Читать книгу The 13th Apostle - Richard Heller - Страница 11

A few minutes later

The New York City Grill

Lucy used to say that, during the first year of their marriage, she discovered Gil had an amazing talent: he had perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Whenever Gil found himself on the receiving end of one of her stories, some incident that had marred or made her day, she could expect Gil to appear to listen intently, nod at just the right times, ask the appropriate questions, and have absolutely no idea of what she was talking about.

Sleep-talking, as Lucy called it, was a skill that Gil had become rather fond of and one that had gotten him through almost every relationship since the first grade. But with Lucy it was different. He abandoned the practice long before their second anniversary. By then, he had discovered, much to his amazement, that he cared more about the little things that happened in Lucy’s day than his own desire to veg out.

Now, in the restaurant with Ludlow droning on, he had been sleep-talking once again, letting the old man continue his monologue while retaining virtually none of the details.

“…And so we have come to believe that the document might contain a hidden message that would tell us where a certain artifact is located—a copper scroll that dates back to the time of Jesus. The thing is, we’re not sure, it might just be a metaphor that the author of the diary used,” Dr. Ludlow concluded.

“Of course,” Gil confirmed, nodding.

“That’s where you come in,” Ludlow added.

“Where … exactly?” Gil queried, trying desperately to appear as if he knew what the hell was going on.

“Why, telling us if the text of the journal contains any sort of pattern that could be concealing a hidden message,” Sabbie interjected.

“Do you mean a code?” Gil asked. “You know, I don’t do codes.”

“No. Not a code, that’s the whole point,” Sabbie interrupted. “If we needed a cryptanalyst, we wouldn’t have called you.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Gil snapped back.

Ludlow interceded again. “Look, if we’re right, the person who wrote this journal would have been afraid to use an encrypting paradigm. He would have been concerned that, if he had embedded his message into a complex code, by the time the document was found—maybe centuries later—no one would have been able to decipher his message. We’re pretty sure he would have chosen a simpler means of concealing any message. We just haven’t been able to figure how he did it, and Sabbie said that with your talent in pattern recognition, well…”

Gil straightened and began to fire one question after another, in hopes of bringing himself up to speed. Sabbie remained silent, perhaps trying to understand why Gil seemed so lost in a conversation that had seemed so clear. Fortunately, the Professor’s answers were long and detailed. They gave Gil just the information he needed to fill in the conversation he had missed.

A diary, written by an eleventh-century monk, had been discovered at an ancient monastery in Weymouth, England, sold to a local dealer of antiques, who had contacted Ludlow, whom he knew would be interested in the crumbling journal. For the moment, the diary remained safe, back in England, in a place known to Ludlow alone. At the appropriate time, it was to be smuggled or, as the Professor put it, “relocated” by Dr. Anton DeVris to the Israel Museum.

“DeVris says that until we know exactly what information the diary contains, it makes no sense to bring it to the Museum. He says that even though he’s the Director of Acquisitions, the Museum wouldn’t accept the diary without some proof of its relevance to religious history. I suppose he’s right, though I would feel a great deal better if it were safe with them, under lock and key.” The old man shrugged his disagreement with DeVris’ decision to keep the diary to themselves but was apparently resigned to go along with the Director’s decision.

“Do you think it’s wise? Holding on to so precious a document?” Gil asked.

He had no clue as to what value this nameless old journal might hold, but he hoped that a little more wiggle room in the conversation might make him look like he was up to speed with the conversation. Ludlow’s response was anything but what he expected.

“Well, it’s only a matter of days now anyway,” the Professor replied jovially. “As you know, George has assured us that, Monday morning, as soon as the last of the financial arrangements with CyberNet Forensics have been finalized, you’ll be on your way to Israel to join us.” Ludlow threw Sabbie yet another adoring glance.

Gil stared blankly. He would have thought the old man crazy had he not known that George was more than capable of making such a promise. But Gil knew George. Too well.

Sabbie surveyed Gil questioningly. “We were told you would be able to leave immediately.”

The Professor and Sabbie waited for Gil’s affirmation, which he had no intention of giving. Damned if he was going be carted off to the Middle East at George’s whim.

He wasn’t going and that was that. George could be counted on to go through his typical routine. He would argue that the company needed the revenue and without it, they’d be facing pay cuts or worse, layoffs. When that failed, George would pull some other manipulation out of his hat. The big guy had been alluding to the fact that since Lucy’s death Gil had become a recluse, so he’d probably argue that a little adventure would be good for Gil’s soul.

Good for CyberNet’s coffers, you mean.

Gil shook off the imaginary conversation. He had no intention of going anywhere. It was as simple as that.

“Why would I be going to Israel if the diary is in England?” Gil asked, a bit argumentatively.

“No matter. No matter. That’s where you’ll be doing your work.”

Not on your life, old man.

He flashed the Professor his most sincere look. “You know, considering what’s involved, I think it would make far more sense to bring the diary to CyberNet’s facilities,” Gil explained. “So, with your okay, Dr. Ludlow, I’m going to recommend that CyberNet assign your project our best team here in New York. In that way, you’ll get the best minds…”

“A team!” Ludlow gasped.

“Well, yes, but don’t worry, it won’t cost you any more. Actually, for the cost of transporting and housing me, it might even be cheaper in the long run…”

“Are you out of your mind?” Sabbie asked angrily. “How could you make such a suggestion? Either you’re a fool or you haven’t heard a word Dr. Ludlow has said. In either case, you’re wasting our time.”

She rose, nodded to the Professor, and made her way toward the restrooms. Ludlow mopped his forehead with his napkin, excused himself, and followed in the same general direction.

Gil shook his head in disbelief. What the hell had just happened? Had he really screwed things up that badly? Apparently so.

He slumped into his chair, prepared to offer the required apologies as soon as they both cooled down and made their way back to the table.

By the time the waiter came for their second drink order, Gil knew the bitter truth. Ludlow had walked out. And so had the girl.

Gil’s eyes fixed on Ludlow’s dripping raincoat, still slung on the chair, and his umbrella lay half open on the floor under the table. Everything was exactly as it had been, save for the fact that Ludlow and Sabbie were gone. Gone from the table and, evidently, gone from the restaurant.

Had he thought to look up from the three square inches of tablecloth that occupied his field of vision since their departure, he might have seen them leave. But he had waited, like a schoolboy, for his punishment; ready to make amends, so that he might go home, get some rest, and let George have it—but good—on Monday morning.

Now, it appeared, there was no one left to apologize to. What started out as a bit of a pain-in-the-ass dinner had escalated into the meeting from hell. Gil’s gaze fell on Ludlow’s vacant chair. A single thought brought him to his feet and sent him striding in the direction he had last seen the Professor and Sabbie disappear.

Sabbie would never have allowed the old man to leave without his coat and umbrella. Not on a night like this.