by Zoe Drake
Nozaki cleared his throat, and began his prepared response. “Gentlemen, the death of Ayano Yoshida was truly regrettable, but the findings of the official inquiry were clear. The girl suffered from a heart condition, and should never have been allowed to enter the program here. We have since made our entry requirements much more stringent. And as you can see…” Nozaki gestured to the information displayed on the monitor screen mounted on a nearby bed, “our assistants constantly monitor brain, eye, muscle and heart activity. The subjects are also observed by video camera. When they wake up, we take saliva samples, to check the amounts of the hormone melatonin and the stress hormone cortisol.”
Nozaki took a deep breath, looking at the faces of the assembled sponsors.
“Gentlemen, the Kageyama Treatment is perfectly safe.”
At the central exit from the University Hospital grounds, Nozaki stood watching the sponsors leave, giving deep bows from the waist until the last chauffeured limousine had mounted the ramp and vanished from view.
Alone at last, he took the elevator back to the tenth floor and the small office set aside for his own use, and sank into a chair. At last that’s over, he thought, letting out a wide yawn. Success or failure, it was out of his hands now. He pulled his phone out of his briefcase and checked for mail; sure enough, his wife Aiko hadn’t forgotten. You must be tired, ran the text message. How do you think it went?
After sending a reply, Nozaki hurried to take his own turn in the Treatment. He entered the lab in hospital pajamas and nightgown, taking off the gown to stretch out on the bed. The assistants slipped the hairnet of dozens of ultra-sensitive electrodes over the crown of his head and smoothed it into place across his scalp, extra electrodes under the chin. The body sensors were clipped to one earlobe and attached to his chest. The ozone smell of the machines above his head as the lamps began their slow, hypnotic rhythm of shifting colors and patterns. But this time he was on the receiving end. A little nap, he thought, as he drank the mild sedative the assistant gave him. A little nap before driving home, refreshed. Driving home for the dinner Aiko was preparing.
And soon he dreamed once more.
The dream that had recurred for longer than Nozaki could consciously remember. He stood once more on the beach, bare feet on warm sand, the sky and sea around him shifting shades of grey and blue. Naked apart from his trunks, his body slim, strong, muscular. Out at sea he noticed the splashing of foam. She was in trouble.
He dived into the waves. Strong, powerful strokes of his arms took him to where she struggled. He took hold of her, feeling her skin against his as he swam back towards the beach.
He put her down upon the sand. He looked down at her face, saltwater beaded upon it like pearls, her hair fanned out like seaweed in a current. He stood there for an eternity, not touching her, not daring to wake her; only watching. Her face was incredibly beautiful – and overwhelmingly familiar.
Out on the horizon, lights flickered under the waves, like lightning in the depths of the sea.
Chapter Four
The Thirty-Six
Weiss toyed with his half-pint glass, his gaze switching from the creamy dregs of the Guinness to the view of London through the window.
The Fitzrovia pub was still one of his favorite haunts, even though the staff, landlords, and furnishings he had known since the Sixties were now long gone. A late lunch on a warm Friday afternoon: he drained the last of his Guinness, watching the clock creep its way towards the time of his appointment.
Benjamin Weiss and Eric Mendelson had both grown up in London after World War Two. Unaware of each other’s existence, two years apart in age, they had most likely played on the same bombsites, the same shallow craters, the same rubble of crouching, shattered buildings waiting to be rebuilt. Games with makeshift toys among the brittle wrecks of metal and brick dust.
He took his glass back to the bar and left. Outside, Goodge Street was warm and sparsely populated; from the designer cafes the aroma of exotic coffee blends scented the air. Weiss put his blazer back on, hefted his briefcase in his hand, and stepped briskly down the street.
As an adult, Weiss had fallen in love with the novels of the writer Elizabeth Bowen. The orange and white Penguin editions had been just the right size to slip into his jacket pocket, and he was often reading her works in the Soho cafes when waiting for Mendelson or one of his other contacts.
