The Magdalene Cipher (30 page)

Gibeglisociates
.

Hallo! Schidlof here!

Yeah—

Dunphy stopped the tape and rewound it
.

Gibegli Associates
.

And again
.

Gil Beckley Associates
.

Schidlof here!

Yeah, Dr. Schidlof. Good to hear from you
.

I was calling about the check that I sent
.

Right—well, I want to thank you for that
.

It was meant to be a retainer
.

So I understand
.

And I was wondering if you'd had a chance to look at the letter
.

I have
.

And? Were you able to form an opinion
a?

Oh, it's authentic. No question
.

The tape turned silently for five or ten seconds
.

Professor
a?

Yes
.

I thought I'd lost you for a second
.

No, it's just that—

If you'd like, I can put you in touch with someone who, uh, works for Sotheby's. Top-notch
.

No—

He could probably get you a thousand for it—maybe more. So you wouldn't be out of pocket
.

Beckley's voice reminded Dunphy of where he'd seen him—on one of Diane Sawyer's shows, talking about the Hitler diaries that weren't
.

Well, I appreciate that, but . . . at the moment, I just want to authenticate the letters
.

It was Beckley's turn to be quiet. Then
,
Oh! I didn't realize there was—

Yes. It's a correspondence. I thought I'd made that clear
.

No
.

Well . . 
.

And these are . . . you say they're all from Allen Dulles
a?

Yes. They begin in the early thirties. Jung died in 1961. So that was the end of it
.

I see
.
Beckley went quiet again
.
Y'know, this could be a little sensitive
.

Oh? And how is that
a?

Well . . . Allen Dulles was a very big guy. Had his fingers in a lot of pies
.

I realize that, of course, but . . 
.

If you'd like, I could take a look at the rest of the correspondence
.

That's kind of you, but—

No charge
.

There's no point, really
.

The conversation went on for perhaps another minute, with Beckley wheedling to see the other letters, and Schidlof politely declining. Finally, the professor rang off, saying he had a tutorial
.

Dunphy recalled the flash cable that he'd seen in the Special Registry—the one from Matta to Curry. “Unilaterally controlled source . . . Andromeda-sensitive materials . . . Who's Schidlof?”

Well, Dunphy thought, at least now we know who the source was—not that there was ever much doubt. Poor Schidlof had gone to absolutely the wrong man. Beckley was one of those Washington types who never quite get over losing their security clearances. Retiring
,
perforce
,
at fifty, they would do anything to demonstrate their continued usefulness to the intelligence community, anything to “keep their hand in,” anything to remain “a player.”

And so Beckley had shopped his client to the Agency's Office of Security in exchange for a pat on the back. I wonder if he got one, Dunphy thought. Or if, like Schidlof, he's sleeping with the fishes. Dunphy hoped it was the latter
.

Looking up from the tape recorder, he signaled Miguel for another espresso, and glanced around. To his surprise, he saw that he was no longer the bar's only customer. A young couple were sitting at a table on the veranda, talking animatedly about something or other. And there was a man at the bar with his back turned, quietly drinking a beer. Nice work shirt, Dunphy thought, admiring its color, which was a sort of cobalt blue
.

Then he looked out over the beach, searching for Clem, but he couldn't find her. There were dozens of swimmers, wading in and out of the water, and at least a hundred sun-bathers, about half of them nude—sleeping, reading, baking in the heat
.

Unlike himself. The bar was cool. Damp, even
.

Dunphy readjusted the headphones over his ears, pressed the Play button, and began to listen
.

Schidlof reserving tickets to a Spurs match. Schidlof canceling a dental appointment. Schidlof commiserating with another teacher about their intolerable course loads. Schidlof listening compliantly to a telemarketing pitch. And then—Schidlof dialing out—and a chirpy voice:

Hallo 'allo
a?!

Dr. Van Warden
a?

Just Al, thank you very much!

Oh! Well, this is Leo Schidlof—King's College
a?

Yes
a?

I was hoping I might see you
.

Oh
a?

Mmmm. In fact, I was hoping that, if you're free, we might have lunch
.
A pause, which Schidlof rushes to fill
.
I've become quite interested in the Magdalene Society
.

A chuckle from Van Worden
.
Really
a?!

Yes. And, uhhh, from what I understand, you're one of the few people who can tell me about it
.

