The Magdalene Cipher (26 page)

He went back to Dulles's earlier letters, scanning the pages until he found the one he was looking for—February 19—and the words “the political counterpart of
Dracunculus medinensus
.
(I invite you to look it up.)” Dunphy did
.

GUINEA WORM
. A waterborne nematode that causes an appalling disease. The females are larviparous, and grow to a length of one meter or more, working their way through the duodenum to the subcutaneous tissue, where the parasite discharges millions of eggs into the definitive host
(Homo sapiens)
. The intermediate host is the copepod
,
Cyclops
.
The appearance of an inflamed papule on a person's skin betrays the worm, which can be removed in a painful procedure of gradual extraction, using a short stick around which the worm is slowly wound over a period of several weeks. The procedure is thought to have inspired the medical symbol of the serpent entwined upon a caduceus
.

It was eleven fifty-five
.

He'd been reading the Dulles correspondence for nearly four hours, and he felt like he was going to lose it. The paranoia that he'd felt a few hours earlier was making a comeback. Every so often, it hit him that he was four stories underground, and the realization triggered a twinge of claustrophobia that he hadn't known that he'd had. And a question had arisen—one of those hostile questions whose origin seems to be in the spleen, rather than in the brain: what made him think he could walk in and out of the Special Registry, just because he had a building pass? What if Hilda and her friends wouldn't let him leave until they'd talked to Harry Matta?

Well, that's easy, Dunphy told himself. If they do that, you're a torso
.

Suddenly, he needed a breath of fresh air—at least, that's what he told himself. But the lie didn't take. He knew what he really wanted: to see if Dieter would let him out of the room. Getting up from the desk, he went to the door and opened it. As he suspected, Dieter was outside, sitting in a straight-back chair, reading
Maus
.

“Is there any coffee around here?” Dunphy asked
.

“Sure,” Dieter said, nodding toward the elevators. “In the canteen on the second floor.”

Dunphy pulled the door shut behind him and, walking backward, told the security guard not to let anyone in the room
.

“Of course not,” Dieter replied, and turned the page
.

Finding the cafeteria wasn't hard. It was noon, and it seemed like half the building was heading in its direction. By following the crowd, Dunphy soon found himself in the most wonderful—indeed, the only wonderful—cafeteria he'd ever been in. There were frescoes on every wall—pastoral scenes with modern faces—including those of Dulles and Jung, Pound and Harry Matta. There were no cash registers. Everyone just helped themselves. And Dunphy was tempted: there were heaps of seeded rolls and crusty breads, and platters of thinly sliced roast beef, duck, and venison. There were plates of raclette, spaetzle, and rosti, charred bratwurst and smoldering fondues flanked by icy beers and little bottles of wine. There were plates of cheese, towers of fruit, and baskets of salad
.

He helped himself to a cup of decaf and returned the way he'd come
.

“Here,” Dieter said, holding out a folded piece of paper
.

“What's that?” Dunphy asked, his apprehension returning
.

“A note—”

“For me?”

“Yes, take it! It's from your friend—Mike.”

Mike
a?

Dunphy took the note and went into the office, shutting the door behind him
.

The signature was a practiced scrawl:
R something something something G-O-L-D
.
R-gold. Mike R-gold. Rhinegold! Fuck!

Though it no longer mattered what time it was, Dunphy looked at his watch: twelve twenty-two. He had to get outa here because . . . because Dunphy knows Rhinegold, and Rhinegold knows Brading—and that ain't good. Rhinegold was the psycho nerd who'd debriefed him in the anechoic chamber at Langley, and
if he sees me here—in Zug—at the Registry . . . gotta go gotta go gotta go
.

And leave my nice topcoat. The one that cost a thousand pounds in the little square past the Zum Storchen. Because I don't think Dieter's gonna let me out of here with my coat on
.

With a rueful look, Dunphy cast his eyes toward the files on the desk. There were half a dozen unread letters from Dulles to Jung, and a stack of files marked
Bovine Census—N.M
.,
and
Bovine Census, CO
.
He'd never get to read them now. Unless . . 
.

