The Magdalene Cipher (14 page)

“Colors.”

“Exactly. Is rainbow.”

“Well, thanks for the science lesson, but—maybe I don't need to get a hologram made. All I really need is an ID, just like that one, but with my own thumbprint. So why don't we just forget about Kiev—take this guy's fingerprint out, and put mine in?”

Max shook his head. “Is not possible. If I open laminate, hologram is ruined.”

“But you could copy it, right?”

“Yes, yes, of course, but . . . this is big deal. I'll have to remake whole thing—”

“I can pay.”

“You can pay. It's expensive! I'll need copy of Virgin—
this
Virgin—which means trip to Switzerland.”

“What are you talking about?” Dunphy asked
.

“Einsiedeln.” He nodded at the hologram. “Her.”

Dunphy frowned with puzzlement. “She's a virgin?”

Max threw his hands in the air. “You're a Christian? And you ask this? What do you think we're talking about? I say, ‘Madonna,' you're thinking rock 'n' roll?”

Dunphy picked up the ID. “I never really looked at it. It seemed smudged. I mean—for Christ's sake, she's black!”

“Of course she's black. That's why she's famous:
La Vierge Noire
.
Everyone knows about this.”

The postcard at Brading's house flashed through Dunphy's mind. What did it say?
Protectrice de la ville
.
(Protector of the city—but
which
city?) Dunphy knocked back the Becherovka and poured himself another. Finally, he asked, “So, why is she black?”

Max snorted. “Who knows? Maybe is from smoke. Five hundred years, candles and incense.”

Dunphy thought about that for a moment and shook his head. “I don't think so. I mean . . . if you look, it's just her hands and face. If it was smoke, why aren't her robes black, too?”

Max sighed. “You're asking Jew about Christian mysticism? How should I know? Are we talking about security passes—or mystery cults?”

Dunphy shook his head, as if to clear it. “Okay. So you go to this place . . .”

“Einsiedeln. Is in mountains.”

“And you go there, and . . . then what?”

“I go there and make replica of statue, or buy one. Once I have that, I can duplicate hologram. But even then, you still have problem.”

“What.” Dunphy said the word without inflection, as if it were an answer, as if it were a demand
.

“Fingerprint.”

“Why is that a problem? If you're gonna remake the thing, all you have to do is put one of mine on the pass. I mean, that's the point, isn't it?”

“Of course, but . . . maybe it doesn't work.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” Max was silent for a long while
.

“Because what?” Dunphy insisted
.

The Russian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I am thinking, why is fingerprint on pass?”

“For identification,” Dunphy answered. “Obviously.”

Max nodded his head impatiently, as if Dunphy had missed the point. “Of course, but . . . how does it work?”

Dunphy thought about it. “They compare the fingerprint on the pass to . . .”

“What?”

Dunphy frowned. “My thumbprint,” he said, and rubbed his forefinger against his thumb. “They probably have a scanner at the door—where you go in. So if the fingerprint on the pass matches the fingerprint on the thumb, everything's jake.”

“Yes,” Max replied. “Good. I hope so.”

For a moment, each of the men sunk into their own thoughts. Finally, Dunphy asked, “What do you mean, you
hope
so?”

The Russian nodded, “Yes, because . . . is possible—maybe this is more complicated.”

“How could it be more complicated?”

“Maybe they have prints on file.”

“Yea-ah? Then what?”

“If they have prints on file, maybe they don't compare
two
prints. Maybe they compare
three
a—one on finger, one on pass, one on file.”

Dunphy thought about it. “Well, if they do that,” he said, “I'm fucked.”

“Yes, totally, I agree.”

A long silence ensued
.

Finally, Dunphy asked, “So what do we do?”

The Russian's shoulders rose and fell. “Maybe, you take chance?”

Dunphy shook his head. “I don't think so. There's like a big downside.”

“Okay! So I make new pass—and special fingerprint.”

“What do you mean?”

Max ignored the question. “You know, fingerprints are interesting business.”

Dunphy's eyes narrowed, but Max paid no attention
.

“Like treads on tire. Give fingers traction—so don't slip.” Max sipped his Becherovka. “Buenos Aires police were maybe first to use,” he continued. “Hundred years ago. And no false positives—ever! These fingerprints are more reliable than DNA, irises—anything! Absolutely best biometric.”

“Well, that's great,” Dunphy said, “but what's it got to do with me and the guy on the pass?”

Max glanced at the pass and said, “I could copy Mr. Brading's fingerprint to new ID. That would give us match with file copy. And then, I make little
glove
a—”

“A
glove
a?” Dunphy said
.

“A
little
glove. Just for thumb. I could digitize this man's fingerprint, and use laser to etch it onto . . . I don't know what. Latex . . . lambskin—”

“I'm not shopping for a condom, Max.”

