“I’m sorry,” Saitou-san said, leaning over the cards, “but I don’t understand how the letters convey a thing.”
“Let me show you,” Verlaine said. “Everything is here in the cards. This is the correspondence in chronological order. Because of the absence of overt directions about the lyre’s location, we can assume the content of Rockefeller’s half of the correspondence is null, a kind of white space upon which Innocenta’s responses project meaning. As I pointed out to Gabriella this morning, there is a recurring pattern in Innocenta’s letters. In four of them, she comments upon the nature of some kind of design that Abigail Rockefeller has included in her correspondence. I see now,” Verlaine concluded, gesturing to Mrs. Rockefeller’s cards on the table before him, “that Innocenta was commenting specifically on these four pieces of stationery.”
“Read these remarks to us, Verlaine,” Gabriella said.
Verlaine picked up Innocenta’s letters and read aloud the sentences that praised Abigail Rockefeller’s artistic taste, repeating the passages he had read to Gabriella that morning.
“At first I believed Innocenta was refering to drawings, perhaps even original artworks included in the letters, which would have been the find of a century for a scholar of modern art like myself. But realistically, the inclusion of such designs would have been highly unlike Mrs. Rockefeller. She was a collector and lover of art, not an artist in her own right.”
Verlaine pulled four creamy cards from the progression of papers and distributed them to the angelologists.
“These are the four cards Innocenta admired,” he said.
Evangeline examined the card Verlaine had given her. She saw it had been stamped by an inked plate that left a remarkably fine rendering of two antique lyres held in the hands of twin cherubs. The cards were pleasing to look at and very much in keeping with a woman of Abigail Rockefeller’s taste, but Evangeline saw nothing that would unlock the mystery before them.
“Look closely at the twin cherubs,” Verlaine said. “Notice the composition of the lyres.”
The angelologists peered at the cards, exchanging them so that they could see each one in turn.
Finally, after some examination, Vladimir said, “There is an anomaly in the prints. The lyres are different on each card.”
“Yes,” Bruno said. “The number of strings on the left lyre varies from the number on the right.”
Evangeline saw her grandmother examine her card and, as if she had begun to understand Verlaine’s point, smile. “Evangeline,” Gabriella said. “How many strings do you count on each of the lyres?”
Evangeline looked more closely at her card and saw that Vladimir and Bruno were correct—the strings were different on each lyre—although it struck her as an oddity in the cards rather than anything of serious consequence. “Two and eight,” Evangeline said, “but what does it mean?”
Verlaine took a pencil from his pocket and, in barely legible lead, wrote numbers below the lyres. He passed the pencil around and asked the others to do the same.
“It seems to me that we are making much of a highly unrealistic rendition of a musical instrument,” Vladimir said dismissively.
“The number of strings on each lyre must have been a method of coding information,” Gabriella said.
Verlaine collected the cards from Evangeline, Saitou-san, Vladimir, and Bruno. “Here you have them: twenty-eight, thirty-eight, thirty, and thirty-nine. In that order. If I’m right, these numbers come together to give the location of the lyre.”
Evangeline stared at Verlaine, wondering if she’d missed something. To her the numbers appeared to be utterly meaningless. “You believe that these numbers give an address?”
“Not directly,” Verlaine said, “but there might be something in the sequence that points to an address.”
“Or coordinates on a map,” Saitou-san suggested.
“But where?” Vladimir said, his brow furrowing as he thought of the possibilities. “There are hundreds of thousands of addresses in New York City.”
“This is where I’m stumped,” Verlaine said. “Obviously these numbers must have been extremely important to Abigail Rockefeller, but there is no way to know how they’re to be used.”
“What sort of information could be conveyed in eight numbers?” Saitou-san asked, as if running the possibilities through her mind.
“Or, possibly, four two-digit numbers,” Bruno said, clearly amused by the dubiousness of the exercise.
“And all the numbers are between twenty and forty,” Vladimir offered.
“There must be more in the cards,” Saitou-san said. “These numbers are too random.”
