Authors: Will Adams
Your loving Aunt P
Tears threatened Rachel’s eyes; she had to bite the knuckle of her index finger to stop them. ‘These papers,’ she asked. ‘Where are they?’
‘Those men have them.’
‘Then why were they after me? If they’ve got the originals, why would they want copies?’
‘They don’t. We think they just want to deprive access to them to anyone else.’
‘Because they back up your story about Aunt Penny?
Luke shook his head. ‘There has to be more to it than that. They freaked out the moment they realized your aunt had sent you the email, which was before she even fell. So there has to be something in the papers themselves.’
Rachel held up the phone. ‘No way can we read a manuscript on a screen this small.’
‘We’ll be at my place in a minute,’ Pelham told her. ‘Send it to print and it’ll be waiting for us when we get there.’
‘How? Do I need to download all these attachments?’
‘No. I’m on my company’s cloud network.’
‘You’re on what?’
‘Give it here.’ He took his phone back from her, worked it one-handed as he drove. ‘All done,’ he said, tossing the phone over his shoulder to her. ‘And you might want to forward your aunt’s email on to some friends. The more copies of it and of the Newton papers that are out there, the happier I’ll feel.’
She nodded and set to work. The smart-phone was still busy with the printing, however, and was slow as treacle as she tried to type out a covering note. Then suddenly it froze altogether. The screen blinked black then began to reset. She tried at once to log back into her account but now it wouldn’t recognize her. ‘They’ve
locked me out,’ she said bleakly. ‘Those bastards have locked
me out.’
The lights were on in Benyamin’s office. Avram was about to ring the buzzer when a young woman emerged, head in the air with laughter as she talked into her phone. He kept the door open with his foot, hurried up the steps. It was a while since he’d been here. The lobby had been painted cream and teal, the walls hung with works of characterless modern art. ‘Who’s there?’ called out Benyamin, when he knocked.
‘Me. Avram.’
Footsteps, brisk and purposeful. The office door swung open. ‘What do you want?’ scowled Benyamin, his voice low enough to suggest he had company.
‘We need to talk.’
Benyamin nodded and beckoned him inside. A well-dressed Yemenite woman was studying architectural plans pinned to a slanted work table. ‘Forgive me, Anna,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to pick this up again tomorrow.’
‘What if Zach calls?’
‘Don’t worry about Zach,’ he assured her. ‘I can handle Zach.’ He escorted her out, locked the door behind her, led Avram over to a pair of tattered red armchairs slouching around a low glass table. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What brings you here?’
‘You know what brings me here.’
‘It’s on, then?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
Benyamin nodded several times. ‘I was beginning to
think you’d never get around to it. I was beginning to think
you were all talk, like the others.’
‘We’ve been waiting for the right time.’
‘And what makes this the right time? Have you had one of your signs?’
‘We’ve had many signs.’
‘I must have been looking the other way.’
‘Even a sceptic like you must have felt the earthquake, Benyamin.’
‘
That
?’ snorted Benyamin. ‘That was your sign?’
‘It put fissures in the Dome of the Rock. What else would you call it?’
‘I’d call it an earthquake,’ said Benyamin. ‘After all, if He is prepared to use earthquakes to get His way, why not bring the whole Dome down while He’s at it? Or aren’t His powers up to that?’
‘He doesn’t want to bring it down Himself. He wants
us
to do it. That’s why we call it a sign.’
‘Strange how your God uses earthquakes for signs only in earthquake zones,’ he said. ‘Why is that, do you think? Wouldn’t it be more impressive if He made them happen in places without geological faults? And, while we’re at it, why does He always bring down the cheapest housing, killing poor people by the tens of thousands, while leaving alone the houses and offices of rich people designed and built by structural engineers and architects like mysel
f
? Does He hate the poor that much, do you think?’
‘I didn’t come here to discuss theology, Benyamin,’ said Avram. ‘I know you don’t believe. But I do, others do. Others who’ll be moved to do the things we both want precisely
because
of their belief,
because
of these signs. And do you honestly care why they do those things, so long as they do them?’
Benyamin shrugged. ‘You’re right. I don’t care. The earthquake was a sign. What do you need?’
