down with a second glass of Corsendonk, a supernaturally expensive Belgian ale made by monks for millionaires. Finally, he had an espresso and smoked a cigarette as he tried to decide whether or not he could risk renting a hotel room. He’d checked the SNCF schedules on Jersey, and there was a bullet train leaving Saint-Malo for Paris in about an hour. Once he got to Paris, it would be easy to get to Zürich—a place he knew well. There, he could rent a safe-deposit box and stash the money he was carrying.

  Or . . .

  He could defer the trip and get a good night’s sleep—find a hotel, wedge a chair against the door, and . . . chill. The idea was tempting. He’d picked up a cold on the way to Saint-Malo, and it was beginning to get to him. A night in the Hotel de Ville, with the prospect of a hot bath and cool sheets, would be just the thing.

  But hotels were a problem and would continue to be until he could get a new passport. Wherever he stayed, they’d want an imprint of his credit card—to guarantee phone calls and other charges to the room. And while the hotel would promise to destroy the invoice without processing it, they sometimes made mistakes—which, in this case, could be fatal rather than merely inconvenient. Moreover, if he got a hotel room, he’d have to fill out a registration card, which the police would pick up later that night. Usually, the cards were sorted in the early morning hours, with the cops checking the names of guests against whichever lookout lists were then current. And while it was true that the police were sometimes lax, it was always a mistake to depend on the other side’s incompetence. After all, even a stopped clock was right twice a day.

  Wiser, then, to catch the train and spend the night on the rails, rocking his way toward Switzerland.

  Reluctantly, Dunphy pushed back his chair. Getting to his feet, he left some francs on the table with the check and, asking the way, walked to the train station in a cold drizzle. An hour later, he was sneezing in a first-class seat on the TGV Atlantique, speeding through Normandy at two hundred klicks an hour.

  As fast as the train went, it still took all night to get to Zürich. Stuck with a two-hour layover in the gritty Gare de l’Est, Dunphy bought a phone card in a late-night kiosk and telephoned Max Setyaev in Prague. The phone rang five or six times before a sleep-drenched voice came on the line.

  “Hallo?”

  “Genevieve, s’il vous plait.”

  “Hoo?”

  “Genevieve,” Dunphy repeated, suddenly apprehensive that Max might have forgotten their arrangement or, worse, that he would try to ham it up by engaging him in conversation.

  But to Dunphy’s relief, the Russian muttered an imprecation in a language that Dunphy didn’t understand, then slammed the phone down in its cradle—just as he was supposed to do. If anyone was listening, the conversation would not have been worth reporting.

  Replacing the phone on its hook, Dunphy turned—and there he was again, the blond guy who’d been on the ferry (maybe), and in the restaurant at Saint-Malo (definitely
). He was seated on a wooden bench, maybe twenty yards away, smoking.

  What are the odds? Dunphy asked himself. What are the odds that it’s a coincidence? That two people who don’t know each other would take the same ferry from Jersey on the same day, and then catch the same train to Paris that evening? What are the odds?

  Well, actually, he thought, they’re pretty good. I think they call it ‘public transportation.’ Still . . .

  Mechanical difficulties kept them on a siding outside Dijon for nearly two hours. Dunphy slept fitfully through the repairs, but as soon as the train got going again, he sank into a sleep so deep it might have been confused with a coma. When they neared the Swiss border, a Customs official appeared and asked to see his passport, then waved it aside when he realized that Dunphy was an American.

  By then, his cold was worse. Somewhere in the night, between Paris and the border, it had taken hold in his chest, raising his temperature just enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Neither sick nor well, but somewhere in between, he felt played out—as if he hadn’t slept for days. (Which, now that he thought of it, he hadn’t.)

  Debarking from the train at Zürich, he headed for the exit closest to the Bahnhofstrasse.

  It was familiar turf. He’d been to Zürich a dozen times before, and the station was just as he remembered it—a huge volume of dimly lighted air, more outside than in, suffused with winter. Woozy from the cold that he had, and shivering from the cold all around him, he was tempted to take a seat in one of the station’s brightly lighted cafés, where the windows ran with steam and the air was spiked with the aromas of pastry and espresso.