“Or soft plastic—like for contact lenses. We could glue it to your thumb! And you know what?” The Russian beamed. “It would probably work!”

“Probably?”

“Absolutely! It would absolutely probably work.”

Dunphy thought about it. Finally he said, “These are unforgiving people, Max. Don't you give a guarantee, or something?”

Max laughed. “Of course! Whatever guarantee you want! Just like washing machine!”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I,” he said, suddenly sober. “But, this is complicated. Is like printing money—and not just American money. I mean hard kind. Francs, marks, guilders . . .” He picked up the pass and brought it closer to his eyes. “Look—is thread!
There!
a”

“So what?”

“So . . . it could be imperfection. Or, maybe, security thread. I need to look at it with microscope. If it's security thread, there could be microprinting on it. A few words, over and over.”

“Like what?”

Max chuckled. “ ‘Shoot this man.' ”

“Very funny,” Dunphy said, and paused. Then he shook his head. “Look: just do what you have to. But, for Christ's sake, get it right the first time.”

“Naturally. But . . . we have to talk money. Otherwise . . . I don't know what else to say about it.”

“I thought we might. How much will you need?”

“Believe me, it would be easier to counterfeit guilders for the blind—”

“How
much
a Max?”

The Russian opened his mouth, gulped, and shrugged. “Twenty-five thousand.”

Dunphy stared at him
.

The Russian cleared his throat. “Is difficult!”

Dunphy thought about it. On the one hand, it was a rip-off. On the other hand, the money wasn't his. “It has to be perfect,” he warned
.

“Of course! And passport? This, I do for cost!”

“And how much would that be?”

“Five thousand.”

“That's very generous, Max.”

“Thank you. Of course . . .”

Dunphy's eyes narrowed. “What?”

“There is deposit for credit cards. How much you want? Five thousand? Two thousand?”

“Ten would be grand,” Dunphy told him. “And what does that bring us to? Forty thousand?”

Max made a face. “Is cost of doing business,” he explained
.

“Oh, I realize that,” Dunphy said. “But there's a wee something else.”

Max raised his eyebrows in an unasked question
.

“I need you to front the money, Max. And then I need you to bring the whole nine yards to Zürich when it's done. I can't come back here.”

Max winced. “Please—Kerry, I'm not Tele Pizza,” he said
.

Dunphy finished his second Becherovka, put the glass down, and got to his feet. “I'll pay you fifty-thousand dollars—that's ten grand more than you asked for, and what you asked for was extortion. But it has to be perfect. It has to be quick. You have to front the costs—and you have to bring it to Zürich.”

You could almost hear the wheels turning in the Russian's head:
ka-ching! ka-ching! ka-ching!
a “Okay,” he said. “For you—”

“I'll call you in a few days.”

Max looked doubtful. “Maybe telephone is not so good. Prick from embassy—”

“The telephone is fine. I'll ask for a woman—Genevieve. You say it's a wrong number and hang up, like you're pissed off. Then you get on a plane to Zürich—right away—okay?”

Max nodded
.

“You know the Zum Storchen?” Dunphy asked
.

“Sure. In Old Town—by river.”

“Get a room there, and I'll meet you.”

Max stood up and shook hands. Then he frowned
.

“What's the matter?” Dunphy asked
.

“I worry.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

Dunphy was touched. “Oh, Max, for Christ's sake—”

“Is big problem. Holograms are expensive. You get killed, how do I get paid?”

“I don't know,” Dunphy said. “It's a conundrum. But thanks for your concern.”

Chapter 17

Threads of rain. The screech of tires. A smattering of applause. And then, the flight attendant, welcoming them to “London's Heathrow Airport.”

An hour later, Dunphy was rattling through the West End on the Piccadilly Line, thinking about the last time he'd taken the Underground. In one way, almost nothing had changed. He'd been on the run from murder then, and he was on the run from murder now. Not that anything was actually the same: four months ago, he'd been fleeing someone else's murder; and now, as the train rocked through the same watery landscape, he was escaping his own. And that made all the difference
.

Or it should have. In fact, he was having difficulty concentrating. His mind was everywhere at once. No matter what he thought about, or tried to think about, the murder scene in McLean flashed through his mind like the cheap snapshot that it was
.

Clementine
.

Roscoe

What would she do when he appeared on her doorstep? Out of nowhere. Unannounced
.

Strangled

Dunphy hoped that she'd be overjoyed, but he suspected that her happiness at seeing him would be tempered by a wish to kill him. After all, he'd run out on her. Or so it seemed
.

Hanging there

And then there was “the situation”—Dunphy and the world, Dunphy versus the world. This was the subject that had his mind racing like a digital stopwatch, the hundredths turning over in a liquid-crystal blur
.