There was a quotation that Weiss had never forgotten. He’d found it in the preface to ‘Ivy Gripped the Steps’, and one day he’d read it out to Mendelson; “It is a fact that in Britain, and especially in London, in wartime many people had strange, deep, intense dreams. Whatever else I forget about the war, a friend said to me, I hope I may never forget about my dreams, or some of the other dreams I have been told. We have never dreamed like this before; and I suppose we shall never dream like this again.”
The big bearded man had grinned. “Some of us will keep dreaming, my friend. The war never really ended, did it?”
No, the war never ended. War never ends. It mutates into something else, something that doesn’t look like war. It goes underground, into our dreams and nightmares. It evolves into a slow unfolding of fractal architectures, a vast rhythm of order rippling into chaos and back again. A process of enlightenment, parallel to recorded history, just as the verses of the Torah reveal their meanings through the slow march of the centuries.
Weiss turned left into Newman Road. The noonday sun was obscured by the July sky brimming over with clouds, threatening a mournful afternoon. It was three days after Mendelson’s death. It had taken that long to bring the senior members of the Lamed Vav Tzadikim together.
Halfway down Newman Road, almost invisible to the casual passer-by, a narrow arch led into a tiny, darkened alleyway. This was Newman’s Passage, and as Weiss turned left and entered, the sounds of the rest of London were suddenly muted and far away. In contrast to the modern facades of Newman Street, this passage was shadowed by stained, weathered tenements, high walls and chimneys blocking out the sky.
The Professor walked past the even smaller alleyway that cut through to Rathbone Street and turned right into a cul-de-sac, his shoes echoing on the worn cobblestones. Down at the end, past bulky warehouses and rusted metal shutters, he came to a faded grey door set in a nondescript brick building. His eyes went to the plaque on the wall – Fitzrovia & District Trade Union & Social Club, with its familiar arrowhead logo. Beside it, taped to the door, a sign announced Entrance closed; please use the north door in Newman Street.
Weiss pressed his finger to the button next to the entrance. Seconds later, he heard a loud buzzing hum, and he pushed the door open.
In the anteroom at the top of the steep wooden staircase, Mr. Pickering waited. He shuffled out from behind the desk, extending a hand. Smoky grey hair, a wrinkled smile in a face the color of mackerel, a faded three-piece suit. “Professor…so good to see you again…but I must extend my condolences, sir, it’s absolutely terrible about poor Ayin…”
“Thank you. Are they all here?”
“Jack o’the Green sends his apologies, sir. Unavoidable circumstances.”
Weiss clucked his tongue with annoyance. Mr. Pickering set down the visitor’s book in front of him and pointed out, needlessly, where the Professor should sign. He followed the aged doorman and passed through the short hallway to the left. Mr. Pickering opened the two double doors, and stood aside to let Weiss enter.
“Professor,” came the voice of Marcus Jewell, “Please come in and sit down.”
Weiss stood in the richly furnished meeting room, taking in the hushed atmosphere, the drapes, the paintings, the ancient books lining the walls, the pile carpet, the softly ticking grandfather clock.
The senior agents of the Lamed Vav Tzadikim – the Thirty-Six Righteous Ones – sat in deep armchairs around a long rectangular table. On the left, the trio known as Bell, Book and Candle: John Sinclair the priest, bespectacled and grim, white collar at his neck; Julia Russo the Wiccan, ringle
ts framing her long, mobile face, elegant in dark lace; beside her the cat, Elemanzer, its tail flicking calmly against the sides of the wicker carry-case it resided in. On the other side of the table sat Louis Gilroy the Snakedancer, relaxed in a black summer jacket and expensive-looking black shirt. At his neck gleamed a silver chain holding the vevre that Weiss knew he would be wearing next to his skin. Beside him, Ilona Greig the Spellbinder, silvery hair and electric blue eyes, and Jennifer Barrett, or Jenny Haniver the archeologist, relaxed and boyish in leather and corduroy.
Seated facing the door was Marcus Jewell, dressed immaculately in red double-breasted jacket, crisp white shirt and white trousers beneath. A golden belt buckle in the shape of a serpent’s head glittered at his waist. The blond streak that ran through his rich dark hair had whitened over the years, making his smooth features and brooding eyes seem even more disconcerting.