Avram realized, a little too late, that he’d just set himself up for mockery. But there was nothing for it now. ‘I want to be sure that our charges work,’ he said. ‘I want to make sure the Dome implodes completely.’
Benyamin shook his head. ‘Implosion is a technical term,’ he said. ‘It happens when exterior pressure is greater than interior pressure. What you’ll be doing is knocking out support pillars and letting gravity go to work.’
‘But we’ll bring it down, yes?’
‘Oh, yes. You’ll bring it down.’ He frowned. ‘Why would you even think otherwise? Has something changed since we last …’ He realized the answer for himself, burst out laughing. ‘It’s the earthquake, isn’t it? They’ve put up scaffolding and buttresses in case of another shock. And now you’re worried that even if you take out the pillars, the Dome will stay up. That’s it, isn’t it?’ He rocked delightedly back in his chair. ‘Your sign!’ he taunted. ‘Your precious sign! What a perverse God He is, to make your task so difficult.’
‘Please keep your voice down,’ said Avram. ‘Do you want people to hear?’
‘Why? Won’t your God protect us from eaves-
droppers?’
‘I’m getting tired of this,’ said Avram. ‘Will you help or not?’
‘I don’t see how I can. A situation like this, I’d need to get inside, examine the work up close. Not a chance in hell they’ll let that happen. Not a chance in hell they’ll let
any
kafir inside. Not with the repairs going on. It’s your precious sign at work again, making life easy.’
Avram leaned forwards. ‘Signs aren’t meant to make things easy,’ he said. ‘They’re meant to make them significant. They’re meant to make our people receptive
to His message, so that their hearts will flood with belief and they’ll have the strength to do the hard things that will need doing. The things that need
steel
.’ He forced a smile, let his anger subside, sat back in his chair. ‘What if I could get you footage?’
Benyamin shrugged. ‘It would be better than nothing. But not much. It’s impossible to gauge structural strength accurately from video. You need to see the thing itself, the materials, the workmanship. My advice, just put charges on everything.’
‘We don’t have enough. Or the men to carry them.’
‘Then you have a problem.’
Avram nodded. ‘There is one solution I can think of.’
Benyamin gave Avram a sour look. ‘One more than I can,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you’re weakening,’ suggested Avram. ‘I could understand that. It’s been three years now, hasn’t it? Over three. Perhaps you don’t feel so strongly any more.’
Colour flushed Benyamin’s face. ‘I feel strongly.’
‘Then come with us tomorrow night. See the repairs for yourself. Examine the pillars and the scaffolding. Tell us where to place the charges. You can finally do something to avenge Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth, wasn’t it?’
Benyamin’s expression stiffened. ‘You know it was.’
‘And Judy and Rosanna?’
‘I remember their names,’ said Benyamin tightly. ‘You think I could ever forget their names?’
Avram nodded. ‘You don’t have to decide now,’ he said. ‘All I ask is that you listen to my plan.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Not now. Tomorrow night. I’ll explain everything then, and I’ll show you something that will make even
you
believe.’
‘What?’
Avram got to his feet. ‘Tomorrow night. Be ready when I call.’
‘Very well,’ said Benyamin. ‘Tomorrow night.’
‘All done?’ asked Walters, turning into the Jonson’s Cars lot.
‘All done,’ nodded Kieran. ‘I’ve changed the girl’s login details, and I’ve deleted every mail and attachment in all her folders, including the one from her aunt, and those photos.’
‘And she didn’t forward them anywhere first?’
‘She didn’t forward it, no. But it’s possible she downloaded or printed it.’
‘Shit. Then we still need to find them.’
He parked by the rental office, went inside. A bored young woman with peroxide hair and vivid pink lipstick was slouching behind a cheap pine desk. ‘Yes, sir?’ she asked, sitting up a little straighter. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘I’m after information,’ said Walters.
‘About our stock or about our prices?’
‘About one of your cars. A red BMW soft top. I want to know who’s driving it.’
She gave a gulping kind of laugh. ‘Are you serious? I can’t tell you that!’
