The god machine, p.22
The God Machine, page 22
The loudspeaker droned on. “Who can say what mysterious ceremonies took place in this chamber?” Sir Francis intoned. They stood there and waited until the voice-over had concluded. Then Sajan turned toward Koster and said, “What now?”
Koster shrugged. He felt completely deflated. “Let's go back. I've seen nothing to suggest twenty-two. I've recorded the number of steps, the degrees in the turns of the tunnel, the… you name it. Nothing.”
“Except for that number, carved into the wall,” Lyman said.
“What? What number?” asked Koster.
Lyman hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there. Didn't you see it?”
“You were looking right at it,” Sajan said.
Koster rolled his eyes. “I must have been distracted by some rubber bat.”
They started back down the tunnel. “It was right before Franklin's cave,” Lyman said as they recrossed the Styx. He stabbed at the darkness with the beam of his flashlight. Slowly but surely from cavern to cavern, they retraced their steps. Then Lyman stopped short. He pointed up at the wall.
There it was: the Roman numeral XXII, carved right into the chalk in the wall. And now that he saw it, Koster couldn't understand how he could have possibly missed it. It was so glaringly obvious. Then again, he hadn't been expecting such a literal landmark.
As Koster examined the wall, Lyman went back to the toolroom. A short while later, he returned with a shovel and pick.
Koster ran his hand around the numerals. They had been etched with precision. But, try as he might, he could not discern any crack in the surface around them. They hadn't been carved on a tile and then placed there. “I guess the best way to begin—” he said, standing back. But he never finished.
The steel tip of the pick vanished right into the heart of the numerals. Lyman levered it out; a thick clot of chalk crashed to the floor.
“Or we could do that,” Koster added, as Lyman took another swing with the pick. He dug and dug, now with Koster's assistance, as Sajan kept them illuminated in the beam of her flashlight. The wall was amazingly soft. The chalk simply crumbled with each blow of the pick. It did not take long before they had carved out a hole almost two feet wide and a foot or more deep. Then Lyman struck something hard. They all heard it at once. The tip of the pick seemed to glance off the surface.Sajan shone the beam of her flashlight into the narrow opening. Inside appeared to be a kind of container, made of stone. Koster reached in. Slowly, with great care, he wiggled it free. It was a stone box. He placed it on the earth and they knelt down around it.
Chapter 39
Present Day
West Wycombe, England
THE BOX WAS ABOUT SIX INCHES LONG AND FOUR INCHES wide. It was decorated with a pyramid, topped with the all-seeing eye that shone like a sun. Sajan lifted the lid carefully. There were no hinges. It just slid off, like the top of a tiny sarcophagus. And there, nestled within, was a small piece of vellum. She pulled it out but Koster could already see what it was. The second piece of the map. It looked much like the first one. Sajan unfolded it gently.
“Is it the map?” Lyman asked.
Koster nodded. Once again, it looked more like a schematic than a map, with that same distinctive pattern of circles and squares nestled in a maze of fine lines. He could see that immediately. And so could Sajan.
“I wonder,” she said, “if the map and the schematics Franklin mentions in his journal aren't somehow related—the ones by Abraham of El Minya and da Vinci. You know, I keep thinking…” She paused. “This reminds me of something.”
Koster took the piece of the map from Sajan. Once again the edges were frayed, as if the page had been torn long ago. “Franklin's journal mentions his going to Paris, to the house of the Marquis d'Artois. He was looking for something, apparently. A drawing he found on the back of a painting by Leonardo da Vinci. A study of Cecilia Gallerani. But, frankly, it seemed an improbable tale. And besides,” he continued, “what do these schematics have to do with the Gospel of Judas? I don't get it. They're related, but how?”
“And look,” Sajan said, pointing down. “More Masonic Code. Just like on the first piece. What's it say?”
Koster studied it closely. It took him a minute to translate the text. Then he said, “It's a series of letters. L-U-C-D-I-X-D-I-X-H-U-I-T.” He looked up at Sajan. “It's in French. Luc is Luke.”