Weiss took a seat opposite Marcus. He felt the tension in the room; the hairs on his hands prickled, and there were sharp, pinching pains deep in his gut. John Sinclair leaned forward and began to speak. “Professor, I understand why you called us here, but we should postpone any other business until we sort out your manner over the phone.”
“Be quiet, John,” Marcus Jewell said softly.
“But there are protocols for calling meetings, and I really think…”
“Be quiet, John.”
Sinclair relented, sitting back in his chair with a despairing look to Julia. He began to fidget with the glass of water and napkin in front of him.
Professor Weiss looked around the table, gathering his thoughts. “I gather you’re all aware of the circumstances under which Ayin died.”
Ilona nodded her head. “Marcus informed us.”
“It sounds really bloody weird to me,” Gilroy added. “Why aren’t we all over there in Italy right now?”
“Just a minute, Luis,” Jewell warned.
“But, this is like, well trashed. Something paggered our man and we’re just sitting on our arses talking about it?”
“Luis.”
The table fell back into silence once more. Weiss narrowed his eyes as he stared at Jewell. Interesting, he thought. Jewell lets me take the lead and tells the others to shut up. Even the Snakedancer. Why is that, I wonder?
“I’m sure all of us are upset over Ayin’s death,” Weiss began again. “The funeral date hasn’t been announced yet. As you know, there are no next of kin, and there are certain practical problems to resolve before the funeral can be held. However, that’s not really what I’ve come to talk about. There’s also the matter of the Achaz Codex.”
Everyone started to talk at once.
“The Book of the Veils?”
“You think there’s a connection?”
Weiss held up a hand, let the fuss recede. “The Achaz Codex, otherwise known as the Book of the Veils, discovered in Egypt along with the Cologne Mani-Codex. Reportedly destroyed in a fire in the late Fifties, but in fact removed by the Lamed Vav and placed in the Hohenstaufen Collection in Vatican City, where all the forbidden texts are kept. Isn’t that right, John?”
Sinclair stared intently back at Weiss. After a moment, he nodded his head.
Weiss unlocked the clasps on his briefcase. The others craned forward to look as he took the sheaves of papyrus in their black silk wrapping and gently placed them upon the table. “Then what, may I ask, was Eric Mendelson doing with it?”
The others regarded it in shocked silence. Elemanzer stirred restlessly in his basket. Julia lifted it and placed it on the table. As soon as the cat saw the silken bundle it froze, its huge eyes limpid and unmoving.
Jewell tightened his jaw. “Does anyone outside this room know of this, Benjamin?”
“I covered the traces as well as I could when I had Eric’s body recovered. I don’t have to tell you what a nightmare that was. But before I say anything more, I would appreciate a few answers.”
Jewell sat back, looking around him at the other members in an exasperated fashion.
“Can I just say,” Sinclair began, dragging his chair forward with an aggressive scrape, “that Mendelson was not acting at all under the sanction of the Church. We had no idea of what he was doing or why he was in Venice.”
“Surely you would have asked him…”
Sinclair reached forward for his glass of water, taking a deep swallow before he went on. “He said he was following a lead about an obscure Renaissance cartographer.”
“John,” Ilona interrupted, “Are you saying that he stole the Codex from the secret archives?”
He took in a deep breath and then sighed. “It was removed without consent, yes.”
Jenny Haniver snorted with disdain. “So much for papal infallibility, eh?”
“That was below the belt, Jenny.”
“Below the belt?” Weiss declared angrily. “If you want to hear something below the belt, how about this? We’ve managed to keep the details of Mendelson’s death from the media, but there are rumors circulating on the Internet. Rumors that he was in the cemetery to conduct a Pulsa Denura. A Kabalistic ceremony calling upon God to curse an enemy of the Jewish people! Is that your work, John?”