Welll, yes . . . I suppose I am, but—you're a historian
a?

Miguel arrived with Dunphy's espresso, silently setting it on the table
.

A psychologist, actually
.

Oh . . . I see
.
Long pause
.
Though, I don't, really. Why would a psychologist be interested in something like that? I mean, they died out two hundred years ago!
a Silence from Schidlof
.
Professor
a?

Yes
a?

I was wondering why a psychologist—

Because I'm not sure they did
.

Did what
a?

Died out
.

This time, it was Van Worden's turn to be quiet. Finally, he said
,
Well! By all means, then. Let's have lunch
.

Dunphy wondered who Van Worden was. A professor of some sort—probably history. Someone, in any case, who knew enough about the Magdalene Society that Schidlof would seek him out
.

He rewound the tape to a point just before the beginning of the conversation. There were seven dialing tones, and then Van Worden's cheerful voice
.
Hallo 'allo?!
Which meant that it was a local call from Schidlof's house. Which put Van Worden somewhere in central London
.

Dunphy was thinking that Van Worden was probably in the London telephone book when he heard a muffled shout. As he looked up, something loomed in the corner of his left eye, but even as he turned toward it, he froze with shock as the man at the bar hit Miguel with a bottle. Then a bat or a brick or
something
hit him behind the ear, and the world flashed, a blaze of white that faded fast as Dunphy went over and down, hitting the tiled floor, hard. The earphones were gone now, and the scream was louder, a ululating shriek as Dunphy clawed at his waist for the handgun that Boylan had given him. He had it halfway out of his waistband when the toe of a boot slammed into his kidney, and into his shoulder, and into his kidney again. Now there were two people shouting or screaming, and dimly, he realized the second person was himself. Someone's instep smashed into his ribs, rolling him over, and then the gun was going off, wild and fast. He didn't know who or what or how many he was shooting at, but somehow he'd started firing, flailing and firing, crabbing across the floor on his back, trying to keep away from the boot. People were shouting—
he
was shouting—

Then something happened in the back of his head, and the world snapped off with a soft
click
and a shower of little bright lights
.

Chapter 25

He was sick to his stomach. Sick to his head. Sick to everything. His lower back felt as if it was broken, and his rib cage was in splinters
.

He was sitting somewhere, eyes on his knees, afraid to look up. Afraid, almost, to breathe. And then a wave of dizziness and nausea came over him, and made him retch, a dry heave. The world swam into view
.

He was in a workshop of some kind. Fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, and a sharp, unpleasant smell filled the air. Wood stain. His head was pounding as if it were being squeezed and released, squeezed and released. Almost against his will, he looked up and saw—

Furniture. Lots of it. And bolts of fabric. Wires and springs. An upholstery shop. And then—slowly, and from what at first seemed far away—a clapping sound filled the room. Dunphy turned toward it
.

Roger Blémont was sitting in an overstuffed green wing chair, applauding so slowly that each clap began to fade before its successor split the air. He was smiling and, as always, impeccably dressed. The Breitling watch and Cole-Haans, the razor-creased trousers and . . . work shirt
.

He'd been sitting at the bar while Dunphy listened to the Schidlof tape. Dunphy had seen him, but only from the back, and now . . 
.

“You look like shit,” Blémont remarked
.

A soft groan fell from Dunphy's lips
.

“Un vrai merdiers.”

Dunphy heard a little laugh and turned his head to see who it was: the Jock, with his boots and leather jacket, lounging against the back of a couch, watching Dunphy with undisguised curiosity. And in a chair nearby, the Alsatian, looking blank
.

Why here?
Dunphy wondered, looking around. Then he saw it—the white flag, like the pin Blémont sometimes wore, hanging above a cluttered workbench. And on it, a blue-and-gold banner with the words:
Contre la boue
.
Blémont, it seemed, had friends even in the Canaries
.

Get out, Dunphy told himself. Instinctively, he struggled to stand, gritting his teeth against the pain—but, no. His wrists were tied behind his back
.

“You know, Kerry—” Blémont began in a soft voice
.

“My name's not Kerry,” Dunphy muttered
.

Blémont chuckled. “I don't give a shit what your name is.”

“You ought to,” Dunphy shot back. “You're going to need it to get your money back.”

“Ahhhh,” the Corsican said, as if he'd just remembered something. “The money. I told Marcel, I said, ‘We'll talk about the money, Kerry and I.' ” He glanced at the Jock. “Didn't I?”