  But sitting down would not be a good idea. Though Blondie was nowhere to be seen, Zürich’s Bahnhof a was itself a rumpus room for German junkies and Dutch drunks, African grifters and the ever-present Legions of the Lost—hippies, hikers, headbangers, and Goths. Better to move on with his briefcase full of cash.

  Outside, a light snow swirled in gusts of wind. It was a lot colder here than on Jersey or in Saint-Malo, and he could feel it in his hands and feet. Leaning into the weather, he pulled the collar of his topcoat close to his neck and made his way along Switzerland’s most glamorous street. Soon, he found a branch of the Credit Suisse and, ten minutes later, was standing by himself in a locked room, stacking bundles of pounds in a dark steel box that rented for thirty-five Swiss francs a month.

  When he’d finished with the money, he left the bank and headed for the Zum Storchen, feeling considerably lighter—though hardly weightless. He still had fifty thousand pounds in the attaché case, enough to pay Max and keep going for as long as he had to. And that could be a while. Despite all that had happened, and all that he’d learned, he still didn’t know why Schidlof had been killed, or why his own life had suffered so much collateral damage on the periphery of that murder. When you thought about it, all he’d done was ruin his life and put everyone he knew in danger.

  Well, not really. It wasn’t all that bad. He was being too modest. He had also managed to rip off Blémont and kneecap Curry—which was, if nothing else, a beginning.

  Old Zürich was a cluster of narrow, cobbled streets and stone buildings on a hill above the ice-cold, dead-black, and utterly transparent Limmat River. The snow was a little heavier now as Dunphy made his way down the hill toward the Zum Storchen. It sifted from the sky like flour, stuck to his eyelashes, and blanketed the hair on his head. Melting, it ran under the collar of his topcoat and down the nape of his neck, chilling him to the marrow. Arriving at the river, he stood for a moment on the embankment and watched the swans float past, oblivious to both the cold and falling snow.

  Unlike Dunphy himself who, coughing, stopped in a men’s store to buy a pair of leather gloves and a scarf, only to be given a bill that seemed to have an extra 0. Not that it mattered. Money was the least of his problems. Returning to the quay, he walked the last two blocks to the Zum Storchen, crossed the hotel’s frozen terrace, and went inside.

  Hard by the river in the shadow of an ancient and enormous clock tower, the Zum Storchen had been in continuous operation for more than six hundred years. Passing a roaring fire as he crossed the lobby to the reception desk, Dunphy asked if a Mr. Setyaev had arrived.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “When he gets in, would you tell him that his friend is in the restaurant?”

  “Of course.”

  He’d been ready to sit for hours, watching the river and drinking coffee, but the Russian was on the scene before Dunphy could finish his second croissant.

  “You look like shit,” Max said by way of greeting.

  “Thanks, Max. You’re looking well yourself. Have a seat.”

  The Russian dropped into the chair across from him. “What I have done for you,” he whispered, “could not have been done by any other man.”

  “Then I guess I went to the right guy.”

  “You bet,” he said. And with that, Max nudged a manila envelope across the table and reached for the check. “I’ll get this,” he said, scrutinizing the bill.

  “Really?” Dunphy exclaimed. “The coffee and the croissants?”

  The Russian nodded, mostly to himself, and muttered, “Mr. Smart-ass.” Then he took a pen from his pocket and scrawled a room number on the check. “Let’s go,” he said, getting to his feet. “We can do business upstairs.”

  Dunphy rode with him in the elevator to the hotel’s fifth, and uppermost, floor. The suite was at the end of the corridor, with windows overlooking both the river and the lake. Inside, Max’s overnight bag rested on the carpet below the window, unopened.

  “I’m whacked,” Dunphy said, as he fell into a wing chair.

  “What’s wrong?” Max asked.

  “I’ve got a cold.”

  “So, we finish business . . . I go home . . . you keep room. Get sleep.”

  “I think I will,” Dunphy replied. “I’m really out of it.”

