The governing body of the Academy for Philosophical Studies was assembled at his request. The setting was elegant. Artificial fire logs blazed and crackled beneath the handsome mantel. From beyond richly curtained windows he could hear faintly the hum of London traffic. His colleagues had listened to the results of his research for the better part of an hour, from details of Kakoyannis’s career to details of the final scene in the cathedral, pieced together from newspaper reports and discreetly obtained local gossip. He pointed—using a report lifted from the police’s own computer—to inquiries regarding a cross that had been moved and a sophisticated alarm system that had inexplicably failed. All, he claimed, pointed in one direction. The expressions of his three fellow board members suggested that they, at least, agreed with him.
The chairman said nothing. As was his custom he watched and he listened.
“There are, I think, two stages,” Wheatley said. “First, the Book of the Ritual. We know that Kakoyannis was looking for it. The fact that he undertook the ceremony suggests he found it. That book we must have.”
“Do we know where it is?” Tom Hutton, engineer by trade: tough, stocky, elbows on the table, work-worn fingers scratch- ing his ear.
“I think we’ve a very clear idea.” Wheatley touched one of his files and smiled. “A small black book is listed among Kakoyannis’s effects in the police report. And the description fits—such as they give. Clearly they didn’t examine it properly, for which we may thank them.”
“Then we must devise some means of, ah, obtaining possession of it.”
This from Reginald Hargrove M.P. Dignified and portly.
Wheatley nodded. “Exactly.”
“How?” Maria Coleman, tall, handsome, immaculately groomed, CEO in one of the city’s two largest advertising agencies.
“I shall ask for it.”
“What?”
Wheatley smiled. “I shall go to the police and ask for it. I am a scholar. So was Kakoyannis. Why should I not have lent him a notebook? And why should I not claim it back?”
A frontal attack. Certainly Wheatley had nerve.
Hutton was nodding. “It might work, at that.”
“You may both have been scholars, but you were hardly in the same fields.” Coleman again.
“One may take an interest as an amateur in a field other than one’s own. And in any case—” Wheatley was smiling, “how should children distinguish the metaphysic of Plato from that of Aristotle?”
siding stAr 45 “That’s all very well, but there’s still a hell of a difference between biological warfare and what he was up to.”
Still, Wheatley’s point remained.
There was a pause.
Hargrove broke the silence.
“And you are saying, Dr. Wheatley, that if we obtained the book along lines devised by you, we should then, as the board of this academy, be in a position to perform the, ah, Ceremony of Power?”
“That’s what I’m saying. We could perform the ceremony.”
“And yet…” The others all looked at Coleman. “Shouldn’t we still need to find the right place? A focus of power? As Kakoyannis did?”
“I don’t think so.” Wheatley was here sure of his ground. “You’re right about the need for a focus, of course. But there’s more than one kind. Kakoyannis needed a major site because he worked alone. Nothing else would do. And that caused him a lot of problems. To start with, in this country it inevitably meant a site contaminated with Christian superstition.”
“Not inevitably,” Coleman said.
“Well, all right. Not inevitably. But in general that’s the case. And Kakoyannis, at any rate, chose a Christian site—which, I suspect, destroyed him. Then he had the problem of timing. Need for secrecy limited his choice of time. The night he selected was possible for the operation, but only just. Another disadvantage. Now compare our position.” Wheatley was leaning forward. “We shan’t be working alone. We shall be five, and one of us”—his voice dropped slightly, and he glanced respectfully toward the chairman— “a Master. This means that we already are, in ourselves, a focus of power.” He was speaking more loudly again. “If we get the book, we can use a center that has only minor power. We could use our own center, pure of superstition. And we could choose the perfect time.”
He sat back.
“What if we don’t get the book?” Hutton again. “Suppose we can’t manage it? Or it’s the wrong one?”
This, the chairman decided, was becoming a waste of time. What needed to be said had been said.
“Almost certainly it is the right book,” he said. “You are, however, too sanguine. This is still an on-going investigation, and the police would not normally hand over evidence.” He turned to Wheatley, who started to protest. “You need not comment, it is as I say. They would not normally hand it over. In this case, they will. I know someone at Exeter. You shall have the book.”
eleven
Heavitree Police Station. Friday, October 17.
“I
t’s not on the computer, ma’am.” Cecilia had asked one of the secretaries to run off hard copy for her of the entire Kakoyannis file. Perhaps some new thought would strike her. And if it didn’t, perhaps she really should relegate the crucifix puzzle to the realm of the inexplica- ble but probably harmless and turn her attention to other things.
“What do you mean? It has to be.”
“Apparently it’s been deleted, ma’am.”
That, of course, could happen. Anyone could make a mistake. What was less likely was what followed.
“Then get on to the computer boffins and have them find it on the mainframe,” she said. “I need it.” She knew perfectly well that virtually nothing on a computer tied into a mainframe is ever irretrievably lost. Weeks, months, even longer, and still it lurks in cyberspace, ready to be found by those who know how to look.
Only this time it didn’t.
