The Magdalene Cipher (13 page)

Dunphy sipped his Scotch and tore the envelope open. It was addressed to Roger Blémont in care of
poste restante
,
Marbella. It contained the incorporation papers for Sirocco Services Ltd., a bank signature card, a handwritten deposit slip, and half a dozen counter checks issued by the Banque Privat de St. Helier on the isle of Jersey. The usual cover letter explained that printed checks would be sent to Blémont once the signature card was returned to the bank
.

A sinewy Corsican with a preference for Armani suits and high-tech Breitling wristwatches, Blémont was a handsome sociopath with one foot in the Marseille underworld and the other in right-wing politics. A virulent anti-Semite, he was the publisher of a magazine called
Contre la boue (Against the Mud)
,
which advocated, among other things, the forced deportation of the foreign poor. The magazine's name was taken from the snow-white banner of a defunct paramilitary group, whose members had been imprisoned for attacks on Turkish schoolchildren, a gay bar in Arles, and a synagogue in Lyon
.

Dunphy despised him, and not only for his politics. The Corsican's arrogance was boundless, and it seemed to Dunphy that nothing pleased him more than other people's unhappiness. Simply put, he liked to fuck with people. As he had with Dunphy
.

On a visit to London the year before, Blémont and Dunphy had concluded some business over a bottle of plonk—and then a second one—at El Vino in the City. Blémont had done most of the drinking, and when they were done, he'd put a hand on Dunphy's shoulder and confided, “I need a girl.”

Dunphy had made a joke. “We all need a girl.”

“But you'll get me one, okay? I'm at the Landmark. Have her there by three.” Then he'd tossed some money on the table and pushed back in his chair, as if to leave
.

Dunphy had raised his hands in mock surrender. “I think you've made a mistake,” he told him. “I'm a consultant, not a pimp.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

“Yeah. If you want a hooker, go to a phone booth. They've got their calling cards all over the windows.”

Blémont had sat there for a moment, thinking it over. Finally he said, “You can call yourself whatever you want, my friend, but have the girl at the Landmark by three or I'll have a new consultant tomorrow.”

And Dunphy had done as he'd been told. He'd found a whore and sent her to the Landmark because he couldn't afford to lose Blémont's business—not just then, anyway. The Corsican was involved in a complex money-laundering scheme being run by a crowd of black-metal fascists in Oslo. There was a lot of money involved, and at least some of it was coming from a militia group in the States. With the FBI, CIA, and DBA all interested, Dunphy's penetration of the scheme was the intelligence equivalent of hitting the trifecta. To blow the operation because his pride was hurt would have been inexcusable
.

So Blémont deserved what he got or, more to the point, what he didn't get—which were the signature cards that Dunphy had never quite gotten around to mailing. It was a loose string that he might easily have tied up, simply by putting the envelope in the mail—but why should he? Blémont was a prick, and anyway, it wasn't as if he'd earned the money
.

Usually, Dunphy opened his clients' accounts with token deposits: fifty pounds was typical. But Sirocco was different. Dunphy had already set up a dozen corporations for Blémont when, one wintry afternoon, the Corsican had come to his office with a proposition. Settling languidly into a leather wing chair, Blémont said that he wanted to open Sirocco's account with a line of credit, collateralized with stock. For his help with what he described as a “transaction that's a bit . . . difficult,” Blémont promised Dunphy a three-percent commission on the amount of the loan
.

“That's very generous,” Dunphy said
.

“I can afford to be generous,” Blémont replied, his face cracking in a grin
.

“How much collateral are we talking about?”

Blémont reached into his briefcase, withdrew a sheaf of stock certificates, and handed them to Dunphy. “There's a little more than ten thousand shares.”

Dunphy riffled the certificates between his thumb and forefinger. “All IBM?”

Blémont nodded and leaned forward
.
“Oui.”

“And what would the Big Blue be trading at, now? I'm thinkin' it's at one hundred ten—”

“One hundred twenty,” Blémont replied. And then he added, “Dollars, of course.”

Dunphy grunted. “Dollars, it is,” Dunphy said. The certificates were in the name of a New York brokerage, and obviously they'd been stolen or Blémont would not be paying three points for placing them with a bank
.

“How much—”

“I can probably get 40 percent of the street value,” Dunphy said
.

Blémont made a moue. “Fifty would be better.”

“You could take it around the corner to the NatWest and get seventy-five or eighty. And you wouldn't have to pay me a commission. Of course, if you do that . . .” Dunphy didn't need to finish the sentence. If he did that, the National Westminster would fax New York to see if the stock had been stolen—big banks are funny that way
.