“Luke, chapter ten, verse eighteen. From the Bible,” Sajan said.
“I don't know the—”
“‘Jésus leur dit,’” said Sajan. “‘Je voyais Satan tomber du ciel comme un éclair.’ Which means, ‘And Jesus told them: I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.’”
“You certainly know your Bible,” said Lyman. “What does it signify, though?”
“I have no idea.”
“And why is it in French?” Lyman added. “The first clue was written in English.”
“Because,” Koster said, “this clue refers to the third piece of the map. The one hidden in Passy.”
“That makes sense,” Sajan agreed. “The question is, where?”
Koster shrugged. “We'll figure it out. In the meantime—” He plucked out his digital camera, and gave it to Lyman. “Here,” he said, holding the second piece of the map up before him. “Take a picture.”
Lyman did so. Minutes later, after replacing the now-empty box in the wall and repacking the opening, they gathered their tools and began to head down the corridor, back toward the door to the caves. They had traveled a good twenty yards when Lyman came to a halt. He lifted his hand but said nothing. Someone was coming. Koster could hear the patter of footsteps reverberate up the tunnel. Then, the sounds stopped.
Lyman flicked off his flashlight. Koster and Sajan did the same. The tunnel was thrown into darkness, except for the feeble red glow of a light overhead.
Lyman motioned them forward. They crept through the semidarkness. A moment later, they reached a bend in the tunnel. There was someone or something ahead. Koster could make out a dim silhouette but he couldn't be sure if it was a person or another mannequin. He tried to remember what he had seen on their way into the caverns. Then, Lyman flicked on his torch. The light blazed in the darkness.
Koster breathed a shaky sigh of relief. It was a mannequin—a man in a period costume. Lord Sandwich, perhaps. They started to move down the tunnel again when Koster noticed another figure. A mannequin wearing a mask. The mannequin moved, Lyman cursed and behind him, Koster glimpsed the face of a woman. A cold fist clutched his heart. She was wearing a habit and veil. She lifted her hand—as if giving a blessing—and the lights in the ceiling went out.
Lyman turned off his flashlight and the tunnel was flung into darkness. They started to run down the corridor, away from the entrance. As they moved, Koster heard a soft popping sound. He felt the dull impact of bullets tear into the wall at his back. They were shooting at them. They were trying to kill them!
They coursed down the corridor. As they came to a bend in the tunnel, Lyman stopped abruptly. Koster almost ran into him. “Keep going,” said the British detective. Without warning, he fired a shot. The gun blast echoed and bounced down the tunnel. Lyman fired again and again. The sound was so deafening that Koster had to reach out and steady himself against the far wall. “Go, dammit, go!” Lyman shrieked.
Koster's eardrums felt shattered. The ringing—it just wouldn't stop. He ran down the corridor, one hand on the tunnel walls to keep himself steady. Sajan ran at his side. He could hear her harsh breathing and the sound of her footsteps as they charged up the corridor. They ran and they ran and then, suddenly, she was gone. One minute she was there, the next… nothing. There was no one beside him. She'd just vanished. The tunnel must have split, Koster realized, into two separate passageways. He staggered to a stop, trying to listen. Lyman had stopped firing, but every few seconds Koster could just make out the soft pop of small-caliber weapons. The shots barely seemed audible. Then, they grew louder. He lifted his flashlight. He aimed it behind him. He wanted desperately to turn it back on but he realized the light would betray his location. So he waited, panting, hoping to pick up the sound of Sajan up ahead. He couldn't hear anything but the chatter of gunfire. It was getting closer and closer.