He slipped one of the Census files inside his shirt and stuffed the last of the Dulles letters into one of his pockets. He was reaching for the Schidlof tapes when the door flew open, and Mike Rhinegold waltzed in with a glad hand and a dopey grin that dwindled in an instant to incomprehension—then swelled at the memory. Finally, a deep frown
.

“Heyyy . . .”

Dunphy was about as red-handed as a man could be, but his reflexes were excellent. Before Rhinegold could react, he had one hand at the scruff of the smaller man's neck and the other in the roots of his pompadour. Kicking the door shut, Dunphy jerked the geek into the room and slammed the bridge of his nose into the edge of the desk. A spritz of blood flew in an arc as the tapes jumped, and Rhinegold sagged
.

Holding him up by the arms, Dunphy gave him a little shake, as if he were a piggy bank. Nothing there. Out cold
.

And then a knock at the door. “Hallo?”

“It's okay,” Dunphy said. “Mike and I are just—”

Rhinegold's heel came down on Dunphy's instep, twisting and grinding, pulling an agonized yelp from Dunphy's mouth
.

“Dieter!” Rhinegold screamed as Dunphy lifted him off his feet and, pivoting, slammed him into the wall. Again. And again, until the door burst open, and Dieter stepped in, startled to see Dunphy's pal drop to the floor like a sack of mulch. And the wall behind Dunphy dappled with little loops of Michael Rhinegold's blood
.

“Was der Fuck?!”
a The big man took a step toward Dunphy, and another, backing the American into a corner of the little room. His eyes were bright with excitement as he feinted to the left, then jabbed with his right, hitting Dunphy twice in the same second. The American's head smacked against the wall as his upper lip split and started to bleed. He's a boxer, Dunphy thought with a sinking feeling, as Dieter's heavy left hand piled into the pit of his stomach, folding Dunphy in half
.

Then the German made a mistake. He grabbed Dunphy by the tie and straightened him up with a single jerk. “So!” he demanded in his corny accent, “you want rough games, hey?” And, with a smile, he smacked Dunphy in the face with his open hand. Dunphy was on his way out, consciousness fading, when it happened—and he just couldn't believe it. This meatball had bitch-slapped him!

And again!
The motherfucker had done it again!

Dunphy's hand came up fast and flat, the knuckles curled into a wedge that slammed into Dieter's throat like the edge of a board, crushing the cartilage around his larynx. In an instant, Dieter was doubled over, holding his throat as if it were trying to get away
.

The noise he made was awful, a gargling gasp that went on and on. Dunphy glanced wildly around the room, looking for something to shut him up, but the only thing he could find was the metal stapler on the desk. It wasn't much, but he picked it up, turned it around, and ejecting a staple—
ping!
a—used it as a blackjack, slamming it into the back of the security guard's head. Then again, and again, staggering the man until his skin softened to a kind of pudding. Finally, the big guy sagged to his knees, fell forward, and sprawled. The gargle became a gurgle, now
.

Dunphy's heart was beating like a conga drum as he wiped the blood from his hands and dried them on Rhinegold's coattails. Adjusting his tie, he ran his tongue over his upper lip, wincing as it caught on the place where it was split. Then he pulled on his topcoat, patted down his hair, and—

The telephone warbled, a weird electronic trill
.

Dunphy stared at it, uncertain what to do. It rang again, and then a third time. Finally, he picked it up
.

“Hello?”

“This is Hilda.”

“Hello, Hilda.”

“Eugene?”

“Yes.”

“I think your friend Michael has been to see you.”

“Yeah,” Dunphy said. “We were just talking.”

“Well, I think perhaps we should call the
Direktor
now. So, if you will come up to my office . . .”

“I'll be right up.”

“And perhaps I could have a word with Dieter?”

“Uhh . . . lemme see if he's outside.” Dunphy paused, took a deep breath, and then another. Finally, he said, “I think he stepped away from his chair.”