Blémont held Dunphy's eyes for a moment and then he smiled. “I'm sure you'll do your best.”

“Of course,” Dunphy said. And with that, Blémont got up, shook hands, and left
.

Blémont's scam was a Mafia favorite that amounted to minting money. The Costa del Sol had been built with it, and so had the Costa Brava. Stock certificates, stolen from couriers and brokerage vaults in America, were used as collateral for loans made in Europe. The loans were then used to finance real-estate developments, hotels, restaurants, golf courses—and, in Blémont's case, publications like
Contre la boue
.
So long as the borrower did not default, which would have forced the bank to sell the stolen stock (and attempt to register a change of ownership), the scheme was foolproof. The hotels would prosper. The loans would be repaid, and the certificates might then be recycled as collateral for still other loans
.

It had taken Dunphy a couple of weeks to find an accommodating bank, and in the end, it had been necessary to take the hydrofoil to St. Helier and present the certificates in person. Eventually, Sirocco's account was opened with a deposit of £290,000 and change. For his part in the felony, Dunphy took in a little less than $15,000—which he dutifully wire-transferred to one of the CIA's accounts at the Credit Suisse
.

When the paperwork came back from the bank in St. Helier, Dunphy had put it in an envelope with Sirocco's incorporation papers and addressed it to Blémont. The package was sitting in his out box when Tommy Davis had called to say that Leo Schidlof was dead
.

By keeping the envelope, rather than mailing it, Dunphy remained the only signatory on Blémont's new account. Looked at in a positive light, this meant that Dunphy had immediate access to rather a lot of money—the downside being that Blémont would tear his throat out if he ever found him. Not that there was anything that Dunphy could do about it. Even if he returned the money, the Corsican would not be forgiving: too much time had passed. He'd simply think that Dunphy had suffered a failure of nerve, and so Blémont would want to kill him twice—once for being a thief, and a second time for being a coward. Dunphy sipped his drink, rattled the ice in his glass, and gazed out at the stars over Iceland
.

There was no doubt in his mind that Blémont was looking hard—but for whom? Not Dunphy. The man Blémont was after was an Irishman named “Kerry Thornley.” Which is to say that Roger Blémont is the least of my problems, Dunphy thought
.

A unique notion—that Blémont should be the least of anyone's problems. And, in fact, when you thought about it, it seemed likely that this was a thought that had never occurred to anyone else in the world. Or, at least, no one who'd stayed in the world
.

Dunphy would have bet on that
.

Chapter 16

Dunphy's plane got into Paris at 7
A.M
.
a, leaving him with two hours to kill before the flight to Prague. He spent a part of that time wandering through the duty-free shops, then stopped to have some passport pictures taken. Finally, he sat down in a small café with stone countertops and stools of poured concrete
.

It was a horrid little place, a francophone purgatory for jet-lagged tourists who wandered in and out, looking worried and confused as they counted their unfamiliar change. In a corner of the room, an Algerian busboy rested his back against the wall, languidly smoking Turkish cigarettes as he watched the tables thicken with used cups and saucers. High on the wall, a single plastic speaker buzzed with the synthesized cadences of Europop—an upbeat disco howl that left Dunphy feeling woozy and depressed. Clearly, the idea was to maximize profits by accelerating customer turnover, which the café accomplished by making all who entered deeply unhappy—except
la propriétaire
,
who understood the principle and approved. Impeccable in a double-breasted blazer and lightly tinted designer glasses, the man stood behind the cash register, sovereign with pride as he surveyed his own private circle of Hell. You could see it in his eyes:
C'est bon
,
they said
.
C'est
très
bon
.

Dunphy understood the game, and in less stressful circumstances, he might have sat in the café for an hour or more, just as a matter of principle. But in the end, he wasn't up to it. When the overhead speaker exploded with
Les BelleTones'
a version of “Le Spinning Wheel,” he
ejected
,
bursting through the doors in the general direction of the duty-free shops. Even without looking back, he knew that the proprietor was staring after him, his lips curled in a triumphant moue
.

Two hours later, he was in Prague. Though he'd have preferred to fly to London direct, it was essential to go to the Czech Republic first. A plan was beginning to take shape in his mind, and the shape that it took was the unmistakable silhouette of a garrulous hustler named Max Setyaev
.

