The Magdalene Cipher (19 page)

“I guess I could stay at my girlfriend's,” Clem said. “She has a cottage near Oxford.” She wrote the address on a scrap of paper and handed it to him
.

“Look for a FedEx truck, okay?”

She nodded. “You won't just leave me there?” she asked
.

Dunphy shook his head. “No,” he said. “I'm not gonna do that again.”

The morning was bright and blustery, with soft, lenticular clouds floating over a meringue of whitecaps in St. Helier's harbor. He bought a ticket for the hydrofoil and waited with Clementine until it was time to leave
.

“I'll call you from Switzerland,” he said, and held her in his arms
.

“You won't lose the number?”

“No.”

“Because if you do, she's ex-Directory—”

“I've memorized it,” he said, feeling her jump as a bell rang to signal the boat's departure. “And remember—”

“I know, pay cash for everything. Don't use the phone. And don't talk to strangers.”

He kissed her gently. “What else?”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “I don't remember.”

“Look both ways . . .”

***

The Banque Privat de St. Helier was in a three-story town-house on Poonah Road, about a block from the Parade Garden. In a niche beside the front door, a gleaming brass plaque announced the building's identity, and that of its tenant, J. Picard. Climbing out of his taxi, Dunphy was assailed by the smell of hops from the brewery around the corner
.

It was his second visit to the bank in as many years. The nature of his work, or what had been his work, dictated that he should establish as many contacts as possible in the worlds of offshore banking and “creative accountancy.” Accordingly, he had made it a point to spread his business around, so that, on Jersey alone, he'd opened nearly fifty accounts in as many as six or seven banks
.

But he'd met Jules Picard only once. This was two years earlier, when he'd introduced himself as a new customer, establishing his bona fides with a large cash deposit and a letter of introduction from a solicitor in the Outer Hebrides
.

Mounting the steps to the bank's impressive oak door, Dunphy remembered Picard as a wheezing old man who'd climbed the steps to his office with so much effort that he, Dunphy, had feared the banker would have a heart attack, there and then
.

“May I help you?”

The words crackled out of the speaker phone beside the door. Dunphy leaned closer to it and, speaking in a soft brogue, replied, “Mr. Thornley for Mr. Picard.”

There was no response for what seemed like a long time. Beginning to feel the cold, Dunphy took a step back and glanced around. Helluva way to run a bank, he thought, noticing for the first time the closed-circuit cameras in the eaves. “I'll just wait out here, then,” he said, smiling at the nearest camera. “No rush a-tall.”

Soon afterward, the door swung open noiselessly, revealing an older woman whose elegant demeanor was at odds with her improbable size. By Dunphy's guess, she was half an inch this way or that of six feet tall and built like a rower—not what one expected of a woman in her sixties
.

“Was Mr. Picard expecting you?”

It was the woman he'd spoken to on the phone the day before. “Not unless the man's gone clairvoyant on us,” Dunphy replied
.

A thin smile from his hostess, who led him down a narrow corridor hung with a brace of Orientalist paintings. Elegant in a black pantsuit, she wore her battleship-gray hair compressed at the back in a no-nonsense bun
.

“If you'll have a seat,” she suggested, ushering Dunphy into a brightly lighted room that looked out upon a winter-withered garden. “I'll let him know you're here.”

Dunphy did as she suggested, and took a seat on the leather couch, crossing his legs. Soon, a brisk knock rattled the door, and a tall man strode in wearing a houndstooth jacket and slacks so sharply creased as to be dangerous. “Mr. Thornley!” he declared
.

“The very one,” Dunphy acknowledged, getting to his feet and shaking hands. “But I was expecting Mr. Picard.”

“Then you won't be disappointed. I
am
Mr. Picard. And it's a pleasure to meet you—I've heard so much.”

Dunphy shot him a questioning look
.

“Lewis Picard,” the banker announced. “With a
w
a.” Bright smile
.

Dunphy thought about it for a moment and said, “Well, it's grand to meet you, but—”

“You were expecting Jules. My father!”

“Exactly.”

The man gave him a pained look. “Well, I'm afraid he's
dead
a—so that's not on. But
perhaps
I can be of help?”

The young man's brisk demeanor was unsettling, and it was only with an effort that Dunphy remembered his brogue. “Well, I expect so,” he said. “I mean, of course ya can, but . . . Jay-sus, man, how did it happen?”

“You mean, old Jules?”

“Yes!”

“No great surprise, really. Heart attack on the stairs. Tumble tumble! Dead before he hit the ground.”

Dunphy winced. “Poor man!”

“Mmmm. Pity. So much to give.”

“And when did it happen?”

“About a year ago.”

“Oh. I see.”

