The Angel of Eden (17 page)

“Well, why did Helmstetter want to disappear? Do you know what his motivation was? Surely not the measly ten thousand dollars he stole from you.”

“He had the best of motivations. He knew I'd kill him if I ever found him again.” Strauss blinked rapidly. I sensed he was genuinely upset at the thought of my abandoning his mission. “If you found Helmstetter, or at least were able to tell me what happened to him, I promised to reveal your true birth story. I gather you no longer care about that?”

“I can't imagine how you'd know anything about it.”

“You were born in Kandovan—I know that and much more.”

A sledgehammer slammed into my brain. That Evelyn had grown up there and concealed that fact from me, put together with the shaky story she and Samuel had given me about my own origins, had started to form a picture. Strauss had just confirmed my suspicions. “I'd like to hear the rest.”

“That was promised only if you completed the commission.”

“Who told you where I was born?”

“Tricia Ross. It's one of the reasons she recommended you for the job. Your brother let the information slip in an unguarded moment when they were in Baghdad together.”

This did not ring true. Samuel never had unguarded moments. And Tricia couldn't have recommended me for the job—she hadn't even known my last name when we spoke on the phone the night before her death. I decided not to call him on it. He wouldn't be any more forthcoming if backed into a corner. “That's interesting but it doesn't change my mind.”

“Perhaps this will convince you then. What if the FBI is told you stole those antiquities from Iraq I showed you?”

“That would be a little difficult, since they aren't in my possession.”

“You happen to be right—for now. But you've witnessed my abilities with sleight of hand. Success in magic depends on manipulating perception. People see what they're expecting to see. You've been to Iraq—twice. You had a tablet, a stolen object, in your possession—as you call it. You're an antiquities dealer. When my objects are found on your premises, it wouldn't be a big jump for authorities to conclude you were tempted. And I can make those arrangements anytime I wish. The FBI might eventually conclude you're innocent of the charges. But not before the whole thing has cost you money for lawyers, given you a gigantic headache, and smeared your professional reputation. Because I'd make the accusation public.”

I set my cup down, stood up, and paced over to the window. I took a minute to look out at the canal, the waters sluggish in the weak light, trying to keep a rein on my temper. “One question: Helmstetter mentioned an intention to travel to Eden. Do you have any idea what he was referring to?”

“My assistant was interested in loci of power, and like Buddhists and indigenous people, he believed transformations were possible only in certain geographic locations. He became convinced Eden not only once existed but could still be found. I think that's what took him to the Middle East.”

“He thought he could find Eden in Kandovan?”

“That's two questions, Mr. Madison. I'll leave it for you to discover.”

I didn't want to spend another minute in Strauss's company. “I'm leaving now. No thanks for your hospitality.”

“By all means.” He didn't bother to rise from his chair. “I look forward to your reports.”

I steamed down the pathway back to the rental car. Neither the bear nor the fawn put in an appearance on the return route. Strauss's magic apparently didn't work in reverse.

When I reached the garage in Utica, I saw they'd done a great job replacing the windshield. “Expensive little toys,” the mechanic said after handing me the bill.

The Thruway had mercifully reopened. I reached my apartment around six in the evening, angry and frustrated. It was a warm homecoming on the other side. Loki rubbed up against my leg, overjoyed to see me again. I asked Bennet why she hadn't warned me about Strauss's lair. She confessed she'd never visited his home but met with him only when he came to New York. She was appalled to hear about his threats and did her best to smooth me out. Strauss had trapped me; I felt like a fox twisting in his snare. I had no doubt he'd make good on his word if I didn't follow through with his plans.

And I couldn't get Tricia's sightless eyes out of my mind.

Twenty-Four

February 21, 2005
New York

T
he next day I hatched a plan. The task Strauss had set me was impossible—and what would be the end point? How long would he persist in holding a so-called theft over my head? The solution was easy. Give him what he wanted: an account of Helmstetter's fate and, ideally, the book. Simple, really. I'd manufacture both.

Despite his wiles, Strauss had a big Achilles' heel: his passionate hatred for Helmstetter and the fervent desire to pay his former assistant back. He'd kept that animosity alive for thirty-five years. And when people let that kind of anger control them, their judgment lapsed. That gave me an opening. I took my cue from something he'd said: “Give people what they expect to see.” Well—I would do just that.

First, I learned all I could about Trithemius, who was born Johann Heidenberg in 1462. Caught in a terrible blizzard one night, he sheltered in the Benedictine abbey of Sponheim, decided
to stay, and eventually took monastic orders. Remarkably, one year later, Trithemius became its abbot at the age of twenty-one. A Renaissance man, he was highly regarded as a magician, man of letters, and adviser to nobles. He studied the occult, numerology, and the Kabbala and transformed the poor abbey into a center of learning, expanding its library by thousands of volumes. His most famous work,
The Steganographia,
purported to be a record of angel magic. A covert masterpiece, it was one of the first demonstrations of cryptology—and was banned for three hundred years. The code Trithemius devised was finally broken by Thomas Ernst, a German professor, five hundred years after the book was written.