I can't simply hide here, he thought. Sajan was in trouble. Koster lingered for a few seconds more, then started back up the passageway. He kept one hand on the wall. What was that? Something had moved, he was sure of it. Right there, up ahead. He reached out through the darkness and felt… someone's clothes! He jerked his hand back instinctively. Nothing happened. So he reached out again. He felt the cloth of a costume, and then wax at his fingertips. It was only a mannequin. Koster took a shaky breath. He must have traveled around Franklin's cave in some outer passageway, and then circled back to the cavern. He was about to continue when he heard it again. That sound. He lifted his flashlight. His finger came down on the button but he was too scared to press it. Footsteps. He could hear them distinctly now. Some one was coming. “Savita?” he said in a whisper. He pressed his back to the wall. “Savita, is that you?”
But no one responded. The footsteps drew closer. Koster stepped out and turned on the flashlight.
A man wearing night-vision goggles and a ski mask stood before him, transfixed in the beam of his light. He was carrying a gun. Koster turned. He started to run but he wasn't quite quick enough.
The man in the ski mask lunged after him, grabbed his shoulders and spun him about. The man lifted his weapon. The tunnel exploded in a blaze of white light. Then, everything vanished.
Chapter 40
Present Day
West Wycombe, England
KOSTER CAME TO ON THE FLOOR OF THE CAVERN. HE WAS alone in the darkness. The man with the ski mask and goggles was gone.
He reached back reluctantly and put a hand on his head. The pain was excruciating. He gasped, bit his lip. He had a bump the size of an egg on the back of his skull. When he rubbed his fingers together, they were sticky with blood. Koster took a queasy breath and rolled to his feet. His head seemed to explode as blood pumped to the wound. Then he heard the soft pop of gunfire.
Savita! Koster dropped to his knees. He groped frantically for his flashlight. He crawled back and forth but he just couldn't find it. It was gone. Gone! Koster hesitated. He reached into his jacket, searching first one pocket, then the next, but somehow he knew it was pointless. The second piece of the map. That, too, was gone. But what had he expected? He was lucky to be alive. Then he remembered his camera. He had given it to Lyman, and if Lyman was okay… Koster climbed to his feet. A fierce, unexpected wave of anger swept through him.
He loped through the darkness, following the sound of the gunshots, one hand on the wall. The corridor curved right. Just ahead, he could make out the shape of a doorway. Franklin's Cave. Koster slowed. He crept toward the opening. There were lights shining within.
Sajan was standing on the far side of the cavern by the mouth of a tunnel, a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Koster ran toward her. She whirled about, raising the gun.
“It's me,” Koster said. “Hold your fire.” He held out his hands. “Thank God you're okay.”
Sajan put a finger to her lips and turned back toward the tunnel. Then she beckoned him toward her.
“Where's Lyman?” he whispered. “Is he okay?”
Sajan nodded. “He went back to try and turn on the—”
The lights snapped on suddenly.
“… the lights,” she concluded. She smiled. “I guess he found the circuit breaker.”
“What's going on?”
“Got a man trapped in the Children's Cave. The rest seemed to have gone. Pulled back maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. We thought we'd lost you.” She reached toward him suddenly, her fingers lingering on his arm. “Don't do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Disappear and leave me like that.”
“I thought you were…” He touched the back of his head and winced. “I didn't have much of a choice.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Sajan said. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I'm conscious.”
Just then, they heard something behind them. They turned toward the entrance to the cavern. Lyman appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. Sajan lowered her gun.
“Joseph, I'm glad you're all right,” Lyman said. “I didn't see you in the passage and we thought… Well, I thought…” He came up beside them.
“I'm fine. Did you chase them away?”
Lyman nodded. “Except for this one. But they stopped off at the tea shop on their way into the caves.”
“What do you mean?”
“The waitress is dead, I'm afraid. Strangled.” Koster gasped. “What's our friend up to?”
“Don't worry,” Sajan answered grimly. “He's not going anywhere. When the cops come—”
“No one's coming,” said Lyman.
“What? What do you mean, no one's coming?”
“I didn't call the police.”
“Why not?” Koster asked him.
“Give me the gun,” Lyman said to Sajan, holding out his hand.