“Excuse?”

“He's getting me a file. Do you want me to wait for him, or just come up by myself?”

“Oh, well . . . I think . . . just come up.”

“I'm on the way.” Dunphy hung up the phone, reached down, and jerked the cord out of the wall. Then he went over to Dieter and patted him down. Finding the key in the fallen man's pocket, he went to the door and, pulling it open a crack, peered out
.

A slow but steady stream of people moved through the hallway, going about their business. Dunphy stepped outside the room, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Summoning an inane smile to his broken lips, he walked toward the elevator as slowly as he could, fighting the urge to break into a run. A woman caught his eye, and as he looked away, he saw a frown flash across her face, as if she were thinking, There's something wrong with that guy
.

He could tell it wasn't just the blood on his lip, or the disarray that he must have been in: it was the vibe he was giving off. She could see it in his eyes, and
she
knew that
he
knew she could see it. But then he was past her, strolling and smiling, and there was nothing for her to do, really: it had only been a moment, a moment in passing, and now that moment was gone. She must have been mistaken
.

Or so, he hoped, she thought
.

Arriving at the elevator's doors, he pressed the button that would summon it, then waited for what seemed an age, waiting for an outcry at his back. But there was nothing, and then the doors opened and it was as if he were onstage: half a dozen people looked him up and down—it took only a second—and then he was among them, and the doors closed. Slowly, the elevator began to ascend in a silence so deafening, so pointed, and, somehow, so incriminating that it occurred to him to whistle. A happy tune
.

Then the elevator opened, and he was in the lobby, moving quickly toward the revolving doors that stood between him and the street. One—three—five strides. Now, he was through the doors and trotting down the steps, setting off toward his rendezvous—

When a hand fell on his shoulder, and a man's voice said
,
“Entschuldigen Sie mich?”

Dunphy turned with his right hand low, down at his side, but fully cocked and ready to tee off
.

“Ich denke, daß Sie dieses fallenließen.”
Dunphy didn't understand the words, and what was worse, he must have looked like it because the man's smile turned to a scowl. He was holding a piece of paper, and at a glance, Dunphy saw what it was: one of the Dulles letters must have fallen out of his pocket in the lobby. As Dunphy reached for it, the man's eyes dropped to the page he was holding. There was a frown of incomprehension, followed by a look of startled recognition. For an instant, they were holding the letter at the same time. Then the man let go and, backing away, turned and started to run
.

Dunphy took a few steps backward, shoving the letter into his pocket. Then he turned and, slowly at first, started jogging toward the little café where Clementine was supposed to be waiting. As he moved, he glanced at his watch, and it was as he'd expected: the big hand was on
Torso
,
and the little hand on
Run!

Chapter 23

She was a minute late
.

Or he was a minute early. In either case, he found himself standing in front of the café on Alpenstrasse, looking left and right, like a deer getting ready to bolt across a busy highway. Any second now, Hilda would wonder what had happened to him. Dieter and Rhinegold would begin to stir. The guy who'd found the letter would report what he'd seen. And then a posse would come boiling out of the Special Registry, moving north, south, east, and west until they found him
.

So where is she? he wondered. Getting the money
.

Right. The money. It occurred to Dunphy, not for the first time, that there really
was
quite a bit of money in the safe-deposit box on the Bahnhofstrasse. And after the way he'd treated Clementine, disappearing for months without a word, who could blame her if she just kept going? Fly to Rio, work on her tan for a couple of years, fall in love with someone who wasn't on the run
.

Then again, he asked himself, where's she gonna find someone who's so much fun?

Looking back the way he'd come, Dunphy sensed, rather than saw, a commotion on the sidewalk outside the Special Registry. Half a dozen guys in black suits, looking like the Blues Brothers, turning their heads this way and that. I'm dead, he thought. They'll see me any second. Oh, Clem, I can't believe you fucked me like this. And with that his eyes swung left and right, looking for a car to jack
.

