The Tavernier Stones (21 page)

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Authors: Stephen Parrish

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones
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But there was something wrong with the rest of his brain: he deleted the blue italic “Yankee Stadium” from the sinuous curves of the Susquehanna River and typed “Wrigley Field” in its place.
An idea suddenly occurred to him. He removed his copy of Cellarius’s Palatinate map from a flat portfolio beneath his light table, then ran upstairs to the library to retrieve a recent map of the lower Palatinate. Returning downstairs to the photo lab, he made transparencies of both maps, reducing the modern one in scale to fit Cellarius’s. His intent was to overlay one atop the other, compare features, and check for discrepancies.
After a few minutes of study, something caught his eye.
Two minor tributaries of the Nahe, both flowing north and emptying into the Nahe just east of Idar-Oberstein, appeared on Cellarius’s map, but not on the modern map. The tributaries were labeled “Charmaine” and “Latein.”
John raced back upstairs to the library and checked every map of Germany, old and new, good and bad, he could find. He checked indexes of place names. He was about to place some phone calls when he realized that doing so would be tantamount to sharing an important clue. For in his heart, he already knew that no branches of the Nahe called “Charmaine” or “Latein” existed. And that Cellarius would not have made such a blunder unintentionally.
Could the geomorphology have changed with time? No, streams took thousands of years to grow wide enough to appear on small-scale maps, and such streams were not likely to disappear in the space of three hundred years. Besides, isolines on modern topographic maps didn’t even hint at depressions, let alone stream channels, where Cellarius indicated water had flowed.
Placing nonexistent streams on the Palatinate map had been intentional. But what was the intent? “Charmaine” was, of course, Cellarius’s dead wife’s name. Did he merely want to preserve her memory by naming a geographic feature after her? Why, then, such a mediocre feature—and a fictitious one at that?
“Latein” was the German word for Latin. Was that Cellarius’s way of suggesting the code was written in Latin, as many people already suspected? If so, then given how difficult it was to glean other clues from the map, didn’t this one glare by contrast?
John would try both words as keywords to unlock the Vigenère cipher, but he was already sure Cellarius wouldn’t have made the job so easy.
He returned to the photo lab again and stared long at the pair of registered transparencies, frequently exchanging top for bottom, lifting the top like a flap to check for more discrepancies.
For the first time, he noticed hills on the Cellarius map that didn’t correspond at all to modern topography. Why hadn’t he seen these before? Failing to notice a couple of fictitious streams was understandable: the Palatinate was drained by hundreds of minor channels, and no one person knew them all. But fictitious hills? With well-defined summits? Given Cellarius’s reputation for accuracy, this was further evidence the Palatinate map was a treasure map—or a practical joke aimed at every treasure hunter to follow.
John heard footsteps, turned, and found Harry Tokuhisa approaching, watching him curiously.
“I guess you’ll be wanting an explanation,” John said, glancing sheepishly at his transparencies.
“I don’t need one,” Harry replied. “I can see what you’re working on.”
“Harry …”
“John, I don’t mind the lab being used for personal affairs now and then, if they’re kept in check. But this affair”—he pointed at the map—“just isn’t like you.”
“I’m sorry, Harry. You’re right, of course.”
“Don’t let it take over your life. Already I see signs that your work is beginning to suffer.”
John looked down at his feet. It was the worst thing Harry could have said to him. His job
was
his life. The lost Tavernier stones
weren’t
.
“I’ll do better, Harry. I promise.”
“I know you will.” Harry patted John on the back and left the lab.
John looked at the two tributaries again. Cellarius had obviously drafted them with a crow quill pen, because their widths varied with pressure, gradually growing thicker as they approached the Nahe. There was nothing arbitrary about their paths; the man who had held the pen had known exactly what he was doing.
NINETEEN
 
