The God Machine (45 page)

T
HE ELEVATOR RUMBLED UP THE NARROW BLACK SHAFT, RELENTLESSLY
, toward the Compass Press offices. As it climbed, Koster thought back to the years he and Nick had been friends, all the moments they'd shared, all their secrets and dreams. Countless meals and late nights, countless parties. And all of those favors which Nick had dispensed without even a thought.

This was not going to be easy.

Koster looked into the white plastic bag at his feet. Then, he turned and glanced back at Sajan.

She looked so tiny and helpless, and tired, in her close-fitting brown suit. Koster felt his breath catch. He was playing a dangerous game. He didn't trust Sajan very much anymore, despite her confession. But he loved her. And although he knew in his heart he should take her on faith, he had to be sure that she wasn't just playing him. Not again. He needed some proof, some real evidence. A conjecture simply wasn't sufficient.

How close had she been to Nick Robinson? And what
was their relationship still? Had it all been a setup, or did she genuinely love Koster? He had to be certain, and the only way to do that was to bring Robinson down, to force him to reveal his true colors… in front of Savita.

Koster turned toward the doors as the bell rang and they reached the twelfth floor.

The lobby of the Compass Press publishing house was impressively large. Glass-fronted bookcases covered the walls. There were approximately 3,456 titles, he calculated: twenty-four bookshelves; twelve shelves each; with an average of twelve titles per shelf. Recessed spot lighting enlivened the room. A voluptuous spiral staircase, with sixty-six steps in total, made from handcrafted Italian slate and Swedish steel, disappeared like a corkscrew into the ceiling. The transom-shaped window at the rear of the lobby was twelve feet six inches across.

How do I know this
, he wondered,
with such exactitude?
The firm of McKenzie & Voight had passed on the renovation bid. But, ever since that moment in his loft, when he had reached out and touched Sajan in her fugue state, Koster had felt somehow… different. More
awake
. His senses enlivened, acute. It was as if his Asperger Syndrome had been augmented somehow.

The window looked out onto Union Square, at the tops of the trees in the park and the dog run. At the center of the room was a circular desk, made of brushed steel and beer-colored brass. Robinson's assistant Macalister was standing beside it.

“Well, well,” Koster said. “What a surprise.”

“Mr. Robinson is expecting you.”

“He is? Of course he is. I knew that.”

Macalister stared down at the white bag in Koster's hand with a half-smile on his lips. He looked like an owl, he stared so intently.

Koster waved his right arm in an imperious way, and
Macalister turned in silence and escorted them up the stone staircase.

Robinson's office was at the end of the corridor. Macalister paused for a moment and searched them, running his hands down their bodies with care. He took special note of the white plastic bag. When he was satisfied they were carrying no weapons, he knocked once, then stepped through the door. Nick was sitting behind his desk. As soon as he saw Koster and Sajan, he leapt to his feet.

“Joseph,” he cried. He crossed the large room in two strides, reached out and embraced them.

Koster tried to pull himself free but he felt dwarfed in Nick's arms.

“And Savita,” said Robinson, stepping back. “You're looking good. I'm so glad to see you.”

“Are you?” said Koster.

Robinson ignored the question. “How about some coffee? Espresso? Tea?” He looked at Sajan, then back at Koster again.

“No, thank you. And no fruit juice or yogurt or green figs.”

“Excuse me?” Robinson pointed to a couple of chairs. “Won't you have a seat, then?” he said. He walked back around the edge of his desk.

Sajan moved in to sit down but Koster hung back by the door. “Whatever I have to say, I say just to you.” He looked pointedly at Macalister.

Robinson sighed. He glanced at his assistant and nodded. “As you wish. Robert's not offended, are you, Robert?” He sat down at his desk.

“Not in the least.” Macalister raised a black eyebrow. It looked unnaturally dark over his glacial blue eyes. Then he turned and slipped out the door.

When they were alone, Koster stepped closer toward
Robinson's desk. But he still didn't sit down. “How long have you known?” he asked.

“Known what, Joseph?”