  The Russian removed a manila envelope from his overnight bag, tore it open, and dumped its contents on the coffee table between them. There were a couple of credit cards, a driver’s license, and a passport. Dunphy opened the passport, checked the picture, and glanced at the name. “Very nice,” he said, then did a double take. “Harrison Pitt!?”

  Max beamed. “Is good name, huh?”

  “Good name? What kind of fucking name—”

  “Is American name! True blue!”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t know anyone named Harrison.”

  “No, of course not. In Ireland, this is not popular name. In Canada—America—there are many, many Harrisons.”

  “Name one.”

  Instantly, the Russian replied, “Ford.”

  It took a moment for the suspicion to dawn. “And Pitt?”

  “There is also Brad Pitt,” Max replied. “And this is just movie stars. Many average Americans have these names.”

  Dunphy sighed. “Right. So what about the other stuff?”

  Max removed a letter-sized envelope from his jacket and handed it to Dunphy, who ripped it open.

  A laminated Andromeda pass fell into his lap. In the upper left-hand corner was the hologram, a rainbow image of the black Virgin of Einsiedeln; and at the bottom, on the right side, a thumbprint. Dunphy’s own picture was in the middle of the pass, under the words:

  MK-IMAGE

  Special Access Program

  E. Brading

  *ANDROMEDA*

  “Well done, man! It’s very, very good.”

  The Russian looked insulted. “No! Is perfect.”

  “My words exactly! And the thumbprint? What have we done about that?”

  Max unzipped the outside compartment of his overnight bag and removed a hardbound copy of Nabokov’s Ada, or Ardor. “Voilà,” he said, and handed the book to Dunphy.

  “What do I do with it?”

  “Hold it,” the Russian said. Then, returning to his overnight bag, he worked the main zipper and removed a small leather case from the bag’s central compartment. In
side the case were a jumble of toiletries—toothpaste, toothbrush, disposable razors, pill bottles . . . and a tube of something called bio-glue.

  “What’s that?” Dunphy asked, as the Russian removed the tube from the ditty bag.

  “Bio-glue.”

  “I know what it says a—”

  “Is protein polymer for doctors. Stronger than stitches. No pain. So, is progress.”

  “And what are you gonna do with it?”

  “Give book, please.”

  Dunphy gave him the book, and the Russian opened it. Inside was a glassine envelope. Max pressed the sides of the envelope together, blew into it, and shook out what looked like a translucent piece of skin.

  “Fingerprint,” Max said.

  Dunphy stared at the object, which rested on Max’s palm like a surrealist joke. “What’s it made of?” he asked.

  “Hydrogel. Same as contact lens—soft kind. Is biomimetic.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means human-compatible plastic. Ultrathin. Now, please, wash hands, then dry.”

  Dunphy got up and did as he was told, then returned to his seat beside the window.

  Max took Dunphy’s right hand in his own and dabbed the bio-glue on the American’s thumb, using a Q-Tip. Then he laid the fingerprint on the glue and smoothed it down. “Four minutes,” he said.

  Dunphy studied the appliqué, which appeared to be seamless. “How do I get it off?” he asked.

  The Russian frowned. Finally he said, “Sandpaper, maybe.”

  “Sandpaper?!”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay . . . sandpaper it is. Now, tell me how you made it.”

  Max smiled. “Photoengraving. When glue dries, you’ll see—finger will be smooth.”

  “And that’ll get the job done? You don’t have to emboss it, or something?”

  “Emboss? Why emboss? Is building pass! They check with scanner.”

  Dunphy gave him a skeptical look.

  “Don’t worry!” Max said. “Be happy.”

  And, in fact, he didn’t have much choice. Max was the best. If the pass didn’t work, it didn’t work, and that would be the end of it (and me, too, Dunphy thought). There wasn’t anything he could do about it except go with the flow and see what happened. Getting to his feet, Dunphy crossed the room to his attaché case. Placing it on the bed, he snapped open the locks and removed six bundles of cash, each of which contained fifty one-hundred-pound notes—altogether, the equivalent of about fifty thousand dollars. As he handed the currency to Max, bundle by bundle, he said, “Tell me something.”