Then he saw her, coming up Alpenstrasse in the rented Golf, beeping and waving as if she were a soccer mom delivering the kids to the field seconds before the big game. Very un-Swiss, Dunphy decided as he covered the ground between them in a dozen strides, yanked open the door, and dived in
.

“Do you want to drive?” she asked
.

“No,” Dunphy replied, jackknifing into the seat so that his head couldn't be seen above the dashboard
.

“Because I don't mind, really.”

“No, it's okay.”

“If you'd like—”

“Will you fucking go?!”

She looked at him for a deliberately long moment, then threw the car in gear. “No need to be snappish,” she said, as the car began to move
.

“I'm
sorry
,
a” he replied, gritting his teeth. “It's just that—there are people who want to kill me. So, if you'd just tell me what you see? That would be good
.
Please
.
a”

“People. Rather a lot of people, actually. Coming out of a building—in a hurry.”

“
Which
building?”

“I don't know. It's an old one. Number 15.”

“Jesus!”

“Is that where
you
were?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it looks as if they're having a sort of . . . fire drill. Except, it's gone all wrong.”

“Don't look at them.”

“Why not?”

“Just drive.”

“It's rather hard not to look at them,” she said. “They're all over the place.”

He felt the car brake, and then they were idling, going nowhere. “Now what?”

“We're stopped.”

“I can tell that we're stopped—but why?”

“Because there's a red light. Would you like me to go through it?”

“No!”

“Good, because I don't fancy backseat drivers—especially when they're sitting next to me with their heads under the glove box.”

Son of a bitch, he thought. It's like we're married. “Just . . . tell me when we're out of town, okay?”

“Ab-zoob-ally.”

The car lurched, and once again they were moving. Doubled over in the seat, Dunphy held his peace until Clem confirmed that they were in the country. Straightening, he sat up and looked around. They were winding their way through the mountains, heading for the airport
.

“You get the tickets?” he asked
.

“Business class. Cost a bloody fortune.”

“And the money?”

She nodded
.

Dunphy heaved a sigh of relief, then went into her handbag, looking for the cigarettes that he knew would be there. Finding a pack of Marlboros, he lighted one. Sat back and exhaled. His mind was at the races, ricocheting from Dulles to Jung to Brading and his cows
.

After a while, Clem turned to him and, with a raised eyebrow, said, “So?”

Dunphy looked at her. “What?”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

He thought about it. “I don't know,” he said. “I think so—but it's complicated. I have to sort things out.”

She gave him a skeptical look and kept driving
.

Kloten Airport was a risk, but not as much of a risk as Heathrow would have been a few days earlier. While the Agency was not without influence in Switzerland, it did not have anything like the clout that it did in England. The Swiss were protective of their independence and neutrality and kept their distance from the special services of other countries—including those of the United States. This meant that things tended to be done by the book, and slowly, so that if the Agency wanted the airport watched, it would almost certainly have to do so itself
.

But they couldn't have moved that fast. It was less than an hour from Zug to the airport, and once there, Dunphy and Clem had checked in for their flight within minutes of returning the rental car. For the next half hour, they sat in the Swissair lounge, chain-drinking cups of coffee as they waited for their flight to be called. At any minute, Dunphy expected Rhinegold to show up with half a dozen knuckle-draggers at his side, but nothing happened. Their flight was called at two fifty-five. Half an hour later, they were soaring above the Bernese Oberland on their way to Madrid. Dunphy sipped from a flute of nonvintage Mumm
.

Once again, he'd gotten out of Dodge
.

“Tell me,” Clem said
.

“What?”

“What it's all about.”

Dunphy thought about it. She certainly had a right to know—they were in this together, and she was in as much danger as he. On the other hand, he didn't really
know
what it was all about. “I just know some of it,” he told her. “Bits and pieces. A couple of names. I don't even know who some of them are, or what they mean.”

“Just tell me.”

He looked over his shoulder. The seat behind them was empty, and there was only the pilot's cabin in front of them. Across the aisle, a young African man was slumped in his seat, eyes closed, listening to his Walkman. Dunphy could hear it, a tinny buzz that was just loud enough to be familiar: Cesaria Evora
.

