Even the little restaurant to which the doctor had directed Lang was in historical context. He paused to read the menu posted outside one of several side-by-side eateries. Through open doors he could hear the murmur of conversation. Inside were three small rooms separated by white plaster walls contrasting with beams darkened by centuries of smoke from tobacco and candles.
Just inside the door a smallish man with a beard streaked with white took Lang by the arms. "Langford Reilly?"
"How'd you guess?"
"As I said, I wanted to meet in a place where strangers would be obvious."
Lang thought of the menu outside. Unlike in most European establishments, there was not one in English. Other than Dr. Shaffer, no one was speaking it in here, either.
Lang had an uneasy feeling. "Any reason you're concerned about people you don't know?"
Dr. Shaffer was leading Lang to the back of the restaurant, the one place tables weren't close enough to touch. "Within an hour of the time we first spoke," the professor said in Oxford-accented English, "a man appeared in front of my house. The next day another. I feel I am being followed because of our conversation. Why would that be?"
Lang didn't answer immediately. "They" had retrieved or intercepted the call from his BlackBerry, a feat requiring a fair amount of sophistication—or sharing of information from the Anglo-American Echelon, the worldwide listening station in northern England that automatically recorded every conversation involving a satellite, which included most phone conversations, e-mails, and other communications. Having the communications was one thing. Being able to find one of interest among millions of others was another. Even if access to Echelon by someone other than England, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, or the United States were permitted—something unheard-of in Lang's days at the Agency—the sorting-out process would still be daunting. But what
if...
"Mr. Reilly?"
Dr. Shaffer was peering at him curiously, as though Lang might have suddenly contracted some exotic disease. "I was hoping you could tell me why I am being watched."
Lang shrugged. "I have no idea," he said, hoping the lie was believable. "As you'll see, these documents are of scientific and historic interest only."
He hoped.
Without taking his eyes off Lang's face, Shaffer stuffed a copy of Jacob's translation into a briefcase beside him. "In that case, you would have no objection to my going to the police?"
Lang picked up a menu, trying to recognize the German he had once known. Four of the six pages were handwritten specialties of the day. "I would think that would be the thing to do. Could be a disgruntled student ..."
"I have not taught in years. I work on a job-to-job basis for foundations and museums, usually doing chemical analyses of archeological finds." He reached into a pocket somewhere, producing a pack of Marlboros. "Do you mind?"
The only benefit of Gurt's departure had been that Lang had finally gotten the stench of her Marlboros out of his life. The damn smoke still lingered in the condominium and his clothes like a memory that would not go away. He wondered if the smell would have been as offensive if he hadn't missed her so much.
He sat back in his chair and flip-flopped a hand—
I
don't care.
The place's patrons all seemed to be puffing away. One more would make little difference.
"You are not a smoker?"
"No."
Shaffer returned the pack to wherever it had come from and waved at the proprietor/waiter. "I will wait, then."
Rare. A smoker deprived of his vice who didn't think he was being imposed upon.
"I recommend the pancake noodle soup. The Wiener schnitzel, goulash, and
Tafelspitz mit G'roste
are equally good."
From his years in Frankfurt, Lang remembered that German food was as filling as it was hearty, something that not only stuck to your ribs but made you feel it was still stuck a day later. "The goulash sounds great. I'll pass on the soup. And whatever beer you're drinking."
Shaffer relayed the orders.
When the proprietor walked toward the kitchen, Shaffer asked, "Just what are these papers you have given me?"
The couple at the next table were leaving. Lang waited until they were headed out. "I'm not sure. I've only had a chance to glance at them, but they seem to deal with some ancient process involving a powder that levitates and turns into gold or fine glass."
Shaffer looked at him blankly. "You are referring to the manna of the Bible, I take it."
"Apparently not the Bible we know. This is an unpublished account of Exodus."
"The Melk parchments?"
"Melk?"
Shaffer waited for two Krugel half-liter beers to be set upon the table.
"A
Kloster,
monastery, in the Wachau near here. A very persit... er, persistent story, rumor, says some ancient Hebrew documents were found in Jerusalem during the Third Crusade and wound up in the library there. Supposedly they contained ancient secrets long ago lost. Most people took them as legend, not fact, since they have never been found. Then a former colleague, a man named Steinburg who taught ancient history when I was still at the university, was killed in a motor accident. The police never found the other vehicle. Steinburg's wife was convinced it wasn't an accident, because her husband had been talking about something that had been discovered at Melk, something he said could affect the world." Shaffer took a long sip. "Are you still certain you know of no danger I may be in, Mr. Reilly?"
Lang shrugged as he reached for his beer. "As I said, I just looked at the papers quickly, didn't see anything earthshaking. You mentioned the biblical manna?"
Shaffer had both hands around his glass, staring at the bubbles. "You called me because of my Web site dealing with alchemy, a hobby for a chemist who analyzes ancient artifacts." He looked up at Lang. "Alchemy was both the curse and the mother of modern chemistry. Did you know that, Mr. Reilly?"
