The Sacred Cipher (2 page)

“You speak like an imam,” Mohammed said. “No one knows what is on that scroll; no
one has been able to translate its meaning. How do we know what it contains?”

Spurgeon forgot the books in his lap. He heard a more interesting story floating on
the breeze.

“If it can’t be read, is there any difference in whose hands it rests? I believe the
English preacher would pay handsomely for the privilege of owning something he doesn’t
understand. Ibrahim,” said Mohammed, “look at me. It could pay for your daughter’s
wedding.”

“Do not tempt me, Mohammed,” El-Safti said. “That scroll has remained here for two
generations, and no one has ever requested to see it. Quiet, now, and let us see what
may interest the Englishman.”

Spurgeon attempted to return his attention to the books, but his eyes were pulled
back to the men as they entered through the curtain. El-Safti reverted to his perfectly
subservient composure as he stepped before Spurgeon. The only thing out of place was
an amulet—a Coptic cross with a lightning bolt flashing through on the diagonal—that
slipped from the neck of his robe as he came through the doorway.

“Do these books meet with your interest?” El-Safti asked.

Spurgeon rose from the chair and handed the books back to El-Safti. “I am disappointed
to tell you, my friend, that you may have been swindled. The book in Aramaic is a
fraud, and a poor one at that. The Greek, I have two copies in my library. And the
third is in a language I have not seen before, but does not appear to be Semitic.
Tell me, do you not possess anything more authentic?”

A moment’s silence passed through the shop. El-Safti’s pitch-black eyes flickered
with offense.

“My humble apologies,” El-Safti said. “Your reputation as a scholar is well earned,
Dr. Spurgeon. But perhaps I do have something that you would find interesting. It
is very old, but of indeterminate age.” El-Safti walked to the back of the shop. “It
is an infidel’s mezuzah, nicely etched, wrapped in a very colorful piece of Moroccan
silk.”

Disappointed in the books, Spurgeon’s interest increased at the mention of silk. His
niece’s birthday would be upon him when he returned to England. Perhaps there was
a prize here, after all.

El-Safti slipped into a small closet at the rear corner of the shop and could be heard
snapping the hasp on a lock and moving a chain. Silence, then a stream of Arabic epithets,
as El-Safti recoiled from the closet.

“Forgive me,” he said, his wild eyes looking first at Spurgeon and then at Mohammed.
“It is gone. The scroll, it is gone.”

First fear, then unbelief, fought for dominance in El-Safti’s weathered face. His
hands trembled as he wrung them together.

“Allah has punished me for my greed,” El-Safti said, slipping back into Arabic. “Mohammad,
remove this infidel. And hurry back. We must think. We must find the scroll. We must
find it before it is lost forever.”

Three days later, Spurgeon wandered through the Alexandrian bazaar, his work for the
trip complete and his passage for London booked on a ship leaving the next morning.
But his mind kept drifting back to El-Safti and the nearly hysterical look on his
face when he discovered this mysterious scroll had disappeared.

What could have caused the man such fear?
he wondered, his hand exploring vibrant textiles and metal trinkets as he strolled
through the bazaar. It appeared he was willing to sell. Even if it had been stolen
or lost, why react so severely when he was about to sell it anyway?

He was about to turn a corner and walk away from the bazaar, when a soft voice coming
from a shaded corner of a building caught his attention.

“Effendi, Dr. Spurgeon, please, may I have a moment of your time?”

As Spurgeon turned to the sound of his name, an elderly man in well-worn, but once-fine,
clothes stepped out of the shadows, bowing deeply from the waist.

“Please forgive this unwarranted intrusion, but I knew of no other way.”

“How do you know who I am?” Spurgeon asked, taking no step toward the man, who looked
more like a beggar than a prince.

“You have walked these streets many times, Dr. Spurgeon, searching for treasures in
books and letters. What has been more memorable for my people, why you are well known
and highly regarded, are the many kindnesses you have done for our children, so many
who have been healed by the doctors you sent. It is why many in this city watch out
for your safety.”

Spurgeon’s curiosity spiked. “So, what can I do for you?”

“More than likely, it’s what I can do for you,” said the old man. “A few days ago,
you were in the Attarine. There was some discussion about a scroll. Allah be praised,
I believe I may be able to help you.”

The old man, whose face was deeply wrinkled and the color of old leather, pulled from
within his kaftan a brightly designed piece of silk. Spurgeon took a step toward the
elderly Arab, then another, joining him in the half-light of the building’s shadows
in spite of a gnawing unease.

“I had the good fortune of being in the Attarine at the same time you were in the
shop of one El-Safti,” said the old man. “I think you were quite fortunate that the
document El-Safti sought was no longer in his possession. I think, had you purchased
this document, you never would have left the Attarine with it in your possession.”

“So you stole it?”

“Effendi,” the old man demurred. “I am only the recipient of Allah’s provision and
a defender of your highly esteemed person. If, however, you have no interest in this
trinket, perhaps I should take it elsewhere?” As the man began to return the silk-draped
object back into the depths of his kaftan, Spurgeon quickly stepped even closer and
laid his hand on the man’s arm.