She frowned, then handed it to him. “What are you doing?”
“I'm going in.”
“Shouldn't we just wait him out, if he's trapped?” Koster asked.
But Lyman had already entered the deep shadows of the corridor. He flipped on his flashlight. Sajan and Koster followed behind. Lyman crept to the edge of the doorway. Then he shouted, “Give it up, man! You're trapped. This is the only way out.”
For a moment, they heard nothing. Then, somebody laughed. It was brittle and false. “You think so?” the voice asked.
Lyman dropped to one knee. He lifted his weapon.
There was a low click, like the sound of a stick breaking.Koster felt his heart skip. Any minute now, the man would come barreling out of the cavern. He was sure of it. This was followed by a small, almost inaudible pop, like an air pistol firing, and Lyman rolled to the floor, aiming his weapon at the cavern within.
Chapter 41
Present Day
West Wycombe, England
NIGEL LYMAN WAS MET BY A COLD, DEADLY SILENCE. HE climbed to his feet.
A man in a ski mask and night-vision goggles lay curled at the base of the wall near the entrance. Lyman shone the flashlight down at his face. The man had a gun in one hand, and a neat hole in his temple.
Lyman kicked the pistol out of the dead man's hand. He tore off the night-vision goggles and pulled up the mask.
Sajan gasped as she came up beside him.
“Look familiar?” asked Lyman.
The man sported a well-trimmed mustache and a buzz cut. “He's one of the men we saw at Carpenters' Hall. The ones who attacked us.”
Lyman started to search him. “What would make a man so desperate,” he said, “that he would take his own life rather than be captured? Just for this Gospel of Judas?”
As he rolled the body over, Lyman hesitated. Then he reached into the man's jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Shine a light here,” he said.
“What is it?” said Koster.
“It's addressed to someone named Robert Macalister, in New York.”
“That's Nick Robinson's man,” Koster said.
Lyman tore open the envelope, reached in and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “It's a letter.”
“Well, obviously, it's a letter.”
“It's from some fellow named von Neumann to someone named Turing. Alan Turing.” Lyman looked up from the letter. “Wait a minute. I've heard of him. Wasn't Alan Turing the bloke who cracked the German Enigma code back in World War Two? Some sort of a mathematician, right?”
“Let me see that,” said Koster. Lyman gave him the letter.
“Turing's famous,” Sajan said. “He invented the first true computer, called the Turing machine. Then he died—rather suspiciously, actually—after eating a poisoned apple at his lab outside London. Some think it was suicide. He'd been caught up in some sort of scandal. Others believe it was just an unfortunate accident.”
“Yeah, it's Turing all right,” Koster said. “And von Neumann.”
“Who's von Neumann?” Lyman wanted to know.
“John von Neumann. A Hungarian mathematician. He went to Princeton during the thirties and worked on the Bomb.”
“As well as computers,” Sajan said. “He saw parallels between the evolution of computing machines and the evolution of the human mind.”
“They're talking about Boole,” Koster said, looking up. “Turing and von Neumann.”
“George Boole?” Sajan asked.
Koster nodded.
Lyman rose to his feet. “Forgive me for not being a mathematical historian. But who's Boole?”
“About a hundred years before the invention of computers, an Englishman named George Boole was struck with a ‘flash of psychological insight’ that convinced him all human mental processes could be formulated in mathematical form.”
“Like your neo-Pythagoras.”
“Sort of, I guess,” Koster said. “I never thought of it that way. Anyway, Boole was training to be ordained as a priest in the Anglican Church, when he began to have doubts about the literal truth of the Bible. He was also a staunch advocate of religious freedom and tolerance.”
“Like Franklin,” Sajan said.
“Although Boole lived a century later. This led him to a career in teaching at Queen's College in Ireland, where he developed his mathematical synthesis of human cognition, published sometime around the 1850s. It's the basis of all Boolean logic.”
“Oh, wait,” Lyman said. “I have heard of that. For computers, right?”