Max was a former science teacher, a Russian Jew who'd come to Czechoslovakia from the Ukraine in 1986. A natural pedant in the way that some people are natural athletes, he'd found it impossible to reconcile his teacher's income of fifty-six dollars per month with a taste for blondes, champagne, and gravlax. With enormous regret, he'd left his job in the classroom for employment as a documents man in Odessa, forging identity cards and exit visas for the
Organizatsiya
.
This had been a profitable profession for many years, but the Cold War's end had dampened the demand for phony documents—even as laser printers and color copiers made Max's artistry increasingly less necessary. In the end, he'd forged his own visa and headed west for what amounted to “retraining.”

When Dunphy met him, two years later, the Russian was in London, shopping for an intaglio press, special inks, and hard-to-come-by papers. Claiming to represent the fledgling (and very wobbly) republic of Chechnya, Max ensconced himself at the Churchill Hotel, where he hosted a nonstop party (later characterized in the press as an orgy) for the city's bankers. To anyone who'd listen, whether call girl or stockbroker, he claimed to represent the Chechen Ministry of Finance—which, he explained, had commissioned his firm (herewith, a gilded business card was produced) to mint the new country's new currency (the
agrovar
,
or some such thing). As evidence of the claim, he brandished an impressively embossed letter that purported to come from the Ministry, urging all concerned to facilitate “Prince Setyaev” on his sensitive and sacred mission
.

The letter was a forgery, of course. Max had no intention of printing Chechen currency. It was pounds he was after, as the
Mirror
discovered when a genuine Chechen delegation arrived in London, seeking humanitarian aid. Asked how the Chechens could reconcile their country's pleas for grain with Max's revelries at one of London's most expensive hotels, the Chechens replied that the man had nothing to do with them. He's
Russian
,
they said. Why would we trust a Russian to print our currency? The next morning, Max was running through Heathrow with his shirttail on fire and the police not far behind
.

Since then, Dunphy had formed a half-dozen companies for him, the most recent of which was a Prague-based import-export firm: Odessa Software, AG. According to the Russian, he'd seen the future, and its name was software piracy
.

In the event, Max's address turned out to be a graceful, Art Deco building in the Holesovice neighborhood in northern Prague. Only a block from the vastness of Stromovka Park, 16 Ovenecka was a four-story mansion that housed more than a dozen small companies, including Max's
.

Dunphy took the tiny elevator to Odessa's second-floor office, knocked, and entered. There was no secretary and no anteroom—just a large room with twelve-foot ceilings, velvet drapes, and an antique desk piled high with shrink-wrapped boxes of Microsoft Works, Myst, and Windows 98. For a moment, Dunphy thought he was alone, but then the desk beeped (or seemed to)
.

“Max?”

The Russian's bald pate, unruly brows, and beady eyes peered over the top of a nineteen-inch color monitor. “Kerry?” Max jumped to his feet. “I was playing SimCity,” he said, striding across the room with his arms wide. “
2000
,
of course! How are you? And what are you doing here?”

“Well,” Dunphy replied, extricating himself from Max's bear hug and moving to a chair beside the window. “It's funny you should ask. There's been a bit of trouble.”

Max nodded. “I know,” he said, producing a half bottle of Becherovka and two small glasses
.

Dunphy looked at him, surprised. “You do?”

“Of course! I called your office—months ago—and guess what?” Max poured each of them a drink and sat down
.

“No phone.”

The Russian shook his head
.
“Prozit,”
a he said, clinking his glass with Dunphy's. A little sip. A big smile. And back to business. “No—phone is fine. Man answers: ‘Mr. Thornley is away from desk,' he says. ‘May I have him call you?' Well, why not? Am I in hiding? Of course not! So I give him number. Two hours later, I have prick from British embassy banging on door—and Czech detectives.”

“Jesus, Max, I'm sorry. What did they want?”

“You.”

Dunphy grunted. “And what did you tell them?”

The Russian shrugged. “Nothing. I said I got your number from
Herald Tribune
.
Old copy.”

“And they believed you?”

“No! Of course not.” He paused and, without quite changing the subject, brought the conversation into focus. “So, my friend
,
what
a?”

Dunphy looked puzzled. “What what?”

“What can I do for you? You're a long way from home.”

Dunphy grinned. He liked the man's directness. “Well, for openers,” he said, tossing a small envelope on the desk, “I need a passport . . . a couple of credit cards. Some pocket litter.” He gestured at the envelope. “I had some pictures taken at the airport.”

The Russian nodded to himself. “Good. What nationality?”

