by Rob Swigart
Back in her solitary bed the sense of imminent danger grew more intense: they— she and Steve and the others— had been sitting still while events rushed ahead.
Yet they had not been idle: they had found and deciphered Bruno’s messages, and learned something of their adversaries, just not enough, and time was slipping away.
Somewhere in northern Spain a woman was going to give birth, a woman whose face appeared in a miniature painted almost six hundred years ago. Four thousand years ago a tablet foretold her child, a child that would be a pivot in time, a fulcrum. Whoever was present at that moment could move the world.
Could she really be thinking such grandiose thoughts? Move the world? She should laugh, but couldn’t even summon a self-deprecating smile.
When she was younger, Lisa Emmer (thinking of herself in the third person) suffered from fugue states. At unpredictable moments she would become someone else, someone she didn’t know, forget who she really was and disappear, sometimes for days. The affliction kept her from forming strong connections with others until Raimond Foix took her in, trained her in the Classics, taught her how to read ancient manuscripts, and gave her a profession.
When he was killed, she discovered to her horror that he had not been preparing her for a profession, but for a calling. The profession was a deception, a cover. Lisa Emmer of Chicago, Illinois, was suddenly the Pythia of the Delphi Agenda, inheritor of a long line of such, trapped in an obscure, unsung, bewildering role. She was still grappling with its implications. Her fugue states may have been replaced by hunches, visions, intuitions, but there was no relief. Her mentor had tricked her. She had the gift of sight and an unfulfilled yearning for family her parents never offered her. The two were incompatible.
As far as she knew, and she knew a great deal, she was the only person alive who could recognize in advance a major fulcrum in the currents of time and grasp, if only vaguely, its potential for use or abuse, for good or for evil. She was unique, the only person in the world who could find and use that fulcrum.
Over the past year she had learned to take her ability seriously; it had saved her life. It had saved the lives of others. It had arguably saved the world.
Still, it was a responsibility she didn’t want. The burden was too great. She was neither born to greatness, nor had she achieved it. Greatness was thrust upon her, and she often resented Raimond Foix for so burdening her. He was already gone by then, and the guilt she felt for her resentment drove her hard, but in the end she refused to give in to either guilt or resentment. She would be who he wanted her be. She would be more. She may not want it, but it was hers and she would carry it until she could pass it to someone else.
Such thoughts gradually gave way to the faintest outline of the coming fulcrum, a shape glimpsed in fog and mist. It could be a person or a beast, a Madonna or devil. No matter, its outlines would clear in time. For now, she had to acknowledge its importance.
Dawn was seeping through the shutters when she thrust off the covers and went to the kitchen to make coffee, normal, routine, simple motions that soothed. She was holding a cup by a window, bare feet up on the edge of her chair, when Alain came in.
“Bonjour,” he grunted, sinking into a chair on the other side of the table. The creases at the corners of his eyes seemed deeper, the pouches under them a darker gray. He was no longer the cocky chef.
She handed him an espresso. “Rough night?”
He flashed her a faded grin. “Your apartment’s ready. You can move back in.”
“Thank you.”
She put brioche in the oven. Alain sipped the coffee and pronounced it excellent.
She wiped back a tendril of hair. “Special skills: you put the little cartridge in the slot and press start. Coffee comes out. But perhaps you already know this.”
He laughed. “I can prepare a decent Coquilles Saint Jacques poêlées sauce vierge. Probably, I could also make a cup of Nespresso. I meant, I appreciate your making it.”
She waved this away. “Yours would lack the feminine touch.”
“Touché. Steve still asleep?”
“No, I’m awake.” Steve was in the doorway, dressed in a gray shirt and black slacks, holding shoes and socks in his hand. He lifted his toes and wiggled them in greeting.
“Good,” Lisa said briskly. “After breakfast you can put those shoes on and we’ll go look for Frédéric, if, as I expect, he doesn’t answer at any of his usual numbers. I figure we start at the Sorbonne.”