“Please, my friend,” Spurgeon said, looking into the old man’s peaceful eyes. “It
would not be appropriate to send you away without at least examining the gift you
bring me.”

“Many thanks,” said the old man. He bowed his head but never took his eyes from the
Englishman. “Here, please join me by this table so that I may display to you this
treasure.”

Overcoming his reluctance, Spurgeon stepped to the small table that stood in the shadows
of the building. The old man opened the silk cover, a purse of some sort, withdrew
an engraved metal tube, and laid it on the table. Moving closer to the table, Spurgeon
began running his fingers over the silk purse, fascinated by its color and the strangeness
of its designs, symbols of long, swooping lines dancing across a bloodred sea.

“Ah, yes, it is a beautiful purse, is it not?” the old man said. “But I believe you
may be even more intrigued by what is inside.” With that, the old man took hold of
the handle on the side of the cylinder and, turning the metal shaft that extended
through its center, began extracting a rather plain, parchment scroll. What was on
the scroll, however, was far from plain.

Spurgeon leaned over the table, adjusting his spectacles for a better look. The parchment
itself, probably sheepskin, was remarkably well preserved, indicating a majority of
its life had been spent in a dry climate, not here in Alexandria where humidity would
have destroyed it. On the surface of the parchment were written twenty-one columns
of symbols arranged in seven groupings—three vertical rows of symbols in each of the
groupings. It was an odd construction. Spurgeon, however, was more intrigued by the
symbols themselves, a series of simple, yet stylistic, characters. “What is it?” he
asked.

The old man shrugged.

“I don’t know what language that is,” said Spurgeon “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen
anything like it. Tell me, what do you think it means?”

“Forgive me, Effendi, but I do not have a great deal of time,” the old man said, turning
to face Spurgeon. “I have a desire to dispose of this treasure. Perhaps you would
be willing to take it off my hands for, say, three thousand piastres?”

Spurgeon ran his fingers over the cylinder and entered into the obligatory negotiations.

By the time each had argued, cajoled, and conceded, Spurgeon purchased the purse and
the metal tube for fewer than fifteen hundred piastres, only a few English pounds.
Spurgeon was quite satisfied with himself. He had just purchased a fine gift, the
beautiful silk purse, for his niece’s birthday. Wrapping the tube tightly back into
the silk purse, Spurgeon covered it with a discarded section of burlap and tucked
it under his arm. Turning to leave, he was startled by two things: first, that the
old man had already disappeared into the bazaar and, second, the lurking presence
of Mohammed Isfahan, pressed into a darkened doorway across the street.

Spurgeon’s walk back to his hotel was much more brisk than usual, in spite of the
heat.

With a speed that belied his bulk, his umbrella lying on the ground, Spurgeon regained
his feet and began running downhill, looking for lights and praying for help. He turned
twice, skidding on the stones but not breaking his pace, until he came to much-needed
rest in the darkened alcove of the apothecary shop on Weston Street.

Spurgeon loathed his dread. He mocked himself: where was his faith? Yet hidden from
the light, he drank in the night air in the deep draughts of a desperate man and tried
to free his mind to make a clear decision. Every shadow became a warrant for his destruction.
He held the package loosely, tucked into the large pocket of his woolen overcoat,
afraid that if he grasped it too tightly, his anxiety might transmit some signal to
those who were in pursuit. Yet he dared not let it go.

The tide waited for no man and for no ship. If Spurgeon intended to reach the Thames
on time—and the cutter sent from the trans-Atlantic steamer
Kronos
—he had to find a way out of this doorway. He was more convinced than ever that he
had to get this package, his precious scroll, on that ship.

Lord, you are in control
, he silently prayed.
So why am I so frightened for my life?

Spurgeon pressed himself deeply into the doorway, seeking the darkness. He held his
breath to quiet his gasping, but still his heart hammered in his chest. His eyes,
wide with alarm, darted from corner to shadow to alley to street. He strained to extend
his ears further into the night. All this he did while holding himself rigidly still.

A movement, a sound, and his life could end in an instant.

At any other time, the streets of London would have held a great hope, a feeling of
fulfillment, of calling, of destiny. These were his streets and his people, and he
had moved through them and walked over them for so long they had almost become a part
of him, except for tonight. The streets were the same. The city was the same. The
fear was new.

Rain slanting hard behind the wind drove the sane and the sensible indoors. From the
shelter of the darkened shop’s doorway, Spurgeon willed himself to silence. The street
was empty except where the rainwater sluiced along the gutter in the middle of the
cobblestones. But Spurgeon no longer trusted emptiness. He scanned every dark space
for some sign of movement.

Curse the pies and the pastries and Mrs. Dowell’s cooking
. Once a symbol of growing affluence and influence, Spurgeon’s girth now slowed his
legs when he needed speed and sapped his endurance as he ran for his life.

Twenty minutes earlier, Spurgeon had stepped out of his parsonage in Newington, Southwark,
and into the driving rain. It was a walk he had taken scores of times before, in good
weather and foul. It was a simple task, after all. Walk down to the Thames, where
the cutter would dock. Meet his old friend Captain Paradis. Exchange a package and
some good wishes. And be off again for the warmth of the fire waiting in his study.
A simple task.