He was traveling on a legitimate passport—which was both good and bad. It was good because the British had zero interest in an American named Dunphy. Their concern (admittedly intense) rested with a notional Irish national named Kerry Thornley—who'd disappeared some months before. Thornley was a suspect character, all right, but his connection to Dunphy was unknown to them. All of which was fine
.

The bad part was that the Agency would soon find out that he'd obtained a new passport in his own name. And knowing that, they'd begin to look for him abroad and, in particular, in England. This was, indeed, the bad part, Dunphy mused, as the train disgorged a flood of passengers at Earl's Court. And another bad bit about the name was that Clementine would want an explanation
.

Eyes, tongue, and the plastic bag over his head

A startled look flashed upon the face of the woman across from him, and Dunphy realized that he'd actually moaned aloud. So he smiled ruefully and muttered, “Tooth.” The woman looked relieved
.

Maybe he should have gone to the Canaries
,
directly
to the Canaries. Looked up Tommy Davis. Gone on a bender. Gotten laid. After a while, the whole business might have blown over
.

Right, Dunphy thought. As if . . . In his considerable experience, things almost never blew over. If they blew in any direction, they tended to blow things
away
.
(Usually people.) And besides, it wasn't just a matter of being on the run. He was on a mission:
when I find the guy who whacked Roscoe, I'll . . 
.

What? What would he do? What would he actually
do?
Would he kill the guy? Dunphy thought about it and decided that he would. Definitely. In
cold blood?
Yeah. He would. He could do that. But that wasn't the point. Not really. It wasn't a question of “a guy.” Roscoe's killer was a soldier ant in someone else's army, and it was the “someone else” that Dunphy wanted. Or to be exact: him, the army
,
and
the guy
.

When I find him, I'll kill him with my hands. And then I'll bury him. That was the important part—the burial. Because without it, he wouldn't be able to piss on the man's grave
.

Twenty minutes later, Dunphy was standing in the rain outside Clementine's flat, looking up at the second-floor window, wondering if she was watching
him
.
And then he was at her door, knocking. A couple of soft taps. Harder
.

“Clem?” His voice was a whisper. “Clem?” No answer
.

Ah well, he thought, she's not here, and turned to leave, at once disappointed and relieved. He was thinking that he'd come back tomorrow, when, suddenly, he heard the latch turn and the door swing open
.

“Kerry?”

He turned to her, suitcase in hand, and it was as if his eyes inhaled her—a straight shot to the brain. She'd been sleeping, and an aura of warmth and softness clung to her
.

“Jack,” he answered, shuffling his feet. “Actually, it's Jack Dunphy.” He paused and added, “No more lies.”

He was grinning like a dunce as he stepped toward her, reaching out to take her in his arms—and so was unprepared for the palm of her hand, whistling out of nowhere to land onto his cheek
.

“Ow—Jesus!”

“You
prick
,
a” she said
.

She went after him again, this time leading with her right, but he caught it just in time and pulled her to him. “Don't do that,” he said. “It hurts.” He shook his head to clear it. Then the fierceness left her as suddenly as it had come. Tears welled in her eyes as she subsided into his arms. “I missed you
so
much,” she said. “You made me so unhappy.”

Together, they went inside, passing directly from the living room to bed. Falling into each other's arms, they made love with the urgency of desperadoes. And again. Then the light began to fade, and him, too—until, quite suddenly, it was night, and Clementine was shaking him awake
.

They went to a Greek restaurant in Charlotte Street, all wood smoke and candles. At a table in the corner, Dunphy tried to explain, in the most circumspect and inarticulate way, why he'd had to leave England. “It was one of those things that . . . well, you know, it was something that . . . well, to tell you the truth, there wasn't anything I could do about it. I mean . . . the people I work for—or
worked
for—”

“Exactly, and who
was
that? You haven't really said.”

“Well . . . that was . . . actually, that was a government agency.”

“So you're a spy.”

Dunphy shook his head. “No. I
was
a spy. Now, I'm . . .” He didn't know quite how to finish
.

“What?”

“Well
,
now
,
I guess you'd have to say I'm unemployed.”

“You're redundant, then?”

“Yes. That's exactly it. I'm redundant. I am absolutely fucking redundant.”

She cocked her head to the side and looked at him. “And just what does that mean . . . in the spy business?”

“Pretty much what it means anywhere else.” Suddenly, he leaned toward her with a confidential smile. “The waiter's in love with you,” he whispered
.

She gave him a look. “You're changing the subject.”

“I can't help it,” he said
.

“Why not?”

“There's a thing called ‘need to know.' ”

“So?”

“You don't have one.”

Clementine frowned. “We'll see about that,” she said
.

A silence fell between them. Finally, and seemingly out of the blue—and seemingly apropos of nothing—Dunphy asked, “So . . . still taking classes at King's?”

Clementine nodded. “Mmmm,” she said
.