“I’m sorry Cecilia, but it’s gone,” Joseph Stirrup said when he called her with the news. “It’s really gone! If you want an explanation, then I’m left with two possibilities. Either for some reason every new piece of data that went onto the mainframe last week decided to land on that piece of disk, and so eliminate your file—which is impossible if not absurd. Or—which is what really must have happened—someone has hacked in. And they’re good. Beyond good! Because they’ve stripped out every piece of data relating to your file and covered their tracks. The encryption is first rate. At present I can’t do a thing with it. And I reckon I’m pretty good.”
Cecilia nodded. She knew very well that Joseph was good. Joseph was a young Bahamian, confined to a wheelchair by the car crash that killed his parents when he was thirteen. As if the universe were somehow making up for the blow, his mental and analytical skills had developed to a phenomenal level. Cecilia truly believed there was nothing within a computer’s capability that Joseph couldn’t do.
“So there’s no way to trace who did it?”
“I never said that. I said, ‘At present I can’t do it.’ But there’s always a way through, if you have the patience. No one can do this sort of thing without leaving a footprint somewhere. And I’ll find it. I’ll spend every spare minute I’ve got on it, and I’ll nail the scum if it takes me a year. But it might. I’m going to have to do this the hard way.”
Cecilia nodded again. The best detective work is a little like the best scholarship: a desire to find the evidence and show what it means that amounts at times to a kind of madness. She recognized it in Joseph because she had it herself.
“Okay, Joseph. Thanks. I guess I’ll hear from you when you’ve got something.”
She could sense Joseph’s smile. “I won’t be able to get to you fast enough!”
So there it was.
Until the hacking, there had been nothing she could actually put a finger on. Not a single item in the inventory of which she could say, with absolute conviction, “This cannot be, without villainy afoot!” Now there was. All right, she didn’t kno
w what
siding stAr 49 kind of villainy, but clearly it was serious enough to inspire a criminal act executed with cleverness and daring.
She grimaced.
There only remained the small matter of finding out what it was.
twelve
The same morning.
I
n some things, Henry Wheatley was as good as his word. The day following the board meeting he walked into the Exeter police station, produced his credentials, and claimed acquaintance with the deceased, a former colleague albeit an eccentric one. It was a sad business—a brilliant mind gone awry. Were there, by any chance, next of kin to whom assistance should be given? Apparently not. Ah—regrettable. Alone in the world then. That was how these things happened. Well, never mind. He was sure the police had done everything possible.
There was one thing he had intended to mention with regard to the dead man’s belongings. A book.
“A book, sir?”
“Yes, just a small thing, rather old. Black covers. It contained some philosophical and theological speculations. In Aramaic and Hebrew. I lent it to Kakoyannis at a conference we attended some months ago. It seemed to be the sort of thing that interested him. Unfortunately, I neglected to put my name in it. But it’s mine and I’d rather like to get it back if I could. Any chance it’s turned up?”
The constable on duty checked.
“There does seem to be a book, sir.”
52
ChristoPher BryAn Examination revealed that the book answered to the description Dr. Wheatley gave. It contained no name. He had risked this, sure that no one would be so foolish as to connect himself, even in writing, with such a rite as this book contained.
“I’ll pass your request to Superintendent Hanlon, sir,” the constable said. “He’s the one who can release it for you. I dare say you’ll hear in a couple of days.”
Wheatley was all urbanity. Of course he understood. He would look forward to hearing from the superintendent. He thanked the constable politely and left.
Wheatley’s story held. There were no other claimants for anything that belonged to Nikos Kakoyannis. There remained, however, the unanswered question about the deleted file. The chairman had been right. The unresolved question meant that the death of Kakoyannis was still, technically, an ongoing investigation. So when Wheatley’s request for immediate access to the book came to Hanlon’s desk that afternoon he was about to turn it down. Wheatley could wait until the investigation was pronounced complete, whenever that was—
Hanlon’s telephone rang.
“Superintendent Hanlon,” he said.
“I know,” the voice on the other end said, “and Hanlon—
Superintendent Hanlon—you know very well who I am.” “Yes.”
“And you know you are in our debt.”
“Yes.”
“Good. What we need is a quite simple. There is a form of
authorization on your desk, for release of a notebook to a Dr. Wheatley. Sign it.”
“The book’s evidence in an ongoing investigation. I—” “Dr. Wheatley is a senior person holding a senior government post. It will be entirely proper to release his property to him when he needs it. It would be quite wrong to inconvenience
siding stAr 53 an important man over a detail that is almost certainly a result of police incompetence. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Then sign the release.”
“Of course.”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
Hanlon sighed with relief. He’d feared for a moment that the request might be for something much worse. And of course it was right for a man like Dr. Wheatley to have his book.
He signed.
The same day, Henry Wheatley was summoned by telephone to collect that which he claimed. Of course, he would have to be responsible for it, and in the event of any dispute… but Dr. Wheatley quite understood. He signed the appropriate documents, carefully placed the precious notebook in his briefcase, locked it, and left.
thirteen
That afternoon.
