Sixteen thousand feet in the air, Jimmy Davis felt the physical world fizzle away as all his thoughts sequenced on Esquibel's mirror-picture poem, which was exposed through the lid of the box. McEwan quickly found some paper and copied it down longhand. When she was done, the three of them took turns looking through the text. It was like some kind of archeological crossword… A riddle that promised to reveal how to open the cryptex. Jimmy read the verse slowly. Before he could even consider what ancient password the verse was trying to reveal, he felt something far more essential resonate within him - the meter of the poem.Jimmy had come across this meter often over the years while researching secret societies across Europe, including just last year. For decades, trochaic pentameter had been a preferred poetic meter of unspoken literati across the globe, from ancient Greek writer Archilochus to Shakespeare, Voltaire, Chaucer - bold souls who chose to write their social commentaries in
"You're awfully calm," Jimmy said, gazing across the Gizmogo's cabin at McEwan."Just resting," McEwan replied. "And the poem. I'm not sure."Jimmy was feeling the same way. The hum of engines and the gentle rocking of the plane were soporific, and his head still throbbed where he'd been hit by the monk. Rodriguez was still in the back of the plane, and Jimmy decided to take advantage of the moment with McEwan to tell her something that had been on his mind. "I think I know part of the reason why your grandfather conspired to put us together. I think there's something he wanted me to explain to you." "I think I've had enough."Jimmy wasn't sure how to proceed. "The rift between you. The reason you haven't spoken to him in years. I think maybe he was hoping I could somehow make that right by explaining what drove you apart." McEwan squirmed in her seat. "I haven't told you that story of what drove us apart?"Jimmy eyed her carefully. "You witnessed a sex custom?"McEwan recoiled. "
The turboprop was just passing over the twinkling lights when Myositis hung up on Romano for the second time. He reached for the sick-call bag again and felt too drained even to be sick. Hoping everything would just be over.Romano's newest update seemed unfathomable, and yet almost nothing tonight made sense anymore. Everything had spiraled wildly out of control. On shaky legs, Myositis walked to the cockpit. "I need to change my destination."The pilot glanced over his shoulder and laughed. "You must be joking, right?""No. I have to go to London immediately.""Father, this is a charter flight, not a taxi.""I will pay you handsomely, of course. How much? It is only one hour farther north and requires almost no change of direction, so-""It is not a question of money, there are other issues.""Ten thousand euros. Right now."The pilot turned, his eyes wide with shock. "How much? What kind of priest carries that kind of cash?"Myositis walked back to his black briefcase, opened it, a
McEwan felt a wild excitement as she cradled the cryptex and began dialing in the letters. Jimmy and Rodriguez seemed to have stopped breathing as they looked on."Carefully," Rodriguez urged. "Ever so carefully."McEwan aligned the final dial. "Okay," she whispered, glancing up at the others. "I'm going to pull it apart.""Remember the vinegar," Jimmy whispered with fearful exhilaration. "Be mindful."McEwan said that if this cryptex were like those she had opened, all she would need to do is grip the cylinder at both ends, just beyond the dials, and pull, applying slowly, steady pressure in opposite directions. If the dials were properly aligned with the password, the one of the ends would slide off, much like a lens cap, and she could reach inside and remove the rolled document, which would be wrapped around the vial of vinegar. However, if the password they had entered were incorrect. McEwan's outward force on the ends would be transferred to a hinged lever inside, which would shi
The Gizmogo is on final approach.John Spitz - Executive service officer at the airport - paced the control tower, craning nervously at the rain-drenched runway. He never appreciated being woken up early in the morning, but it was particularly distasteful that he had been called in to oversee the arrest of one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Albert Rodriguez paid them not only for a private hangar but a "per landing fee" for his frequent arrival and departures. Usually the airfield had advance warning of his schedule and was able to follow a strict protocol for his arrival. Rodriguez liked things just so. The custom-built Jaguar stretched limousine that he kept in his hand was to be fully gassed and polished. A customs official was to be waiting for the plane at the hangar to expedite the mandatory documentation and luggage check. Occasionally, customs accepted large tips from Rodriguez in exchange for turning a blind eye to the transport of harmless organics - mostly luxury foods
Sterling street? Jimmy asked, eyeing Rodriguez in the back of the limousine. So far, Rodriguez was being playfully cagey about where he thought they would find this tomb which, according to the poem, would provide a password to opening the smaller cryptex. Rodriguez grinned and turned to McEwan. "Miss McEwan, give the Harvard boy one more shot at the verse, will you?" McEwan searched in her pocket and pulled out the cryptex, which was wrapped in the parchment. Everyone had decided to leave the rosewood box and the larger cryptex behind in the plane's strongbox, carrying with them only what was needed, the far more portable and discreet cryptex. McEwan unwrapped the parchment and handed the sheet to Jimmy.Although Jimmy had read the poem several times onboard the jet, he had been unable to extract any specific location. Now, as he read the words again, he proceeded them slowly and carefully, hoping the rhythms would reveal a clearer meaning now that he was on the ground. Despit
In an alley very close to the Solemn church, Scott Beardsley pulled the Jaguar stretched limousine to a stop behind a row of industrial waste bins. Killing the engine, he checked the area. Deserted. He got out of the car, walked toward the rear, and climbed back into the limo's main cabin where the monk was. Sensing Beardsley's presence, the monk in the back emerged from a spiritual-like trance, his eyes looking more curious than fearful. All evening Beardsley had been impressed with this trussed man's ability to stay calm. After some initial struggles in the Porsche, the monk seemed to have accepted his plight and handed over his fate to a higher power. Loosening his bow tie, Beardsley unbuttoned his high, starched, wing-tipped collar and felt as if he could breathe for the first time in decades. He went to the limousine's wet bar, where he poured himself vodka. He drank it in a single swallow and followed it with a second glass. Searching the bar, Beardsley found a standard s
Each of the carved knights with the church lay on his back with his head resting on a rectangular stone pillow. McEwan felt a chill. The poem's reference to an "orb" conjured images of the night in her grandfather's basement. Forcing the image from her mind, she advanced with Jimmy and Rodriguez toward the first group of knights. Despite Rodriguez's insistence that their investigation should be conducted cautiously, McEwan felt eager and pushed ahead of them, making a cursory Walk-through of the five knights on the left. Examining these first tombs, McEwan noted the similarities and differences between them. Every knight was on his back, but three of the knights had their legs extended straight out while two had their legs crossed. The strangeness seemed to have no importance to the missing orb. Examining their clothing, she noted that the two knights wore tunics over their armor, while the other three wore ankle-length robes. Again, utterly helpful. McEwan turned her attention to th