DAVID ALLOWED SARAH TO drag him into Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences Museum to view one of the exhibits. It was, if nothing else, an excuse to get out of the house.
Surprising to David, Sarah’s interest seemed to be increasing. She had bubbled with excitement all day Sunday over what she had gathered on Saturday, and just that morning the Milk & Honey travel agent—“Quickdraw,” as she called him—had presented her with even more material.
David, on the other hand, felt as though he were sinking. Following his visit to the University of Maryland on Friday, he had spent the weekend moping about the apartment. Sarah, to her credit, had prodded him, wanting to know if something about the campus had touched him. But he had only ignored her.
“David, read this. This is interesting.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She was standing in front of another placard. The more animated she became, the more bored David allowed himself to appear. Looking at museum artifacts was worthwhile—but mere text printed on posters? Did they have to visit a museum and pay an admission fee to read printed matter?
“This one’s about Germany: ‘Before the dominance of Antwerp and Amsterdam, the cities of Germany led the European jewelry trade. Willibald Pirkheimer of Nuremberg asked Albrecht Dürer to buy diamonds for him when he visited Venice in 1505. That same year the Fuggers, an Augsburg family, sold two diamonds to Maximilian I for 10,000 florins.’”
“Wonderful. The Fuckers of Augsburg.”
“How much is a florin?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
“‘The Fuggers bought the diamonds taken from Charles the Bold during his defeats in the battles of Grandson and Nancy.’”
“Good for the Fuckers.”
“David, hush. ‘Within a quarter of a century, diamonds were being treated as commodities. Another Augsburg family, the Welsers, lent money to Charles V to buy diamonds.’”
“Perfect. The Welchers of Augsburg. The Fuckers and the Welchers.”
They were on the first floor mezzanine, above the museum entrance. David glanced at the stairs and wondered how soon he could terminate the visit without hurting Sarah’s feelings. Yawning, he wandered away from the placards and idly shopped the gemstone cases. The collection was modest but included some interesting pieces: naturally colored amethysts that were intensely purple, a few decent opals, a couple of fine gold nuggets. He was surprised to see tugtupite, a rare mineral found only in Greenland.
He looked at his watch. Ten more minutes of this, and he would insist on lunch. His stomach was growling, and the Four Seasons Hotel was directly across the street.
“Over here,” Sarah said. “This is what we came for.” She was as excited as a kid in a toy store.
“What
you
came for,” he reminded her.
“It’s about signet rings. Read it.”
“If I must.” David’s eyes scanned the placard.
“No, dummy. Out loud. I want to make sure you absorb the information.”
“Very well. ‘Signet comes from the Latin
signum,
which means “seal.” Historically, signets functioned as signatures that authors impressed in clay or wax. Later they functioned as symbols of authority.’ My stomach is making frightening noises, you know.”
“Skip down a little.”
“‘The Egyptians were apparently the first to make signets, using a grinding powder from Naxos in the Greek Cyclades, one we know today as emery. They used it to carve designs—
intaglios
—into the surfaces of softer stones such as hematite, quartz, and garnet.’ One more minute of this and my knees will buckle.”
“You’re almost there.”
“‘The Egyptians taught the Israelites, who in turn taught the geeks—excuse me, the Greeks—and the Romans. Before long, signet carvers became quite skilled at their work, and signet owners were confident that only a talented artist could forge their symbols of authority.’ And they all lived happily ever after.”
David raised his watch to eye level and pretended to be surprised by the time. “I think I’ll get something to eat,” he announced.
“Wait!” Sarah said. “Here it is, the Michelangelo signet. ‘This often-copied image,’” she recited, “‘of a woman helping another woman to place a basket of grapes on her head, was taken from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.’”
Below the placard was a glass case, and inside the case was a collection of signet rings. The centerpiece of the collection was an example of the Michelangelo signet.
“Finally,” David said. “An artifact.”
“I want it.”
He laughed. “Well, you can’t have it.”
“Look, the case is locked with a five-pin tumbler. You can handle that with your eyes closed.”
“I’m not going to pick it. I swear I’m not.”
“I’m surprised to find you squeamish.”
“We can’t move that piece, Sarah. There isn’t anybody in the city we could pass it to.”
“I don’t want to move it or pass it. I want to wear it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. It’s a man’s ring. It’s too big for any of your fingers.”
“So, you’re a jeweler. Size it for me.”
“You want me to saw into a shank that’s maybe two hundred years old—”
“More like three hundred.”
“—so you can wear it like a trophy?”
“It’s mine, and I’m taking it.”
“It’s not yours, and it’s not going to be.”
“Pick it, David. Or iron your own clothes from now on.”
David scanned the mezzanine, saw that it was clear, and leaned over the lock, pretending to study the contents of the case. A few moments later he straightened up.
Sarah calmly lifted the glass top of the case.
The room lights flickered.
“Oh, shit,” David said.
Sarah thrust her hand into the case and snatched the ring, then let the glass fall back into place.
David took her by the arm. “Let’s get out of here.” They hurried downstairs to the ground floor.
“Excuse me, miss? Sir?” A uniformed man came out from behind the ticket window as Sarah and David passed it on their way to the exit. “Both of you, stop, please.”
“Get her!” David screamed. “She’s stealing a ring!”
The man lunged at Sarah, who dashed for the exit. “Lady, please don’t do this!”
David chased after them both. Just as the man’s hands were about to clamp down on Sarah’s shoulders, David tackled him from behind, and both men tumbled across the floor.
As David scrambled to his feet, he found himself surrounded by security guards. He looked through the glass doors and saw Sarah running down Cherry Street. She passed the Four Seasons and the Radisson, and his stomach grumbled once more. He knew she would turn south to Penn Center Station and disappear safely into the Philadelphia commuter crowd.
A pair of guards took him by the arms. “You,” one of them said, “have the right to keep your goddamn mouth shut.”
TWENTY
 
GEBHARDT WOULD HAVE PREFERRED to conduct business on dry land. But Blumenfeld had insisted on getting out of the house, claiming she was tired of walking the streets of Mainz and loitering in its museums. Also, she was sure her husband suspected something: he was uncharacteristically quiet nowadays and often lingered nearby while she spoke on the phone.
The two cohorts seated themselves in a large dining room on the highest enclosed deck of the
Berlin
, a river cruiser operated by the Köln-Düsseldorfer line. Three rows of tables, already set with long-stemmed wine glasses, spanned the length of the boat. But despite the capacity, the room was nearly empty, most passengers electing to sit above on the open deck, where the view was better.
Gebhardt knew that Blumenfeld didn’t care about the view. She wanted to continue the “saturation.” And the disappointment on her face, as she watched him gaze idly out the window, was obvious. As for Gebhardt himself, he acted the way he felt, and the way he felt was that they had reached a dead end.
The Rhein River was beautiful from its source in the Alps to its mouths on the North Sea. But it was most beautiful in Germany, especially between Mainz and Köln. And it was legendary between Bingen and St. Goar, where the channel narrowed ruggedly and castles peppered the bluffs.
Across the river from Bingen’s harbor were steep, terraced vineyards, the vine culture dating back to the Roman occupation. Although the sun was already low, it shined warmly on the vines as the boat pulled out of the harbor.
Gebhardt looked out the window. Waves from barges passing close by lapped inoffensively against the hull of the cruise ship. The churning surface of the water reflected the dull green hues of vineyards blanketing the hills. If not for the rumbling of the ship’s engines, it would have been hard to tell whether the ship was moving or the scenery was reeling slowly by.

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