“I warned him yesterday,” Steve told her. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe it scared him into hiding.”
“No, you did right. He practically lives at his office, anyway. If he’s scared, he’d go there first.”
After a moment, Steve said soberly, “Yesterday you said the woman we’re looking for is about to deliver. How long do we have? Weeks?”
“No. Days.”
They finished eating in silence, and left for the University.
An elderly maintenance man in a wrinkled green cap was repairing the office door. Lisa asked what happened.
He took off his hat and rubbed his head. He replaced the cap with a shrug. “Don’t know. Got a call.” He tipped his chin at the office. “Help yourself.”
Lisa indicated a heap of fresh snack wrappers. “He was here. Spent the night.” She asked when Frédo had left.
The man shrugged. “Don’t know.” He tested the office door a couple of times and gathered his tools. After a pause, he added, “Somebody wrapped someone named Walid in duct tape and called the police. Your friend in there? He must be pretty tough. I saw the guy as they took him away. He was no weakling.”
Lisa pushed aside a FEDEX package and sat on the edge of the secretary’s desk. “Doesn’t sound like Frédo. He’s a quiet sort, but, hell, people can surprise you.” She picked up the package. “What’s this?”
The maintenance man stopped at the door. “Delivered right after I got here.” He disappeared inside.
She said to Steve, “It’s addressed to Frédo.”
“Who from?” Steve asked.
“Collège de France. Administrator of the Assyriology Section.”
“Usem?”
“Certainly Usem.”
Steve pursed his lips. “Open it. Frédo’s gone.”
She opened it and slid the tablet and computer onto the desk. The tablet seemed to glow inside its translucent glassine envelope. The pieces were loosely assembled, but the tablet was nearly complete.
Steve frowned, lips still pursed. “I don’t suppose you can read it?”
She snorted. “Nope. Cuneiform’s a lifetime project. A thousand signs, different pronunciations and meanings, changing over the three thousand years and used for several unrelated languages. Worse than Chinese, I’m told.” She opened the laptop.
“I won’t ask who told you.”
“It’s the sort of thing you pick up in the decipherment business.”
“I guess you picked the easy ones,” Steve said.
“Raimond picked Greek and Latin for me, not Sumerian and Akkadian. Even so, my life could have been a lot less… colorful.”
He looked up in surprise at her undercurrent of anger, but she had already changed her focus and was reading Usem’s notes.
When she finished, she grunted in frustration and leaned back. “Tantalizing. Tidbits, crumbs. Usem’s cautious. He suggests but doesn’t state. He didn’t have time to translate the tablet. The process is painstaking: first transliterate into the Roman alphabet, separate the words, parse the grammar…. Ophis Sophia has him, but he won’t be able to tell them what the tablet says because he doesn’t know for sure. What he does know is that it’s more than 4,000 years old and contains a prophecy of a birth that will change the world.”
“Hmph. That’s not very convincing, unless this child is the one in your vision.”
“I have no doubt about it. Someone tried to kill us for it.”
“Well, yes, that is suggestive.”
“Ophi
s Sophia thinks they know what’s in it. If we’re going to get ahead of them we have to know more than they do. We need Usem.”
“We’re no closer than we were two days ago.”
“We have to find out what properties Ophis Sophia owns in or near Paris where they might be keeping him. Does Delphi Agenda have someone who could find that kind of information, do you think?”
Steve scratched his cheek. “You speak of Constantine.”
“I speak of Constantine.”
“We can’t trust him.”
She closed the laptop with a snap. “No. Do you have someone else in mind?”
Steve shook his head. “Ted and Marianne don’t have the expertise. Constantine’s the best in the world, physics PhD from MIT, a go-to finance guy. I’ve seen him perform miracles of banking sleight-of-hand before he became a monk, but his honesty and integrity are… questionable, and since he’s a monk on Mt. Athos, he’s not very accessible.”
“Can you call him?”
“Hmph.”
