The Book Of Secrets Part 9

'I did not expect to see you as a bookseller.'

He gave a tight-lipped smile. 'I earn a living here and there. I have several ventures. But what about you? The last I heard you had gone to Cologne to learn goldsmithing.'

'The wrong craft for me.' I smiled blankly. 'I came to Paris to work as a copyist.'

'There is nowhere better.' Fust seemed genuinely enthusiastic. 'So many books, and such quality. I buy everything I can.' He pointed at the dog cart outside. 'I will fill that by tonight, and soon come back for more.'

'And you must take that Bible,' broke in Olivier. 'To anyone else I would demand seven gold ecus, but as it was copied by your friend I offer it to you for four sous less.'

'As it was written by my friend I will pay you the seven ecus if the balance goes to the scribe.'

'Of course. Indeed, he has copied many other works for me. Perhaps I could show you-'

'Not today.' Fust closed the book. 'I must go. I have other appointments before dusk, and tomorrow I set out for Mainz.' He turned to me. 'I will be back in the spring.'

'Perhaps I will see you then.'

'I hope so. It is always good to see a familiar face.' He started for the door then paused, remembering something. 'Forgive me for being slow I should have said at once. I was so sorry to hear about your mother.'

I was so eager for him to go that I heard the words without the meaning. 'My mother?'

'She was a good and Christian woman. There were many mourners at her funeral. G.o.d speed her to Heaven.'

I sat at my desk and willed the tears to come. My soul ached, but my body was too numb to answer. I had not seen my mother since the day I went to Cologne, a stiff figure in a grey cloak on the riverbank. I had thought of her in the intervening decade, but not often. If I had not met Fust, I could have lived for years happily believing she was alive. I did not even know if it was her I mourned, or the reminder of a life I had lost long ago. I felt a great well drain inside me.

Too many thoughts crowded my head. I looked back down at the desk, at the parchment, ink and book waiting for me. Work would not heal me, but it would bring the comfort of distraction. I rubbed the parchment with chalk to make it white, then ruled it, scoring heavy lines with my lead to show it had been done with care. I blocked out a box for the first initial and left two lines for the rubric.

I positioned the book on the reading stand. It was a slim volume: it would not take me long. I sharpened my pen, turned to the first page and received my third great shock of the day, another fragment of a long-lost life: a belligerent dwarf and the book of marvels he had sold Konrad Schmidt.

I have opened the Books of the Philosophers, and in them learned their hidden secrets.

XIX.

New York City Download complete Nick glanced at the screen as he swirled the last piece of waffle around his plate, soaking up as much syrup as he could. He was back in the diner's neon coc.o.o.n, eating his first proper meal of the day just as night fell. He'd taken a corner booth near the back, keeping a wary eye on the customers coming and going. It was the usual after-work crowd: finance types in suits, secretaries, a few students. n.o.body stayed long. By the counter, the Charlie Daniels Band played 'The Devil Went Down To Georgia' out of the jukebox.

He licked the syrup off his fingers and pressed a b.u.t.ton on the laptop.

Are you sure you want to install Cryptych?

Yes It was the third program he'd tried, another free one. He chewed the end of his straw while the progress bar inched across the screen.

What could have driven Gillian to do something like this? When he'd known her she'd been . . . not a Luddite, but someone who pulled a face whenever the conversation got too technical, who wanted computers to work without wanting to know how. Now she'd found ways to encrypt data that even Nick was barely aware of.

Would you like to launch Cryptych now?

Yes. A new window opened on screen, a simple interface of three white boxes in a row. Nick clicked in the middle.

Please select a file to DeCrypt Another couple of clicks brought up the card, eight animals penned in the centre box. That was the easy part.

With a deep breath, Nick clicked once more. The screen blinked.

Enter Pa.s.sword: It worked. Nick punched the table in his elation. The empty plate rattled on the Formica. At the next table, a little girl looked up in surprise before going back to her ice cream. Nick tried to fight back the hope that raced through him.