The big man nodded, lighting a small cigar
.

Still smiling, Blémont crossed the room, then sank to his haunches in front of Dunphy, and looked him in the eyes. “Why did you take my money?” he asked
.

“I needed it,” Dunphy said. “I was in a lot of trouble.”

“Was?”

Dunphy looked away. He hurt all over, and he knew it was just the beginning. Blémont was going to fuck him up. He could see it in his eyes
.

“You know, it really is quite a lot of money,” the Corsican remarked. “And not just the money from the stock. There is the interest, as well
.
N'est-ce-pas
a?”

Dunphy sighed
.

“And, after the interest, there is also the . . .” Blémont frowned. “How do you say—
le dessous de table
a?”

“The bribe,” the Jock said
.

“Exactly.”

“What bribe?” Dunphy asked
.

“For the secretary,” Blémont replied. “In St. Helier. How do you think we found you?”

So he'd been right. Great
.

“And there are expenses, too. Marcel and Luc. They have their fees, as you can imagine. Their costs. Quite a
lot
of costs. Ships. Planes. Hotels. Restaurants. Well, they have to eat.”

Dunphy's eyes went from Blémont to the Jock, and then to the Alsatian
.

“Hey,” Blémont said in a softly chiding voice. “I'm over here.”

But Dunphy couldn't turn away. His eyes were locked with the Alsatian's, who sat slumped in an overstuffed armchair, glaring at him. For a moment, it seemed to Dunphy that this was meant to be a hard stare, the kind of stare that enemies exchange when they see each other across a crowded room. But then he saw the red sash around the man's waist and knew it wasn't a cumberbund. The Alsatian was bleeding to death—right there, right in the chair. And the look on his face was that of a guy who was doing everything he could
not to lose it
.
To stay in control. Hold it in. Hold it
all
in
.

Fuck all, Dunphy thought. I've
had
it
.

Blémont followed his gaze, and once again, the realization siren went off. “Aaaaaaah, I see your point,” the Corsican exclaimed. “You're thinking, if Luc is
passé
,
there is no need to pay him.” He pushed his lips together in a little moue. “Good point. But Luc will be okay, won't you, Luc?”

A doubtful murmur from the Alsatian
.

“What happened?” Dunphy asked
.

Blémont made a comical expression. “You shot him.”

Dunphy's surprise was obvious
.

“You were falling,” the Jock explained. “You got off a couple of shots. It was luck.”

“He's dying,” Dunphy told them
.

Blémont dismissed the idea. “He'll be all right.”

“He's bleeding to death.”

“No, no
.
He's fine
.
a” Blémont put his mouth next to Dunphy's right ear and whispered, “You're going to frighten him.”

It was the funniest thing Dunphy had heard all day, but he didn't laugh. “Look,” he said, “I can get you your money back.”

Blémont nodded indifferently. “I know.”

The Jock muttered to himself, then tossed the cheroot that he'd been smoking to the floor. Grinding it out with the toe of his boot, he turned to Blémont
.
“Pourquoi juste ne le detruisons? . . .”

Dunphy didn't get it all. His own French was mediocre, at best. “Why don't we . . .” something . . . something
.

“Soyez patient,”
Blémont said. Then he turned to Dunphy, and explained, “He wants to kill you.”

Dunphy glanced in the Jock's direction. “Why? I don't even know him.”

Once again, Blémont leaned in close and whispered. “Because he thinks you've killed his boyfriend—and, you know? Just between us? I think he may be right.” Then he laughed
.

It took Dunphy a moment to understand. Blondie and the Jock weren't just a team. They were an item. “Look,” he said, trying to keep the conversation businesslike, “I can get you the money. Not just what's in the bank. The rest, too.”

“The rest? How much have you spent?” Blémont asked
.

Dunphy hesitated for a moment and lied. “Twenty thousand,” he said. “Maybe twenty-two.”

“Pounds?”

“Dollars.”

Blémont rolled his head from side to side, thinking about it. Then he said, “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“What took you so long?”

Dunphy didn't know what he meant. “To do what?” he asked
.

“Go after the money. You'd been gone for months.”

Dunphy thought about it, unsure what to say or how much. Finally, he shrugged. “I was in the States. I couldn't get away.”

Blémont wagged his forefinger at him. “Don't bullshit me.”