“To most people,” Gabriella said, “this would seem random. To Abigail Rockefeller, however, these numbers must have formed a logical order.”
“Where did the Rockefellers live?” Evangeline asked Verlaine, knowing that this was his area of expertise. “Perhaps these numbers point to their address.”
“They lived at a few different addresses in New York City,” Verlaine said. “But their West Fifty-fourth Street residence is known best. Eventually Abigail Rockefeller donated the site to the Museum of Modern Art.”
“Fifty-four is not one of our numbers,” Bruno said.
“Wait a moment,” Verlaine said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see this before. The Museum of Modern Art was one of Abigail Rockefeller’s most important endeavors. It was also one of the first in a series of public museums and monuments that she and her husband funded. The Museum of Modern Art was opened in 1928.”
“Twenty-eight is the first number from the cards,” Gabriella said.
“Exactly,” Verlaine said, his excitement growing. “The numbers two and eight from the lyre etching could point to this address.”
“If that is the case,” Evangeline said, “there would have to be three other locations that match the three other lyre renderings.”
“What are the remaining numbers?” Bruno asked.
“Three and eight, three and zero, and three and nine,” Saitou-san replied.
Gabriella leaned closer to Verlaine. “Is it possible,” she said, “that there is a correspondence?”
Verlaine’s expression was one of intense concentration. “Actually,” he said at last. “The Cloisters, which was John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s great love, opened in 1938.”
“And 1930?” Vladimir asked.
“Riverside Church, which, to be honest, I have never found interesting, must have been completed around 1930.”
“That leaves 1939,” Evangeline said, the anticipation of discovery making her so nervous she could hardly speak. “Did the Rockefellers build something in 1939?”
Verlaine was silent, his brow furrowed, as if he were sifting the multitude of addresses and dates cataloged in his memory. Suddenly, he said, “As a matter of fact, they did. Rockefeller Center, their own Art Deco magnum opus, opened in 1939.”
“The numbers communicated to Innocenta must refer to these locations,” Vladimir said.
“Well done, Verlaine,” Saitou-san said, ruffling his mess of curls.
The atmosphere in the room had shifted drastically to a buzz of restless anticipation. For her part, Evangeline could only stare at the cards in astonishment. They’d rested in a vault beneath her and the other unsuspecting sisters for more than fifty years.
“However,” Gabriella said, breaking the spell, “the lyre can be in only one of these four locations.”
“Then it will be most expedient if we divide into groups and search them all,” Vladimir said. “Verlaine and Gabriella will go to the Cloisters. It’ll be packed with tourists, so getting anything out of there will be a delicate procedure. I believe it best accomplished by one familiar with its conventions. Saitou-san and I will go to Riverside Church. And Evangeline and Bruno will go to the Museum of Modern Art.”
“And Rockefeller Center?” Verlaine asked.
Saitou-san said, “It’s impossible to do anything there today. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake. The place will be a madhouse.”
“I expect that’s why Abigail Rockefeller chose it,” Gabriella said. “The more difficult it is to access, the better.”
Gabriella took the leather case holding the plectrum and the angelological notebook in hand. She gave each group the card associated with its location. “I can only hope the cards will assist us in finding the lyre.”
“And if they do?” Bruno said. “What then?”
“Ah, that is the great dilemma we face,” Vladimir said, running his fingers through his silver hair. “To preserve the lyre or to destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” Verlaine cried. “From all that you’ve said, it’s obvious that the lyre is beautiful, precious beyond all reckoning.”
“This instrument is not just another ancient artifact,” Bruno said. “It isn’t something that one might put on display at the Met. Its dangers far outweigh any historical importance it may have. There is no option but to destroy it.”
“Or to hide it again,” Vladimir said. “There are numerous places in which we could secure it.”
“We tried this in 1943, Vladimir,” Gabriella said. “It is plain that this method has failed. Preserving the lyre would imperil future generations, even in the most secure of hiding places. It must be destroyed. That much is clear. The real question is how.”
“What do you mean?” Evangeline asked.
