Authors: Stephen Parrish

The Tavernier Stones (16 page)

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones

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The girl regarded her father with a look of exasperation, as children often do; one that suggested he was the number one idiot in the solar system.

On the southern coast of Greenland, a team of archeologists digging a Viking site took a break to huddle around one of their members and admire the engagement ring she had received from her fiancé.

Nobody said anything; it was difficult now to admire a gemstone smaller than a hen’s egg.

As June third’s sun passed over Europe and slipped west toward open sea, its afternoon shadows stretched slowly east, until they were finally erased by the encroaching night.

Gerd Pfeffer downed the remainder of his beer and stumbled out the door of the Gasthaus in the early morning darkness. He took a pee on the outside wall, leaning against it with one hand, holding his member with the other, shuffling his feet to avoid the expanding puddle. When finished, he shook himself dry and belched, then aimed his member toward home and followed it. Muted yellow light leaking from the Gasthaus windows helped him navigate for about fifty meters. After that, he thrust his arms forward to ward off dogged obstacles.

There had been much chatter at the tables. Some of the customers who knew Pfeffer’s family also knew he had been the detective who recovered Cellarius’s body. But Pfeffer had stayed out of the discussion. In fact, he had sat by himself in a corner and glowered at anyone who took notice of his existence.

When he arrived home, he unlocked and unlatched his gate with the meticulousness of an eye surgeon, then knelt down in the weeds and puked. The garden, he noted as he crawled out of it on all fours, was a tad overgrown. But it was nothing a few liters of weed killer wouldn’t fix.

Once inside, he rinsed his face in cold water, then reached for the phone.

“FBI, Frankfurt field office,” came a tired voice from the other end, followed by a long yawn. “Special Agent Stenner.”

“Hello, Stenner. Guess who.”

The line was silent for a moment, then an alert voice uttered: “Pfeffer.”

“That’s
Mister
Pfeffer, to you.”

“Crap. What brings you out from under your rock?”

“Let’s just say I’m on a quest for some rocks.”

“You and the rest of the continent. What’s it got to do with us?”

“You have contacts at Fort Meade, right?”

“Right …”

“Well, now, so do I!”

“The hell.”

“You see, now that I’ve been quiet for so long about that ‘creative extradition’ I helped you guys with, I just thought you’d want me to
stay
quiet about it.”

“Listen, Pfeffer.”

“
Mister
Pfeffer.”

“Mister Pfeffer. Hold one moment, please.” The man went off the line for several minutes, then returned and said, “Perhaps we’re in a position to offer some friendly advice.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Will we be even?”

“Dead even.”

“Good. I—we—don’t expect to ever hear from you again.”

“You won’t. Say hello to J. Edgar Hoover for me.”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Please forward my condolences to his family.”

When Frieda Blumenfeld crossed the cobbled square of Liebfrauen Platz, she found Mannfred Gebhardt already waiting outside the entrance to the Gutenberg Museum. She stared wordlessly into his gray eyes, allowing just the hint of a smile to appear on her face.

“You found it,” Gebhardt declared.

“It’s called the Prairie State ruby. I’ll tell you about it inside.”

“We’re going in the museum?”

“Of course. Why else do you suppose I told you to meet me here?”

Illuminated manuscripts dominated the museum’s holdings. Ornate calligraphy, delicate engravings, and a riot of primary colors on pages stained by the centuries gave them a distinctively medieval look. Some had tanned leather covers that fastened shut with brass buckles. Others were bound in wood. A few were so large, Blumenfeld wondered whether she would even be able to lift them.

On the top floor of the museum, wedged between hieroglyphic tablets and broken pieces of Roman column, were the Vigenère manuscripts—the reason Blumenfeld had chosen the Gutenberg Museum as a meeting place.

“It’s funny,” she said. “I’ve probably toured these exhibits a dozen times over the years, but I’d never even heard of Vigenère until the Cellarius-Tavernier story broke. And here his stuff has sat all this time.”

The manuscripts were plain compared with most others in the building; their fonts had fewer serifs, less overall flourish, and not a speck of gold foil adorning them. As a result, the text was damn near legible. Some of the book covers were mere paper—they constituted the world’s first paperbacks. Vigenère, or whoever had printed his works, obviously concerned himself more with the comfort of the reader than with his own place in the history of the craft.