Walters didn’t have time for subtlety. He took out his wedge, counted off £500 in twenties, slapped them on her desk. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
She stared hungrily at the money. ‘Do you have the licence number?’ she asked. He gave it to her. She tapped keys, checked her screen. ‘It’s a business rental,’ she said. ‘Goldwood Laboratories. They’re over at Cherry Hinton Science Park. You know it?’
‘I can find it.’ He frowned at a thought. ‘I don’t suppose you put trackers in your SatNavs, do you?’
‘I can’t trace them for you, if that’s what you’re asking. Not from here. They handle all that out of Head Office.’
‘Okay,’ said Walters. ‘Not to worry. And not a word, right?’
‘Are you kidding?’ she said, tucking her money away. ‘They’d fire me in a heartbeat.’
Pelham lived in a converted malting house a short drive north of Cambridge. He parked in his designated slot by a grass bank and led them inside. Compared to the well-tended lawns and communal areas, his ground-floor apartment was a mess. He waved a hand in vague explanation or excuse for it as he led them into his shelf-lined study, crowded and dark with books and journals, many more stacked in precarious tall heaps on the floor, like a child’s recreation of the Alps.
They went straight to the printer, fearful that the Newton papers wouldn’t have made it; but they were there, waiting for them in the out-tray. The printer, however, had tried so hard to capture the lush sepia background of the originals that it had drenched the cheap printing paper in yellow and black ink, blurring Newton’s handwriting badly, making it even harder to read and surely diminishing its value as evidence should they need to show it to a sceptic.
Pelham spread the pages on his desk, opened curtains to improve the light. ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Rachel.
‘Anything that sticks out,’ said Luke.
‘That’s helpful.’
Pelham tapped the bottom of the sixth page. ‘How about this?’ he asked.
Luke glanced over. Like the other pages, it was mostly alchemical citations. But Pelham was right: there was something very different in its bottom left quarter.
Received from E.A.
12 plain panels and blocks SW, 2 linen rolls
S T C, E S D, L A A, B O J
Papers J.D. J.T.
On completion, E.A. asks that ye whole be in
SALOMANS HOUSE
well concealed.
‘E.A.?’ asked Pelham. Who’s E.A.?’
‘No idea,’ said Luke, squinting closer. ‘You think it could be “F.A”? Newton was friends with a Francis Aston at Cambridge.’
‘It’s not an “F”,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s an “E”.’
‘Then I don’t know,’ said Luke. ‘Newton’s mother’s maiden name was Ayscough, but I can’t think of any Edwards or Elizabeths among his cousins.’
‘Ebenezer?’ suggested Pelham. ‘Ezekiel?’
‘Let’s come back to it,’ said Rachel. She pointed to the second line. ‘“
12 plain panels and blocks SW, 2 linen rolls.
”
Any ideas?’ Luke shook his head. Pelham too. ‘Then what about these groups of letters?’ she asked, pointing to the third line.
Luke pulled up a browser on Pelham’s laptop. ‘Read them out for me,’ he said. He typed them in as she went, four clusters of three, then ran a search. But Google gave them nothing. ‘What’s the next line?’ he asked.
‘Papers J.D. and J.T.,’ said Rachel.
‘J.D. couldn’t be my old mate Doctor Dee, could he?’ asked Pelham. ‘I mean he was a John, so to speak. And for sure it gives us an alchemical link.’
‘He was dead eighty years by 1690.’
‘
He
may have been. Not his papers. In fact …’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I think I know who E.A. is.’
‘Who?’ asked Rachel.
‘A bunch of Dee’s papers went missing after his death,’ said Pelham. ‘Notes on his conversations with Enochian angels mostly.’
‘His
what
?’ asked Rachel.
Pelham grinned. ‘Dee was convinced he could use the Book of Enoch to communicate with angels. He thought he could open the gates of heaven from the inside and so precipitate the Apocalypse and the Second Coming. But first he needed to find an honest medium.’
‘Oh, was that all?’
‘He tried a few. None worked. Then he hired the great Edward Kelley. A complete rogue and one of my major heroes. He wasn’t satisfied with fleecing Dee rotten; he also convinced him that the angels had ordered them to swap wives for the night.’ Pelham laughed loudly. ‘Hats off, eh?’
‘And Dee bought it?’ asked Rachel, incredulously.