Dunphy smiled. “As long as it isn't Nigerian or Japanese—”

“Canadian. I get blanks. Any name you want. Totally legit.”

“That would be grand.”

“Not cheap—but clean. Credit cards, too—this is no problem.”

“Great.”

“But, first, I need deposit. Cash—not for me—for Visa! Okay?”

“Yeah,” Dunphy said, “that's fine.” He took a sip of the Becherovka and felt his eyebrows bounce. “What is this stuff?”

“No one knows. Is secret. Czechs say it takes twenty herbs to make it. They don't say which ones.”

“I like it.”

“So do I. Now, about passport, you didn't ask how much.”

Dunphy shrugged
.

“Which means trouble! Or, maybe . . . you didn't just come for passport.”

“Right.”

Max smiled. “Which?”

“Both.”

“Ah.” Max sipped the liqueur, inhaled mightily through his nose, and asked, “So what are we talking about?”

“This,” Dunphy said, removing Gene Brading's Andromeda pass from his briefcase and handing it to the Russian
.

Max settled a pair of reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and turned the ID over in his hands, studying it. He didn't say anything for nearly a minute, and then he looked at Dunphy. “You know what this is?”

“Of course. It's a hologram—like the ones on your desk. That's why I'm here. I figure, if anyone can make one of these things, you can.”

Max shook his head. “It's not
just
hologram. Is
rainbow
hologram—”

“Which is what?”

“You can see in ordinary light, white light—like now.”

“Hard to copy?”

“Last year? Very hard. Today? Not so hard. But expensive.” Max rotated the ID in his hands, squinting at it. “You know how these things are put together?”

“No,” Dunphy said
.

“Well, don't try at home. You need lasers. Mine, I get made at institute in Kiev. They have best scientists. And fast—prototypes in two, three days.”

“Just so it works,” Dunphy replied, uninterested in the details
.

Max looked at him with disapproval. “This is going to cost big money, my friend. If it was me, I'd want to know why.”

“Sorry,” Dunphy answered, sounding like a kid who'd been caught talking in class
.

“You know lasers, right? You know what laser is!”

“Of course.”

Max shook his head. “No, you don't. You only think you do. In
fact
,
a is beam of light with single frequency. One color. Very intense. When they make hologram, they split beam.”

Dunphy nodded
.

“So now they have two beams with single source. And first one is like
flashbulb
.
Bang! It hits object and . . . what happens to light?”

Dunphy shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “It goes away. It goes into outer space or something.”

“Please,” Max said, rebuking him with his patience. “When light meets object—any object, any light—what happens?”

“It's reflected.”

“And reflected light? . . .”

“I don't know. It shoots off somewhere.”

“No. It exposes film to make hologram,” Max corrected him
.

Stupidly, Dunphy tried to defend himself. “You didn't say there was any film involved.”

A dismissive puff of air flew from the Russian's lips. “What do you think? Hologram lives in space? Is image on film!”

“Okay, so . . .”

“So, with hologram—have
two
rays of light. Because you've split beam. And second ray doesn't shine on object—is focused directly on film—instead. So two beams converge on surface, and make interference pattern—which is map
,
encoded
map of object. All whorls and stripes—and depth cues. Is visual mess. But when laser shines through at certain angle, image is reconstructed. In three dimensions! A miracle! As if object is in front of you. In space!”

“Spooky,” Dunphy muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “What'll they think of next?”

“Mr. Sarcasm! You laugh, but it's even spookier,” Max replied. “Put film through blender, and chop it up, image is still intact. You didn't know that, did you?”

Dunphy shook his head
.

“Is because image is
distributed
throughout film. So every fragment contains whole—like memory and brain cells.” Max sat back with a smile. “Cosmic, no?”

Dunphy was quiet for a moment, contemplating Max's didactic glow. Finally, he said, “I'm in a lot of trouble, Max. I mean, really a lot. And time is—”

Max nodded vigorously. “I understand,” he said, leaning forward with a confidential air. “But this is conventional hologram—you look at in dark, or with special lights. To make one like this—to make
rainbow
hologram—we have to increase brightness of image.”

“And you're gonna tell me how we do that, aren't you?”

“Yes, of course, I hold nothing back.” He took a deep breath. “So, what happens?” he asked. “We photograph object through slit—
horizontal
slit. This concentrates light even more, so image is brighter. Is rainbow hologram because slit is like prism. Move head—or credit card, or Microsoft box—whatever hologram is
on
a—light breaks up in spectrum.”