Sinclair raised his voice in answer. “I am aware that Dr. Mendelson was your friend, Professor, but we might have to face the fact that he went rogue. He stole a forbidden manuscript from the archives. He used it to attempt an exorcism without notice or approval. It doesn’t look good, Benjamin, and we’ve mounted a disinformation campaign to take care of things while…”
Weiss closed his eyes and uttered a single syllable in Hebrew.
The glass of water in front of the priest shattered.
Sinclair yelped in shock and hurriedly started to mop up the liquid with his napkin. Julia leaned over and helped him scrape the fragments of the glass together.
“I’m not happy,” Benjamin Weiss said quietly.
The priest stared back at him, red-faced. “I had noticed.”
“I was there, John, he died right in front of my eyes. How dare you suggest Eric was a renegade, how dare you!”
Jewell leaned forward and peered at him. “Benjamin, calm down. Tell us what you saw.”
“Mendelson had stumbled on something and he’d stolen the Codex to try to put it right. Something has gone wrong, John, it slipped past your little security net but Mendelson had got wind of it.”
“So why didn’t he come to us with his findings?”
“Would you have released the book into his hands for research?”
Sinclair slowly shook his head. “No. The ban is quite clear; nothing ever leaves the Hohenstaufen Collection.”
“So he was forced to steal it. He thought it was important enough to risk being found out. He took the Codex to Venice and then called me. I also have reason to believe that the island of Poveglia has become active again.”
For a few moments now, Gilroy had been waving a hand in frustration. “Hey, I’d appreciate some background here. Some of us haven’t been around as long as you have, mate.”
Weiss looked at Jewell, who nodded. The Professor cleared his throat, and began in a clear, scholarly tone.
“Venice has been under guard by the Lamed Vav almost ever since it was founded. The peculiar nature of its construction means that the borders between this world and the Subtle Domains are particularly weak at that point, so the city requires constant surveillance.
“You’ve already seen the notes I mailed you regarding Fra Mauro and his apparent abilities of remote viewing. Now Poveglia is a small island with a particularly bad reputation, on the other side of the lagoon from San Michele. In Roman times, plague victims were exiled to the island, and in the time of the Black Death, the Venetians used the island as a giant plague pit. Thousands of victims were buried in unmarked mass graves. There was a small colony of monks there, but they left in the early 1300s. Legends say that they were forced to leave by the atmosphere of sheer terror and hysteria that affected them.”
“In other word
s, a popular vacation spot for the Lamed Vav,” Gilroy said with a grim, gold-tinted smile.
“What concerns us most is that the island was used for an experiment in the Thirties. Under Mussolini’s orders, the Fascists set up a secret psychiatric hospital where dissidents were incarcerated. Our agents reported that the doctors were conducting experimental surgery on human brains, trying to replicate the powers of Fra Mauro: to find out what exactly he did, and how he did it. Hitler became involved because he was having problems with the Austrians at the time and thought the Poveglia experiments could be used as some kind of weapon. Lamed Vav agents were sent in to stop the experiments. They assassinated the head doctor, and destroyed the equipment and the data collected. Shortly after that, relations between Mussolini and Hitler soured. The island of Poveglia has been sealed off from the rest of the world ever since; the Italian Government refuses to allow visitors.”
Weiss stopped, and his captive audience glanced from one face to another.
“Benjamin,” Ilona asked, “Are you sure this has got nothing to do with Casanova?”
“I’m sure. Casanova is finally dead, or as dead as an alchemical adept can ever be. But this is much bigger than one individual, I’m afraid. Much more serious.”
“So where does the Book of the Veils fit in to this?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’ve been reading Mendelson’s notebook, and he saw something that linked the Codex to the Fra Mauro and Poveglia incidents. He was trying to find out what…when he died.”
“Yes,” Jewell added. “But what killed him?”
There was an uncomfortable silence around the table. At length, Jenny Haniver raised her hand to ask a question. “Professor, do you think Ayin had found out where the second part of the Book is?”
“I think it’s possible. Highly possible. If he had found a lead to the missing pages, or perhaps found a way to decipher the current existing Codex, then that would set him off. I knew Ayin; he would regard stealing the Codex as another challenge, one more way to shake his fist against authority. But this time…”