“About the God machine, Nick. Franklin's map. This was never about the Gospel of Judas, was it? You wanted the el Minya schematic. The gospel was just the cheese in your mousetrap.”

“That's not true. I still care about the Gospel of Judas. If it's as old as it appears, it could—”

“Shut up, Nick.”

“What did you say?” Robinson straightened. The smile seemed to freeze on his face.

“I said, ‘Shut up.’” Then he paused. “No, I didn't. I said, ‘Shut up, Nick.’”

“What's gotten into you, Joseph?”

“I thought we were friends. I thought we were on the same side, the same team. Why couldn't you have just been honest with me?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“You don't trust me, do you, is that it? Even after all these years.” Koster picked up the plastic bag at his feet and placed it with great care on the desk.

“What's that?”

“Franklin's journal. I don't want it. Take it back. I don't want any part of your quest anymore.”

Robinson pushed the plastic bag to the side. “This isn't about trust, Joseph. This isn't about you and me. It's about something much bigger, and far more important. This concerns all of mankind. The truth is,” he added, “I didn't want to see you get hurt.”

“Just admit it, Nick. You knew from the very beginning. About the God machine. About Franklin's map. And you called the schematics—what was it?
Masonic curiosities.”
Koster laughed.

“Yes, I knew. Does that make you feel better?”

“It's a start.” Koster finally sat down. He leaned forward and said, “You should have told me, Nick. About your role in the Freemasons. Mr. Thirty-third degree and all that. About your relationship with Savita. Yes, I know. And your friend, the Countess Irene. The GLF. I know all about it.”

Robinson turned toward Sajan. “My, haven't we gotten cozy?”

Koster sprang to his feet. He leaned across Robinson's desk. “Be careful, Nick.”

Robinson smiled. He leaned back in his chair. “Or what? This rough stuff doesn't become you, Joseph. It's simply not convincing.”

“Or you'll never get the last piece of the map.”

Robinson stiffened. “There was an Edison fragment?”

“A Tesla schematic,” Sajan said.

It was the first time she had spoken since they had entered the room and Koster felt charged by Sajan's words. She had finally said something. And on his behalf! “Yeah, the Tesla schematic. And that letter,” he added, “from von Neumann to Turing, about Boole. Your people stole it, didn't they? But the Knights took it away. Savita said you claimed it was news to you. Why did you deny knowing about it? Why did you lie?”

Robinson glanced at Sajan. “I… had my reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Joseph, are you sure you want to know what's really at stake here?”

“Stop playing games, Nick.”

“I've never been more serious in my life.” Robinson stood up. He buttoned his gray cashmere jacket. He straightened his tie. “No. I can't tell you, Joseph. I'm sorry.”

Koster flew around the desk in one fluid movement. He grabbed the front of Robinson's shirt. Robinson teetered for an instant on the tips of his toes, and then
tumbled back down to his chair. “Why the fuck not?” Koster snarled.

Nick stared down at the fingers clamped to his shirt. “But if you're willing,” he said with a Buddha-like smile, “I can show you.”

T
HEY TOOK THE PRIVATE ELEVATOR DOWN TO THE BASEMENT
garage and climbed into a beat-up Suburban, mud-splattered, beige, with tinted windows and the remnants of bumper stickers on the rear door. Macalister drove. Nick sat beside him, with Koster and Sajan in the back.

They drove west on Fourteenth Street, and then north onto Eighth Avenue. Macalister checked the mirror repeatedly. When he felt secure that they weren't being followed, Robinson swiveled about in his seat.

“For your own protection,” he said, pulling out a pair of black sleeping masks.

He climbed up on his knees, and placed one on Sajan's face and the other on Koster's. But it didn't matter. They drove north the whole time, except for a couple of detours—no doubt for their benefit, Koster thought. He knew by the temperature of the sun on his skin. They traveled ninety-eight blocks in this manner, and by the time the car came to a stop, they were somewhere in Harlem.