Bear is the key.

Here goes nothing, he thought. He pushed the plate aside, pulling the computer in front of him so that there was no danger of misspelling. B E A R.

Pa.s.sword incorrect

Enter Pa.s.sword:

He tried again, lower case this time. His anxious fingers scrabbled on the keys; he had to repeat it three times before he could be sure he'd got it right. Each time, the same rejection.

The hope was unbearable. The pa.s.sword prompt sat there, an empty s.p.a.ce, a keyhole waiting for the right key. If he could only unlock it . . . He tried again and again, changing capitals, adding numbers Gillian's birthday, even (though he felt pathetic) their anniversary. He wanted to punch a hole in the screen, to reach through the pixel wall and s.n.a.t.c.h the secrets within. Find reasons for all the questions that had turned his life inside out in the last thirty-six hours.

He plugged in his headset and logged back in to Gothic Lair. Randall must have been looking out for Nick. He appeared out of nowhere in a cloud of sparks a second after Nick arrived.

'It's Cryptych,' Nick said at once. 'The program,' he clarified, in case Randall had misunderstood.

'I know. I took a look.'

'Is there any way to crack it?'

A pause. 'That program's pretty solid. You won't get it out of there in a hurry without the pa.s.sword. Didn't Gillian send you anything to unlock it?'

'She said, "bear is the key".' Nick typed it out. In the moonlit chamber, the Wanderer took a sheet of parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to the Necromancer.

'There's four bears in the picture. Maybe that's what the clue's about?'

Nick swapped programs. Four bears cavorted with the lions in their digital box. One seemed to be digging an invisible hole. He clicked, and received the dreaded pa.s.sword prompt.

He typed: f o u r Pa.s.sword incorrect

Enter Pa.s.sword:

'How about . . .' Randall thought for a moment. 'You said these cards were from the Middle Ages, right? Didn't they speak Latin back then?'

'What's the Latin for "bear"?'

Urthred walked to a dusty shelf and opened up a large, iron-bound book resting on a lectern. He studied it. On Randall's machine, Nick knew, the action would have opened up a window on the Web.

'Ursus.' Randall spelled it out. 'Any good?'

Nick tried it: capitalised, lower case. 'Nope.'

'How about-'

The m.u.f.fled bleep of Nick's cellphone penetrated through the headphones. 'Hang on.' He unhooked the headset and picked up the phone. 'Yes?'

'Nick, buddy.' Royce, as ebulliently unpleasant as ever. 'We got a few more questions for you. You want to come back in?'

Nick looked at his watch. Almost as if he could see him, Royce added, 'Not now. I'm heading out. Tomorrow morning. Bring a friend.'

When Nick went back into the game, Urthred was gone and the Wanderer held a new parchment scroll.

Had to go. Good luck hunting bears.

Nick didn't smile. He ordered another soda and reopened Cryptych. He tried every variant of 'bears' and numbers he could think of, every combination of dates. In the corner of the screen time moved on, the seconds tapped out by the click of keys. He wondered if 'bear' was a mistake Gillian had mistyped in her panic. Beat? Neat? Near?

'Nowhere near.' Nick slammed the lid of the computer and waved to the waitress for the bill. He tossed his credit card onto the plate and stared into neon-lit s.p.a.ce while she ran it through the machine. The pa.s.sword prompt had branded itself onto his brain: he knew when he went to bed he would see it in his sleep, dancing in front of his eyes.

'Sir? Excuse me, sir?'

The waitress had come back with his credit card. He reached for the pen to sign, but there was no slip.

'I'm sorry, sir. Your card was declined.' Her tone was so bored she could have been listing the specials. Nick was bewildered.

'Can you try it again?'

'Three times already. You should call your bank. You got something else?'

'How much do I owe?'

'Twenty-seven seventy-five.'

He peered inside his wallet. A twenty and a ten. He pulled them both out and laid them on the table. The waitress saw the tip and popped her gum in contempt.

'Have a nice day.'