Lisa watched the street while Steve called. Normal Saturday morning traffic stuttered along the streets. The clouds had lifted higher, sitting like a lid on a day already warm and gray. No Signs out there.
In here, though, Steve was listening intently, grunting from time to time. His look was darker than the clouds.
He hung up. “Evasive.” He sent a couple of quick texts and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
“Will he do it?”
“Yes and no. OS hired him to watch us, and he’s afraid of them, can’t get out of it. He has to give them something soon.”
“What will they do if he doesn’t?”
Steve shrugged.
“Give them what?”
“Our communications.”
“Could he do that?”
“He could, and he will, so we don’t have much time. I’ve texted Alain. He can clog our communications with irrelevant junk for a while. That’ll give us breathing room and should protect Constantine for now, too. But it won’t hold them off for long.”
“Did he give you anything else? Anything useful?”
“A name: Lex Treadwell. American. He’s Ophis Sophia, and he was there, in Greece. He’s the threat. If he can, though, he’ll search for OS properties in Paris.”
She nodded. “We have to find out who this Treadwell is.”
“Constantine wants us to. He’s nervous.” He held up his phone. “Now Ted’s looking into Treadwell.”
The phone on Frédo’s desk rang. “Hmm,” Lisa grunted. “His direct line.” She answered in a credible imitation of the secretary. “Bonjour, École pratique des hautes études.”
A man with the faintest hint of a Middle Eastern accent said, “Lisa Emmer.”
“Je suis desolée, mais elle n’est pas…”
“You’re Lisa Emmer, of the Delphi Group. A group with a long history, I understand, but young compared with ours. We have something you want. You have something we want. I propose a meeting to discuss our mutual interests.”
She resumed her normal voice. “And you are?”
“I am called Ibrahim.”
“Ophis Sophia. I don’t know what you think we have that you want, nor can I think of anything you have that we want.”
“Don’t play games. You have the tablet.”
“What makes you say that?”
He cleared his throat. “Dr. Izri has had some… difficulties with his memory, but has recovered enough. He sent the tablet by FEDEX to that office. You answered the phone. You have it.”
“Interesting,” Lisa said. “The police arrested your man here, you know, name of Walid. He made a mess. Not a promising start to negotiations.”
Instead of answering directly, Ibrahim said, “The tablet’s of no use to you.”
He was trying to cut his losses now he knew his man was alive and possibly talking to the police. That might give him more incentive to bargain. She mentally upgraded the tablet from object to player.
“What’s this tablet to you, Mr. Ibrahim? It’s old and, I’m told, extremely obscure.”
“A matter of faith, Dr. Emmer.”
“I have little respect for a faith that condones assassination.”
“Assassination?”
“You said not to play games. My apartment was badly damaged. Men with poisonous snakes, not to mention guns.”
The ensuing silence stretched its claws, luxurious as a cat. Even over the phone Lisa could sense the man’s anger, contained as it was.
Ibrahim’s deep breath was audible. “That was an unfortunate error, Dr. Emmer. Someone took initiative without authority. That person has been… disciplined.” He paused and sighed again. “We would most appreciate having the tablet, Dr. Emmer. We’ve been waiting since long before Jesus walked the streets of Jerusalem, even before Abraham. Dr. Izri seems to have found proof for the central tenet of our faith. I tell you this to build trust. We need trust, do we not, you and I? We’re much alike, you see. We both want, and I don’t intend to overstate, but we both want to save the world from itself, do we not?”
Trust was the last thing she felt. “Speak for yourself, Mr. Ibrahim. Where are you right now?”
He chuckled. “No, no, Dr. Emmer, I’m not ready to divulge that. Trust. Agree to give us the tablet, and, well, I’m sure you’d like our guest delivered safely in return. Quid pro quo. I believe that is the expression.”
Steve held up a note: Constantine texted Ophis Sophia properties.
She nodded. “Really,” she said into the phone. “Why would I want him if I have the tablet?”