The adventures of Katie, like much else in police work, required a report. Cecilia Cavaliere tackled it as she tackled most things, carefully and thoughtfully. And it was almost by accident that she learned what had happened to the book. The circumstances as described sounded reasonable enough, and the idea that a scientist of Wheatley’s stature would be involved in criminal activity was, on the face of it, absurd.
But the fact remained that there was still an ongoing investigation. So why had the book been let go? Surely Wheatley could have—should have—been told to wait? So who’d let it go? Hanlon would have the authority to do it. But why would he?
There was an anomaly here, in fact there were two anomalies, and anomalies made Cecilia uncomfortable.
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
“Oh!” She had been standing there, thinking. “Sorry, Constable! Well, yes, there is one other thing. Do you happen to know who authorized the release?”
“Superintendent Hanlon, ma’am.”
She thanked him and hung up. Hanlon, whatever his faults, was a stickler for procedure. So what the hell was going on?
She shook her head.
56
ChristoPher BryAn
It was time to go home. She tidied the papers on her desk and went to take her coat from the hanger.
Then it dawned on her. It wasn’t just the anomalies that were nagging at her. It was the name Henry Wheatley. She had a good memory for names. She always had. And she didn’t think it was letting her down now. Somewhere, somehow, she’d heard that name before, and not in connection with anything good.
A trial?
A murder trial?
And even if she were right, was that this Henry Wheatley?
At last she went back to her desk and called Detective Sergeant Verity Jones. Little Miss Perfect! Verity Jones had been allocated to CID six weeks ago. Small and fair, so immaculate and à la modewas she at all times that Cecilia at first decided she’d have been better placed in a fashion house or a boutique. She’d quickly learned that Verity Jones also had a sharp, inquiring mind, a first in classics from Oxford, and no fear whatever of hard work.
“That’s right, Verity. W-H-E-A-T-L-E-Y. Anything you can find. Where he’s worked, appointments, interests. The lot. You can start with Who’s Who, I should think. All right? And one other thing, I think he may once have been a witness in a murder trial. Quite a prominent one, if I’m right. Otherwise I don’t see why I’d remember it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get onto it first thing.”
What an asset to the department Verity Jones was! Cecilia had more or less persuaded Verity’s parents—quiet, scholarly folk who’d brought up their daughter to take a quiet, scholarly job and so were appalled by her career choice—that there was important work to do here and colleagues to work with who were not unworthy of their child. She just hoped she’d been right. And prayed to God they never learned that
siding stAr 57
Superintendent Hanlon had tried to grope Verity Jones just as he tried to grope anything female that moved. Cecilia grinned. She’d not been there, but the story had gone round. Little Miss Perfect, petite and fashionable, had said “DON’T do that, sir!” in cut-glass tones that effectively caught the attention of everyone within twenty meters. At the same time she’d riveted Hanlon with (in Sergeant Wyatt’s phrase) “a look that would have paralyzed a bloody basilisk.” It evidently paralyzed Hanlon, who presumably wouldn’t be in a hurry to try that again.
Cecilia had had no such problem over her career choice. Mama and Papa were proud of her work, and Papa’s family had a long history of such service. A Cavaliere had taken part in the charge of the mounted Carabinieri at Grenoble in 1815 that shattered the French line and led the Italian colors to victory. Another was in the charge at Pastrengo in 1848 that saved King Carlo Alberto from the Austrians. Another was among the Carabinieri who helped c
apture Rome in 1871 so that it might become the capital of Italy. And last but by no means least, in World War II a young Andrea Cavaliere—who would have been Cecilia’s great-grand uncle—had been killed in action serving with the second Carabinieri cadet battalion in Rome, defending la bandiera Italiana when, despite betrayal by their government, the Carabinieri were among several units in the Italian army that resisted the German occupation.
With such a family history, naturally she’d want to serve in the forza pubblica of the country where they now found themselves.
And with such a family history she surely ought to be able to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on…
Whatever that was.
Fourteen
Sunday, October 19. Coonababaran National Park, New South Wales, Australia.
“B
limey!”
“Now that I call impressive!” The minibus had topped a small rise, and there before them, white in the sunlight, were the two domes of Siding Springs Observatory, one seeming to rise directly out of the trees, the other standing high on a cylindrical tower.
“It should be.” Charlie was smiling. “In some ways it’s the best facility in the world.”
In that earlier project, now some years back, he’d certainly had reason to know. He’d been involved with the observatory’s Two-Degree Facility, which quite aside from its innovative technologies was still the largest and most complex instrument of its type on the planet. And how they’d used it! In the course of five nights they’d succeeded in observing and analyzing over a thousand quasars and four thousand galaxies. Nobody before had ever managed to observe and analyze so many objects in such a short time. Certainly without 2dF it would have taken years. Equally certainly, his own contribution to that analysis was what had clinched him his chair at the university—as well,
60
ChristoPher BryAn
no doubt, as securing the current invitation for him and his students to work with FLAIR. Thaddeus and Zaziwe were excited at sight of the domed tower, as well they might be. So was he. Or at least he would have been, except the Dream had come back last night, and as always—
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