“Y'know, I was wondering, about the professor. The one who died—old what's-his-name . . . Schidlof. Do you think I could talk with one of his students?”

“Dunno!” Clem replied, savoring an olive. “Maybe. Do you know who they are?”

“No. I haven't a clue,” Dunphy said. “How would I know that?”

Clem shrugged. “You're the bloody spy, not me. I thought the CIA knew everything.”

“Yeah, well, maybe, but . . . at the moment, I'm not in a position to ask the Agency a lot of questions. Still . . . maybe there's a list of some kind. I mean, the school has to keep track of who took what!”

“Of course it does. But I don't know anyone in the registrar's office, and even if I did, there's a privacy issue. They'd never give it to me.” She paused. “Why are you smiling?”

“The way you said
privacy
.
With a soft
i
.
a”

“That makes you
happy
a?”

“Yeah.”

Clementine rolled her eyes. “Well!
You're
quite the cheap date, then, aren't you?”

The waiter delivered plates of moussaka, dolmades, and hummus to their table, and filled Dunphy's glass with a pale yellow wine that tasted remarkably like shellac. They fell into a comfortable silence, quietly enjoying one another's company. Suddenly, Clem looked up from her plate, leaned forward, and exclaimed, “Simon!”

“What?”

“Simon!”

Dunphy looked around. “What am I supposed to do? Close my eyes? Spin around? What?”

“Simon was taking psychology courses. It's a big department, but . . . he
might
have had a class with Schidlof.”

“Can you call him?”

She shook her head. “I don't think he has a phone. And I don't know his last name.”

Dunphy's shoulders sank. “That's gonna make it harder.”

“But we could see him.”

“Where?”

“At the market in Camden Lock. His parents have a sort of kiosk. Plumbing fixtures, old uniforms. Usual hodgepodge.”

“You'll introduce me?” he asked
.

“If you'll buy me a Sgt. Pepper's jacket—absolutely.”

Sunday was cold, and the wind chill out of the Underground was ferocious. Riding the long escalator up to the street, Dunphy and Clementine leaned into one another, bracing against the vacuum-driven gale
.

“Fuckin' 'ell,” Clem said. “I'm freezin', and I'm not even outside!” She held his right arm tightly, with both hands, as if he might try to escape, and jittered on her feet to keep her toes from freezing
.

She was effortlessly beautiful, in the way that models sometimes are when they pass through airports in New York, Paris, and Milan. Her clothes were just a happenstance, the first things she'd found to wear that morning: a ratty cotton sweater (black); a pair of jeans (also black, and frayed at the knees). Soft leather boots, turned down at the tops, and a thin leather jacket that did nothing to keep her warm. The wind fanned her hair this way and that, covering her face and then revealing it. She hadn't bothered with makeup—but, then, she never needed any. And, anyway, her clear, pale skin was rouged by the cold. Standing beside her on the escalator, rattling toward the surface at a forty-five-degree angle, Dunphy could feel the peripheral gaze of half a dozen men
.

The wind ceased the moment they stepped outside, plunging into the tumult and crowds on Camden High Street. The sidewalks were thronged with the young and the stoned, edgy-looking kids in leather jackets, African vendors, drug addicts, headbangers, yuppies, punks, drunks, schizophrenics, tourists—and a mime. The air was a casserole of sweet and sour smells, of roasting chestnuts and stale beer, sausages, onions, and sweat. And all of it stirred by the contending rhythms of reggae, rap, and zouk, Yellowman, Bill Haley, and Pearl Jam. Clem held his hand tightly, her face alight as they let the crowds carry them along the street past rickety stands heaped with sweaters, racks of clothes, and trays of bootlegged tapes
.

“It's like the summer of love,” she said. “Except it's winter and freezing. And I guess the people look different.”

Dunphy grunted. “I'm sure you're right, but what do
you
know about the summer of love? You weren't even protein.”

“I saw a documentary.”

They found Simon at his parents' shop, which turned out to be an open storefront amid a warren of alleys, alcoves, and rooms that, long ago, had been a part of the city's stables. Rail thin and twenty something, Simon braved the cold in a Pink Floyd T-shirt, blue jeans, and Doc Martens. A Betty Boop tattoo was embedded in the flesh where a bicep should have been. Nearby, an electric heater glowed the bright orange that hunters wear in deer season
.

Seeing Clem, Simon went off like a flare. “Hal-lo,” he cried, and staggered toward her with his arms wide. Embracing, they rocked from side to side for what Dunphy thought was a bit too long. Finally, Simon noticed him and, somewhat sheepishly, stepped back. “Cuppa tea? For you and your friend?”

“No—”

“ 'Course ya will!” he said, and disappeared behind a tasseled curtain
.

Dunphy looked at her. “I thought you said you didn't know him very well.”

Clementine shook her head. “What I actually
said
was, I didn't know his last name.”