Lang was unsure whether the question was rhetorical or not. Either way, he had never given alchemy a thought until recently. "Can't say I did. How so?"
Shaffer's eyes narrowed, the expression of a man relating a personal slight. "While scientists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries—philosophers, as they were called—were making quite accurate observations of the physical laws of the universe, and botanical discoveries were common, chemistry was limited to alchemists' quest to create gold and silver. Although a few important findings were made, chemistry really became a legitimate science only in the early to mid nineteenth century."
Had it waited another century or so, Lang's junior year in high school would have been a lot happier.
Shaffer continued. "The medieval practitioners had it backward. After the fall of Rome, a lot of true science was either lost or suppressed by the Church, which saw, correctly, science as its enemy. What was saved was kept by the Muslims who from time to time occupied parts of Europe. With the beginnings of the Crusades, some of that knowledge was reintroduced, particularly in mathematics, astronomy, and medicine.
"Somehow the memory of your powder lingered. It is referred to in the old texts as 'the philosopher's stone' because it resembled stone dust, but the writers of those works got turned around. The Egyptians used gold to make the powder they called
mfkzt.
Among other uses, pharaohs ate it. It was thought to prolong life."
Lang watched plates being set down on the table. Judging by the size of his portion, he had been wise not to order the soup. "Ate it? Ate gold?"
Shaffer leaned over, savoring the aroma of his meal. "Gold, Mr. Reilly, has little intrinsic value, yet it is prized all over the world. Why not, say, iron or copper? Because the ancients used a gold product as a life-prolonging substance. The rest of the world developed some sort of atavistic fascination for that dement, forgetting its purpose. Because of its properties it aids in health and generates a unique energy."
"Levitation?"
"That is part of it, of course."
Lang forgot his goulash. "And the other part?"
Shaffer returned his attention to his plate. "Who knows? That, too, is lost. There are those who believe that, under certain circumstances, the powder has huge energy potential."
Lang put down his fork, the connection between Yadish, Lewis, and the mysterious white powder beginning to come into focus like a figure emerging from thick fog. Details were still blurry, but the form was visible.
"What sort of energy potential?"
The doctor used the side of his fork to surgically dissect a dumpling. "No one really is sure of the details, but we can be certain of some generalities. A few years ago an English team attempted to duplicate the erection of one of the smaller pyramids using the means the Egyptians would have had available. As the structure grew, they surrounded it with a sand incline, a road around the perimeter to drag stones into place—the same method archaeologists have assumed for years was used to build the pyramids. It didn't work. At some point, the pile of sand was too high for its weight and it collapsed—not once but every time they repeated the effort."
Lang took a pull at his beer, watching Shaffer's face through the wavy lines of the glass. "And?"
The dumpling was apparently sufficiently satisfactory to merit another incision. "It became obvious the Egyptians used an alternative method to lift stones weighing tons."
"And you think the powder...?"
Finished, Shaffer regarded his plate regretfully. "I only speculate, Mr. Reilly. The Emerald Tablet of Hermes, considered the founding work of alchemy, is an ancient Egyptian text, so the two—alchemy and the mysteries of Egypt—are...
are...
intermingled? No, intertwined. Are you going to finish that goulash? It really is not so good cold."
Lang pushed the plate across the table. "But how could a powder be used to lift that sort of weight?"
The goulash was also to Shaffer's satisfaction. "I am unsure; I do not know. Physics is not my territory. But I might know someone who does. Or might. A man who is named bin Hamish, in Cairo, with whom I've occasionally worked." There was a squeaking noise as he scraped the platter with the edge of his fork. "As you Americans say, tell you what: Let me read over these papers tonight. We'll get together tomorrow. I cannot imagine a better way to start the day than with a Sacher torte and coffee. Perhaps you will join me there?"
No doubt as to where "there" was. The hotel's apricot- jam-and-chocolate confection was served with a generous dollop of
Schlag,
rich, melt-in-the-mouth whipped cream.
Enough calories, cholesterol, and unsaturated fat to make a cardiologist weep.
The good doctor's dietary habits would have felled an Olympic athlete, yet he was smallish, perhaps plump, but not obese. Europeans seemed to eat as they pleased, yet few were fat. The older he got, the more Lang hated every one of them for that.
Lang stood as the proprietor exchanged the empty glasses and dishes for a small square of paper that was the check. If he saw it, Shaffer made no move to pick it up.
Lang lifted it, glanced at the surprisingly low total, and put several euros on the table. 'Around when, seven or so?"
"The cafe opens at eight."
"Eight, then."
Outside, Lang realized he was still hungry. Small wonder, since Dr. Shaffer had eaten all but a couple of bites of both dinners.
Lang checked his watch. Early for Vienna, where few dined before 2100 hours, nine o'clock. He could get a sausage at one of the mobile
Würstelstand
and enjoy one of the city's more attractive sights a few blocks over.