“The number of people who can reliably read Sumerian is very small, Dr. Emmer. We know them all. Dr. Izri is a member of that rare company. We would like him to decipher it for us, but there are others we know. I propose a trade. You need him if you are to understand it. I’m sure you can make a copy for him to work with.”
She snorted. “The tablet is here, and here it stays. Since the middle of the nineteenth century it’s been part of the patrimony of France. No one will hand it over to you, no matter how compellingly you present your case. Snakes, Mr. Ibrahim. Poisonous snakes. You remember them, your donation to the Menagerie at the Jardin des Plantes. It should get you a kind note from the director, if the donation hadn’t been anonymous. Now, I think our business is concluded.”
“Wait. Meet with me.” His voice softened. “Please. I can at least offer you some information. Trust, Dr. Emmer. Trust.”
She sighed elaborately. “All right. Three this afternoon. Jardin des Plantes. In front of a statue of a seated man near the entrance to the École Botanique are two benches back to back. No guarantees.”
“Time and location by mutual agreement, Dr. Emmer. You haven’t heard my offer.”
“Take it or leave it. I doubt this meeting will serve any purpose and I’m rather busy at the moment.”
After a brief pause Ibrahim agreed. “Very well, but come alone.”
“Of course. You too.”
After she switched off, Steve said, “Too easy, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, I do think, but he didn’t call my bluff.”
“I don’t like you meeting him alone.”
“I won’t be alone, will I? The benches are very public. The Jardin will be full of people on a Saturday afternoon. You and Alain will be nearby. Also, I have an idea.”
Steve grimaced. “You’re the boss. Ibrahim will have his people as well.”
“Yup, and you’re very good at spotting them. You know, I’d love to know what Frédo did to Ibrahim’s man.”
Steve scoffed. “What Frédo did was knock him out and tape him up.”
“Tant mieux, but that doesn’t sound like Frédo at all.” She slipped the laptop and tablet in her shoulder bag. “Now, we have four tasks: secure the tablet, find Frédo, meet with Ibrahim, and find Usem.”
“Ibrahim knows where we are,” Steve pointed out. “He’ll send people. We have to move first.”
“OK, fi
ve tasks. You’re the escape artist.”
“I’m good,” he laughed. “Not perfect.”
“Not perfect? What am I doing with you, then?” She slapped her shoulder bag and started for the door. “Seriously, please get us out of here. I know what to do with this tablet. We can look at Constantine’s list of OS properties on the way, then find Frédo and go to the meeting. Simple.”
“Right,” Steve muttered, ushering her out. “Simple.”
Catacombs
Steve scanned the street from a second floor window. “One at the corner, rue des Écoles, see? Another in the café on the Place.”
“Reading a magazine. Looks like the latest Charlie Hebdo.”
His laugh was grim. “They’re watching the exits.”
“Well, we really shouldn’t let them see us leave.”
“No, we shouldn’t, Lisa. When they get bored they’ll come after us.”
Normally, she enjoyed these little adventures with him, these evasions and diversions, but they had always been training runs, just in case. This was real: those men wanted the object in her shoulder bag, and they were willing to kill. “When they do come, we’re gone, right?”
“Correct.”
“As you say, they’re watching the exits.”
“Correct.”
The man in the café put his paper aside and strolled toward the entrance. A moment later the man at rue des Écoles started toward the door as well.
“And now they’re on the way,” Steve added. “Time to go.”
“Where to?” Lisa asked. The men were already at the entrance downstairs.
He grinned. “Follow me.”
They took hallways and stairs to the chapel south of the Court of Honor. Steve paused inside to check the court. The two men were ambling toward the entrance, apparently in friendly conversation.
Steve led the way down a deserted hallway behind the church. At the far end he removed a case of picks from his pocket and set to work on the ancient lock. Soon the faded green door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase that took them down to a musty basement. Shrouds of discolored white cloth covered stacks of chairs and tables. He opened another door, which sent them down two more flights into a world of ancient damp and small rodent life.