A silence fell between them, which Lewis Picard finally broke. “I take it you weren't
close
to Dad?”

“No,” Dunphy replied. “Not close, not really.”

“Well, then, no need to grieve at this late date! What can I do for you?”

Dunphy cleared his throat. “I'm havin' to make a small withdrawal.”

Picard
fils
removed an elasticated policeman's notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket. A fountain pen was conjured from the same site, uncapped, and pointed at the page. “Very well. That's what we're here for. And which account would that be?”

“Sirocco Services.”

Picard began to write the name in his book, then hesitated—as if something had suddenly occurred to him. Something unpleasant. Slowly, he looked up and smiled. “Sirocco?”

“Exactly.”

“I see. And, umm, how much will you be withdrawing?”

“The entire amount.”

Picard nodded thoughtfully. “As I recall, that's rather a lot of currency.”

“About three hundred thousand quid—a little less.” Dunphy patted the attaché case that he'd stopped to buy on the way to the bank. “But I think it will fit.”

“Mmmm,” Picard mused, rapidly tapping his expensive pen on the little notebook in his hand
.

“Is there a problem, then?” Dunphy asked
.

“No,” Picard answered, regarding Dunphy with a dubious eye. “It's just that . . . we seem to be having a bit of a run this morning.”

Dunphy leaned toward him and, as he did, dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “Now, about that, Mr. Picard. I wouldn't be too upset, if I were you, because I have a small confession to make.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. I should have told you, right off. I was on the phone with your assistant yesterday and— Now, that reminds me, I've been meaning to ask, is she the only one who works with you here?”

“She is, and quite competently.”

“Oh, there's no doubt about that—the woman has a demeanor of great efficiency,” Dunphy agreed, thinking, The bitch is probably on the blower even now, ratting me out to Blémont's man, telling him where I am. “But as I was sayin', I got on the phone to her yesterday morning, having just gotten in from the night before, if you get my meaning . . .”

“You were drunk.”

“As a lord. And, no malice intended, of course, but I will admit to having played a role—for the laugh that was in it.”

“I see,” Picard said, nodding to himself as if he'd just confirmed a dark suspicion. “Not that I'm surprised. She told me she'd spoken to someone who'd pretended to be an American. I take it that was you?”

Dunphy shrugged, slightly hurt by the characterization. “It may well have been.”

“And that leaves us . . . precisely where?” The banker looked expectantly at Dunphy, who handed him a letter written on stationery from The Longueville Manor
.

“The letter's self-explanatory,” he said. “If you'll lend me your pen, I'll give you my signature. There's only one on the account. And the number's right there at the top of the page, where it says
in re
.
Once I've had my money, I won't bother you any further.”

Picard gave him the pen and watched as Dunphy signed the letter, requesting the bank close out the Sirocco account. “You know,” Picard remarked, returning the pen to his pocket and taking the letter that Dunphy had signed, “we had some unpleasantness here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. About this very account.”

“Did you now?” Dunphy asked, his voice thick with incredulity
.

“Ye-esss . . . chap named Blémont stopped in. This was several months ago. Said the money was his.”

“Jay-sus, Mary, and Joseph—they're gettin' nervier every day!” Dunphy exclaimed
.

“Mmmm.”

“And what did you tell the man?”

“Well, you can imagine,” Picard replied. “No one here knew him from a bale of hay. No signature on record. No references. Though, mind you, he did mention
your
name!”

“My name?!”

“In fact, and repeatedly.”

“The nerve! And what did you do?”

“Showed him the door. Told him I'd ring the police. What else could I do?”

“Quite right.”

“More than my job's worth! Though I
will
say, he seemed quite determined. Outraged, even.”

“A great actor, no doubt!”

“Precisely. And I must say, not terribly happy in the presence of noes.”

“Jay-sus. Was he threatening, then?”

“Indeed. Well,” the banker said, clapping his hands together, “just a little heads-up for you. Mustn't grumble.”

Dunphy blushed
.

“Now, if you'll just follow me, we'll get your money,” Picard said, smiling widely. “Whomever it belongs to.”

Chapter 20

The voyage from St. Helier to Saint-Malo was rough, the Channel a froth of whitecaps. Sitting at a table in the first-class restaurant, drinking coffee, Dunphy surveyed his fellow passengers and wondered which, if any, of them was following him
.

On leaving the bank, he had almost expected to find Blémont waiting for him on the corner, but, of course, the Frenchman was nowhere around. Just to be sure, Dunphy had taken taxis from one end of the island to the other, directing the drivers down roads that were more like country lanes. And while the drivers thought he was odd, it was apparent, from all the doubling back that they did, that no one was on their tail
.

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
.