“I'm not.”

“You're running from something,” Blémont told him. “And not just me.”

Dunphy didn't say anything
.

“We went to your office,” Blémont continued. “
Nothing
.
And your flat—it's the same thing. So I think, my old friend, Kerry—he's taken
everyone's
money. But, no. I go to Kroll. You know Kroll?”

Dunphy nodded. “The investigators.”

“Right. I go to them—it's two hundred bucks an hour, and—guess what? They say it's just me. No one else is complaining. No one else got burned. Now, why is that?”

“I only took what I needed,” Dunphy answered
.

“You needed half a million
bucks
a?”

“Yeah. I did.”

Blémont held his eyes for a moment, then shook his head, as if to clear it. “Okay, so you needed a lot of dough. Why
me
a?”

“Because . . .” You're a pig, Dunphy thought. “The money was there,” he said. “It was in the account. It was easy, that's all.”

“You mean it
looked
easy,” Blémont said, and Dunphy nodded. “And now—who are you running from, when you're not running from me?”

Dunphy shook his head
.

“Not the police,” Blémont mused. “Not in London, anyway. So who?”

“What's the difference? This isn't about me. It's about the money I took.”

“No. It's not just about the money,” Blémont replied
.

Dunphy gave him a skeptical look
.

“It's about friendship,” the Corsican insisted, his voice larded with enough phony sincerity to launch a telemarketing campaign for Hizbollah
.

Dunphy almost laughed. “You're so fucked up—” he began
.

Blémont hit him as hard as Dunphy had ever been hit in his life, a looping roundhouse that broke his nose with a sharp crack and sent a spray of blood across the front of his shirt. Dunphy gasped and reeled as his eyes flew shut, and his brain swam with stars. After a moment, Blémont raised his chin with the palm of his hand
.
“Pardon?”

The blood was running into his throat from his sinuses, and it took him a moment to spit it out. Finally he said, “I misspoke.”

Blémont smiled
.

Dunphy tilted his head back in a vain effort to stanch the bleeding
.

“Eh, bien,”
Blémont remarked, removing a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Lighting one with the flame from a silver-plated Zippo, he inhaled mightily, then blew a stream of smoke in the American's direction. “These things happen,” he said. “But, really, all those lunches we had—my God, Kerry, how we laughed, eh?”

“Coupla lunches,” Dunphy said. “We weren't that close.”

“What
happened
a?” Blémont asked in a plaintive voice, as if he were talking to a lover who'd jilted him
.

Dunphy shook his head. Slowly, slightly. Took a deep breath. “It's complicated,” he replied
.

The Corsican dismissed the idea with a little puff of air. “There's time. We have all day. Tell me about it.”

A sigh from Dunphy, who knew that Blémont was playing with him. Still, the longer they talked, the better it was for him. Tommy and Boylan would be looking for him. There'd been a shooting in the bar. There was blood on the floor
.

“My name's Jack Dunphy,” he said in a voice thick with blood and pain. “Not Thornley. Not Irish. American.” Am I going to tell him everything? Dunphy wondered. And the answer came back: Yeah. Why not? What's the difference?

Blémont cocked his head in mild curiosity, listening distractedly as he refilled his lighter with the liquid from a small can of Ronson lighter fluid
.

“The job in London—the company I had . . .” His broken nose was making it hard to breathe
.

Blémont squirted a thin stream of gas into the cotton wadding at the bottom of the lighter. “Yes?”

“It was a cover.”

Blémont was momentarily perplexed. “A cover? You mean—”

“A front.”

“For who?”

“The CIA.”

The Jock laughed out loud—a single, sharp burst of incredulity
.

Blémont continued to fill his lighter. Finally, he put the Zippo back together, flicked it on and off, on and off—and looked Dunphy in the eye. “Do you think I'm stupid?”

Dunphy shook his head
.

“Do you think I'm here to amuse you?”

“No!”

“Because if I do—”

“You
don't
a.”

“We can
end
this. Right now! Okay? Is that what you want?” The Corsican's voice rose louder and louder, his rage mounting with the volume
.
“Is it? Okay!”

“Look,” Dunphy said—but got no further as Blémont began to spray his chest with lighter fluid, swirling it over his shirt as if he, Blémont, were Jackson Pollock and Dunphy was his canvas. “Ohhh, Christ, Roger—”