It would be impossible to duplicate the entire book convincingly—Strauss would inevitably spot the ruse. But a few pages? That was feasible. I'd tell him it was all that remained of his book. No original copies were known to exist; Strauss had said his edition was published in 1792. The NSA's National Cryptologic Museum had some of Trithemius's works but not the right one. I eventually learned that a copy was available for viewing in the Library of Congress.

I called a friend in the antiquities business who enjoyed a passing acquaintance with Alice Jacobs, a rare-books authority who'd strayed, becoming one of the most skilled book forgers in America. After years of success, she'd been caught, not through any fault in her work but because her ex-husband reported her. A plea bargain landed her a short term in prison; afterward, she moved from New York to Pennsylvania. Rumor had it she still dabbled in forgeries. She was my choice to duplicate the pages—if I could talk her into it. I suspected dollar bills might do the trick. The beauty of it all was that I'd be using Strauss's own money to dupe him.

Inventing a credible story about what had happened to Helmstetter presented a greater challenge. For that, I'd have to go to both Pergamon and Kandovan. There was no other way I could
gather enough convincing information. Traveling to Pergamon would be a breeze; Kandovan, next to impossible.

I also needed to find out more about Yersan. Since he was an antiquities dealer, one of my contacts would surely have heard of him. I emailed a query to a couple of colleagues.

Avery Mandel called me late that afternoon. “I've done business with the guy, John. What do you want to know?”

“Not sure exactly. I had a run-in with him. Is he on the level?”

“No. But he's cagey about it. Always looking for any edge he can use to jack up a price. Which is fair enough, I guess. We all do it. He makes a lot of money.”

I filed that away. So far it confirmed my suspicions. “Anything else?”

“Not directly, but there's rumors.”

“I'm listening.”

“Yersan can be vicious if you get in his way. Word has it a former business partner died when he crossed him. Nothing they could ever prove and maybe I'm wrong. But still. And he subscribes to some esoteric clan. He's called a magi.”

“Come again?”

“Traces back to the Medes. Fifth century
B.C.
Iranian. They're followers of Zoroaster. Fragments of that community live in Iranian Azerbaijan. They still practice it. He travels back and forth from there to America a lot. That's about it as far as I know.”

Mandel had been very helpful. I thanked him and clicked off. What he'd told me made it all the more apparent that if I were to travel to Iran I'd need expert security—someone who knew the territory. Nick Shaheen, who'd grown up in Baghdad but was of Persian descent and spoke perfect Farsi, would have been my man of choice had he not died in the Iraq war. I still missed him. He'd been a good friend to me and a protector. All I could think of was
to try contacting Nick's man, Ali, who at least might recommend someone else. I had Ali's cell number, but that was from over a year ago. Still, it was my only alternative, short of hiring some security firm blind, which I was loath to do. That night I texted Ali asking that he contact me.

Bennet and I would be away for a couple of weeks. What to do about Loki? Introducing her to a new family seemed harsh, although better than sticking her in some boarding kennel—if they'd even take her. Diane Chen was a good friend of mine, a theater actor when she could land a part, a sometime fortune teller, and a barista at my favorite watering hole—Kenny's Castaways. I remembered she loved dogs.

“I can't take a dog,” Diane said when I called. “My landlord would throw us both out on the street. Wish I could. She sounds really cute.”

I hadn't enlightened Diane on Loki's parentage—wasn't sure what she'd think of caring for half a coyote. “How about staying at my place? Luxury digs and all.” I laughed. “And of course, I'd pay you.”

“Seriously! You're near Madison Square now, right? That's awesome. Save me the bone-cracking commute. How long for?”

“Couple of weeks. I'm going to Turkey.”

We arranged for her to stop by later in the evening to meet Loki and get the spare key. When she arrived and saw Bennet, her look of surprise was priceless. Bennet, meanwhile, eyed Diane's magenta hair and midnight-blue fingernails with suspicion.

Later, after Diane had left, came the inevitable question. “Are you
sure
she's trustworthy?”

I detected a bit of jealousy there, and couldn't help grinning. “That's funny. Pot calling the kettle black or anything? I've known her much longer than you.”

She shrugged as if she didn't care.

Meanwhile, my antiquities friend had come through with an introduction to Alice Jacobs, and so the next day I drove to her home in Pennsylvania on the outskirts of Bethlehem. We chatted about what I had in mind, and I gave her all the information I had about Trithemius's tome. She was discreet enough not to ask why I wanted the pages reproduced.

“It'll take me at least three weeks,” she said. “I'll have to find blank endpapers similar to the page leafs Trithemius would have used. That'll be expensive, of course, since I'll have to use material from the same time period.” Duplicating the original inks would also take a while, Alice told me. And she'd have to choose pages that contained only text: illustrations would present too much difficulty. We talked for a long time, and by the end of it I felt satisfied that she'd do an excellent job.

I texted Ali again to say that I was traveling in the next few days to Pergamon, staying at the Hera Hotel, and needed his advice urgently.