Vladimir said, “It is one of the primary qualities of all celestial instruments: They were created by heaven and can be destroyed only by heaven’s creatures.”
“I don’t understand,” Verlaine said.
“Only celestial beings, or creatures with angelic blood, can destroy celestial matter,” Bruno said.
“Including the Nephilim,” Gabriella said.
“So if we wish to destroy the lyre,” Saitou-san said, “we must place it in the hands of the very creatures we wish to keep it from.”
“A bit of a conundrum,” Bruno said.
“So why hunt it down it at all?” Verlaine asked, dismayed. “Why bring something so important out of safety only to destroy it?”
“There is no alternative,” Gabriella said. “We have the rare opportunity to take possession of the lyre. We will have to find a way to dispose of it once we recover it.
“If we recover it,” Bruno added.
“We are wasting time,” Saitou-san said, standing. “We will have to decide what to do with the lyre once we have it in our possession. We cannot risk the Nephilim’s discovery of it.”
Looking at his watch, Vladimir said, “It is nearly three. We will meet at Rockefeller Center at exactly six. That gives us three hours to make contact, search the buildings, and reconvene. There can be no mistakes. Plan the quickest route possible. Speed and precision are absolutely necessary.”
Leaving their chairs, they put on jackets and scarves, preparing to face the cold winter dusk. In a matter of seconds, the angelologists were ready to begin. As they walked toward the staircase, Gabriella turned to Evangeline. “In our haste we must not lose sight of the dangers of our work. I warn you—be very careful in your efforts. The Nephilim will be watching. Indeed, they have been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The instructions Abigail Rockefeller left us are the most precious papers you have ever touched. Once the Nephilim understand we’ve discovered them, they will attack without mercy.”
“But how will they know?” Verlaine asked, coming to Evangeline’s side.
Gabriella smiled a sad, significant smile. “My dear boy, they know exactly where we are. They have planted informants all over this city. At all times, in all places, they are waiting. Even now they are near, watching us. Please,” she said, looking pointedly at Evangeline once more, “be careful.”
Museum of Modern Art, New York City
E
vangeline pressed her hand to the brick wall running alongside West Fifty-fourth Street, the icy wind searing her skin. Above, sheets of glass reflected the Sculpture Garden, simultaneously opening the intricate workings of the museum and presenting the garden’s image back upon itself The lights inside had been dimmed. Patrons and museum employees moved through the interior of the galleries, visible at the outer edge of Evangeline’s vision. A darkened reflection of the garden appeared in the glass as warped, distorted, unreal.
“It looks like they’re closing soon,” Bruno said, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his ski jacket and walking to the entrance. “We’d better hurry.”
At the door Bruno swept through the crowds and made his way to the ticket desk, where a tall, thin man with a goatee and horn-rimmed glasses was reading a novel by Wilkie Collins. He looked up, glanced from Evangeline to Bruno, and said, “We’re closing in half an hour. We’re closed tomorrow for Christmas, but open again on the twenty-sixth.” With that he returned to his book, as if Bruno and Evangeline were no longer there.
Bruno leaned on the counter and said, “We’re looking for someone who might work here.”
“We are not allowed to disclose personal information about employees,” the man said, without looking up from his novel.
Bruno slid two one-hundred-dollar bills over the counter. “We don’t need personal information. Just where we can find him.”
Peering over his horn-rimmed glasses, the man placed his palm on the counter and slid the money into his pocket. “What’s the name?”
“Alistair Carroll,” Bruno said, giving him the card included in Abigail Rockefeller’s sixth letter. “Ever heard of him?”
He looked over the card. “Mr. Carroll is not an employee.”
“So you know him,” Evangeline said, relieved and a bit amazed that the name corresponded to a real person.
“Everyone knows Mr. Carroll,” the man said, walking out from behind the desk and leading them to the street. “He lives across from the museum.” He pointed to an elegant prewar apartment building, slightly slouched with age. A copper mansard roof punctuated with great porthole windows topped the building, a wash of patina streaking the bronze green. “But he’s hanging around here all the time. He’s one of the old guard of the museum.”