“You'll think I'm crazy,” he said
.

“No, I won't.”

“Yeah, you will.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dunphy said, “it's, like, a secret society.”

Clem gave him a look, thinking he was kidding. “Is it now?”

Dunphy smiled ruefully. “Uh-huh.”

She held his gaze until she saw that he was serious. “You're not kidding, are you?”

“No,” he said, “I'm not.”

She thought about it for a moment. “So, it's like the Freemasons?”

Dunphy shook his head. “No. Not like them.”

“Then what?”

He sipped his champagne. “I don't know,” he said. “I'm not sure
what
they're like. But it's called the Magdalene Society. And it's very old.”

“
How
a old?”

Dunphy shrugged. “According to them—Francis Bacon was a member.”

Clementine scoffed. “You're having me on.”

“I'm not.”

She looked uncertain. “Well, that would make it four hundred years old.”

Dunphy shook his head. “They said he was a member. They didn't say he was the first member. It could be older than that. Maybe a lot older.” He looked out the window at what might have been a Swissair postcard: cerulean skies and umber mountains, plastered with snow. It was a beautiful world at thirty-five thousand feet
.

But it was a dangerous one on the ground
.

Adjusting the pitch to his seat, he sat back and closed his eyes. It's too big, he thought. Whatever it is, it's just too big. We'll never get out of it. He opened his eyes and looked out the window once again, thinking, It doesn't matter how much I find out. What do I do with it—go to the police? Go to the press? They'd have me committed
.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Clem suggested
.

In fact, he was thinking
,
These guys are gonna kill us
.
But what he said was, “You'd be overpaying.”

Clem raised her glass and sipped, then put it down on the little tray that covered her lap. “You haven't told me why we're going to Tenerife,” she said
.

“I've got a friend there.”

Another skeptical look. “No one has friends on Tenerife,” she said. “It's the middle of nowhere.”

Dunphy grinned. “Tommy's special.”

“Why?”

“Because he's caught up in the same thing we are.”

They didn't say anything for what seemed like a long time. Dunphy watched the clouds wrap themselves around the Alps, while Clem leafed through a copy of
Mein schöner Garten
.
Finally, she stuffed the magazine into the seat pocket in front of her
.

“Is it a religious society?” she asked
.

Dunphy nodded
.

“I thought so,” she said
.

“Why?”

“Because of the Magdalene part.” She gave him a sly look. “You know,” she said, “I always wondered if there wasn't something between them, didn't you?”

He didn't know what she meant. “Who?” he asked
.

“
You
know—Him! And her. Mary Magdalene!”

Dunphy winced. “Clem—I had nuns as a kid, so . . .”

“What?”

“Well, you talk like that, and next thing you know, the plane crashes. Hit by lightning. Happens all the time.”

“I'm serious, Jack!”

“Clem . . .”

“Washed his feet, she did!”

“So?”

“Nothing. I just wonder if there wasn't something
there
,
that's all!”

Dunphy shook his head as if to clear it. “I don't get it.”

“I'm just saying, she washed his
feet
,
Jack. I've never washed yours.”

“Noted.” Once again, the two of them retreated into their own thoughts, with Dunphy trying to make sense of what he'd read that morning, and Clem—well, Clem—who knew what Clem was thinking? After a while, he leaned closer to her and began to muse aloud. “There's this statue in Einsiedeln.”

“That place you went? In the mountains?”

“Yeah. And they have a statue—like the Virgin Mary, except—she's black. And Jesus, too
.
He's
black. And the place I went in Zug? The Special Registry? They have the same image on their security passes. It's a hologram. And there's a shrine on the first floor, right where you go in.”

“Is that what you call the place? The Special Registry?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How boring.”

“They're bureaucrats.”

“Still . . . What was it like?” she asked
.

Dunphy thought about it. “Shakespeare on the outside, Arthur C. Clarke when you got in.”

“And they have files there?”