Robinson took off their masks. They were underground,
in a parking garage. It was a private garage with barely room for one car, it was so chock-full of spare parts and tires and tools. One half of the space was taken up by a workbench. They squeezed round the Suburban and made their way up some steps to the house.

No, it wasn't a house. It was a temple, Koster realized. Masonic symbols were all over the woodwork and flooring. But the place was a dump, ramshackle and dusty. And empty. There wasn't a soul anywhere. Loose boards had been tossed about with abandon. He noticed a saw-horse in one room. Dusty white sheets covered mysterious piles. There was a large hole in the living room wall. Struts poked through like cracked ribs. The place looked abandoned, like it hadn't been lived in for years. Except, Koster noticed, for the motion detectors. And the cameras. In each corner, mostly hidden by torn patches of wallpaper. The detectors and the cameras were new. They were state-of-the-art. And immaculate.

Robinson and Macalister led them through the mansion, past the foyer, down the hall to the staircase. It shuddered and shook as they climbed. Halfway up, a piece of the step had come loose; Koster could see the main floor beneath them, in between his feet.

Nick took a turn at the head of the stairs. They made their way down a long narrow corridor into a bedroom. Here again, the room was a mess. A rusting metal bed frame had collapsed in one corner. The wall-to-wall carpeting—a dusty pea green—had been ripped from the floor. A large painting had once hung on the wall, but all that remained was the shape of its memory, where it had protected a rectangle of textured green wallpaper. The rest had been blanched, microwaved through the years by the sun.

“This way,” Robinson told them, stepping into the closet. Macalister followed, then Sajan. Koster took up the rear. It was a tight fit. The closet was dark. Robinson
reached out and pushed at the wall, at something Koster couldn't quite see. There was a distinct
click
, and the shelves at the rear of the closet suddenly collapsed. The wall swung to the side. “Follow me,” Nick said. Then he vanished.

They trailed him into the passageway. It took a few seconds for Koster's eyes to adjust to the dark. Then he noticed a faint glow at the base of the corridor. At his feet. Something phosphorescent, he thought, as the door suddenly slammed
—Bam!—
right behind him.

Koster jumped.

They were trapped now. He and Sajan felt for each other, their hands reaching out in the dark.

“Don't be alarmed,” they heard Robinson say. A moment later, a light flashed on at the rear of the corridor. Another door opened, and once again Robinson vanished. He was suddenly gone. The man moved like a panther.

Koster looked over Sajan, over Macalister's shoulders, and saw a beam of white light, lancing down from the ceiling. A spotlight. It illuminated a glass-fronted case, like a rostrum, a podium. There was a manuscript in it. They entered the room and Koster spied a whole series of cases, each pinioned by bright beams of light. There were dozens of them, in several long rows. The rest of the windowless room was half lit. It looked like a museum. Or a mausoleum, thought Koster. A chill danced down his spine.

“I was twelve when I first heard of the Gospel of Judas and the El Minya schematic,” said Robinson. “The God machine. Just a boy, really.”

Koster stepped up to the nearest glass case. It contained a codex of some kind, some version of the Gospel of Judas. Medieval, he thought, with its effusive black script, its colorful lettering, dressed in blues and gold leaf. Thirteenth-century.

“I saw a rough sketch of it in a book that belonged to my father,” Robinson continued. “He was a Master Mason too. And I never forgot it.” He hesitated for a moment. “Just like Franklin.” Koster could see his outline but he couldn't quite see his face. Macalister moved through the shadows behind Nick. “It haunted me,” Nick concluded. “It lingered inside of me. And I wondered. I wondered,” he said, as he bobbed into the light, “why such a secret should have been passed down to us. Why this mysterious knowledge. Over the centuries. The millennia. First Abraham, who was a contemporary of Judas. It was Judas who showed him how to draw the schematic, long before he transcribed it. And da Vinci, who hid his fragment behind his portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, Duke Sforza's mistress. Hid it away, but for whom? And then Benjamin Franklin. And Nikola Tesla. All men of the Craft, I might add. All links in the chain. For whom?” he repeated. Then, he smiled. “They hid it for us.”