Few visitors were on the floor; Blumenfeld and Gebhardt had the exhibit to themselves.

“Any luck on the cipher?” Blumenfeld asked.

Gebhardt didn’t answer. Instead, he silently studied the printed pages before him.

She shook her head. “I see.”

“I still think the pigpen characters are just border decorations.”

“They may, in fact, be border decorations. They may, on the other hand, be significant. If they’re significant, the significance will elude obstinate men like yourself. We need a good cryptologist, someone who specializes in the seventeenth century and prior.”

“Where do you suggest I look for one of those? The telephone book?”

“I suggest you visit Dr. Ernst Spengler, a Latin professor at the University of Mainz.”

“What makes you think he’ll be of any use?”

“Well, he’s published journal articles on cryptology, and he happens to be the very person who prepared the Vigenère exhibit you are now viewing. We have to move on this. There’s no telling how many people may be working on the problem, including Spengler himself.”

“Tell me, Frieda. Why do I always get stuck with the actual work? Is it just my imagination, or is it because you don’t want to do any of it yourself?”

Blumenfeld took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Faults though I may have, and numerous though they may be, I submit that lethargy is not among them. I’m busy with the necessary historical research, for which you are most unsuited.”

“And I suppose your banking and finance background is what qualifies you.”

She put her glasses back on and crossed her arms. “Tell me, what should happen to Spengler, should he have something to share, after he has shared it?”

“He should be persuaded most aggressively not to share it with anyone else.”

“And which one of us is best suited for such a task?”

Sighing: “I am.”

“Good boy. Anytime you want to take charge and make decisions, just let me know.”

Blumenfeld knew she was capitalizing on Gebhardt’s most valuable asset. She also knew he’d employ that asset against her the instant she became his only remaining obstacle.

John Graf awoke on the morning of June fourth unable to figure out what century he was in. He looked at his pajamas, but they were no help. He scanned his room, but a dearth of adornments and a plain wooden floor suggested nothing. He looked out the window. Telephone wires and an Amtrak train rumbling in the distance finally clued him in: Oh yes, the twenty-first century. Of course. Where else.

He rose, showered, and dressed quickly. David and Sarah were visiting today to conduct what David had referred to as a “staff meeting.” John had requested the day off from Harry Tokuhisa, whose first reaction was to raise his eyebrows in alarm. It was the second such request from John in a week, and Harry would not have expected as many in a decade.

John presumed David had conducted more than a few “staff meetings” during his nefarious career, either in candlelit cellars or in bare rooms dimly lit by swinging drop cords. By contrast, his own apartment was bright and spotless. He had scoured and dusted last night to prepare for the visit and had even gone shopping to stock up the pantry. He hadn’t been sure what to buy, so he bought something that sounded versatile and broadly appealing: Hamburger Helper.

Now, in the back of his mind, alarm bells were softly ringing, because it occurred to him that Hamburger Helper might need to have some hamburger to help, and his didn’t. Maybe Sarah would know what to do with it.

Sarah. The alarm bells rang louder, because he knew she was the reason he was anxious about the visit. David could have a frozen dinner if he got hungry, and he could eat it frozen if he had anything derogatory to say about it.

There was a knock at the door, and John showed the two in.

David immediately made himself comfortable by allowing gravity to do the work of dropping his backside into a chair. Sarah stood for a moment in the living room, surveying its sparse furnishings. She looked at John and smiled shyly.

Damn
, she was pretty. But pretty wasn’t the word for it. Wearing a simple sleeveless dress with a broad belt around her narrow waist, Sarah was difficult not to look at.

The three stared awkwardly at the floor for a moment. Then, as though to ease the tension, David removed a short rope from his pocket and pulled it slowly through his left hand. “Where do you want me to cut it?” he challenged John. “Say stop.”

“Here we go again.” Sarah rolled her eyes.

“Stop.”

David opened a pocket knife and sliced the rope near its center. He held up the severed ends and let the two pieces dangle beneath his hand. “Now, since one long rope is more valuable than two short ropes, I’ll restore it.” He tied the two severed ends back together. “Pretty good trick, huh?”

“No.”

David coiled the rope in his fist, then uncoiled it, and the knot was gone. “How’s that?”

“
Now
it’s a good trick,” John said.

“Want to know how it works?”

“Let me guess—magic, right?”

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones

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