The moment he was back in his hotel room he rang the phone number on the back of his credit card. He punched in the card number when the computer asked for it, then settled back on his bed for the long, on-hold purgatory. To his surprise, an operator picked up almost straight away.

'How may I help you today, Mr Ash?' she asked, after the usual security checks.

'I just tried to pay for a meal with my card and the waitress said it was declined.'

'That card's been cancelled, sir.'

'Cancelled?'

'It was reported stolen three hours ago.'

'Stolen?' Nick's mind spun. 'Who told you that?'

A hollow clacking of keys on the other end of the phone. 'You did, sir.'

Nick lay flat on the bed. He felt weak, a shadow s.n.a.t.c.hing at things he couldn't grasp. 'I, uh, the card wasn't in my wallet so I a.s.sumed it must have been stolen. I guess I panicked.' How guilty did he sound? 'But I found it again now. Can I get it reactivated?'

'I'm sorry, it's not possible to reactivate a cancelled card. You should receive a replacement within seven to ten working days.'

Nick ended the call. He was shaking. How could they do that whoever they were just phone up and cancel a part of his life?

Maybe it wasn't anyone. Credit card companies make mistakes, the wrong cards get cancelled . ..

What about the hotel? They'd swiped his card when he checked in. Would that show up on his statement? If it did, they'd know where he was. And his cellphone. Was that safe? There were so many base stations in New York City they'd get a fix on him in an instant, if they had that kind of access.

They.

He jumped off the bed. He had to get out of there. There was nothing to pack except his laptop and the previous day's clothes still balled-up damp in a corner. He stuffed them into a laundry bag he found in the closet and turned out the light, then turned it back on again in case anyone was watching.

He let himself out into the corridor. At the far end, by the elevator, a bellboy with a room-service trolley was waiting outside another room. He heard Nick and glanced up, watching him for a second longer than was necessary.

Is he one of them? Did he recognise me? With a spurt of embarra.s.sment, Nick realised what he must look like: unshaven, unkempt, with a laptop slung over one shoulder and a laundry bag in the other. No wonder the guy looked suspicious.

An invisible guest opened his door. The bellboy pushed the trolley into the room, shooting Nick another doubtful glance. The moment he was out of sight, Nick ducked back into his room. He leaned against the wall, s.h.i.+vering as sweat beaded on his forehead.

He couldn't check out of the hotel without paying. Then Royce really would lock him up. But he couldn't pay without the card and if they were monitoring it, they'd know at once he was on the move. Where would he go? He had friends, but each time he thought of them he imagined them like Bret, slumped dead in a chair. He couldn't do that to them.

He double-locked the door, shot the chain and put a chair under the handle. He checked the windows didn't open. Then he stripped off and crawled into bed.

It was a long time before sleep came, and when it did it brought no rest. He dreamed he was running through a forest, thick and tangled like something from Gothic Lair, chasing a creature that crashed unseen through the undergrowth ahead. However fast he ran he never seemed to get closer. The forest was filled with noise, other hunters chasing the same animal or were they after him? He knew Royce was among them. He ran faster, tripping on rocks and tearing his face on branches.

He came out into a clearing, a long meadow that ended at the foot of a sheer cliff. Now he could see his prey, a black-backed bear breasting through the high gra.s.s in long, sinuous bounds.

'Shoot him,' said Gillian, next to him. He hadn't seen her come. 'Bear is the key.'

He looked down and saw a gun in his hand. It was surprisingly heavy. He had the terrible feeling he was doing something wrong, but he didn't know what it could be. He lifted the gun and aimed it at the bear, who had rolled into a ball and seemed to be tickling itself, oblivious to the danger.

'Poor bear,' said Emily, who had appeared out of nowhere. But it was too late: Nick had already pulled the trigger. Except that the bear wasn't a bear any more it was Bret. It slumped against the cliff, drowning in blood.

When daylight finally dawned outside he'd already been awake for hours. And he still had no idea what the pa.s.sword might be.