The Sacred Cipher (9 page)

Bohannon shook his head at the thought of Joe Rodriguez. Where Bohannon had respected
his brother-in-law as a good man, he now marveled at Joe’s mastery of his profession,
how he maneuvered their search through seemingly endless avenues of opportunity, almost
always choosing the right track that led them to some new piece of the puzzle. Along
with the help and guidance of Sammy Rizzo, Bohannon and Rodriguez began closing in
on answers about the mysterious scroll. Accessing the archives of Christian Herald’s
magazine, published from 1878 to 1992 for information about the Bowery Mission’s history
and analyzing historic data culled from research among the miles of stacks at the
Bryant Park library, along with information available on the Internet, they came to
the conclusion that the letter signed “Charles” had indeed been written by Spurgeon
to his friend and compatriot, Klopsch.

Primarily in England, there were scores of Spurgeon correspondence extant and in excellent
condition. Not only had they accessed the content of the letters, finding great similarities
in the style Spurgeon used in his personal writing, they also found original correspondence
existing in the Christian Herald records and in the files found in Klopsch’s hidden
office. All of the sources confirmed not only the manner in which Spurgeon signed
his letters but also, even to their untrained eyes, the grand swoop of the capital
C
.

So they were sure of one thing. Eminent British preacher and scholar Dr. Charles Haddon
Spurgeon had written a letter to warn his friend and colleague Dr. Louis Klopsch of
the danger contained in this ancient scroll written in a Demotic script that was all
but extinct.

But that was also where Bohannon and Rodriguez were stopped dead in their tracks.
Veiled communication with the University of Chicago’s Demotic initiative along with
Internet scrutiny of Duke University’s collection of Demotic documents had brought
the men no closer to having any clue as to what was written in the scroll. It appeared
that the manner in which the symbols were arranged, seven distinct columns, each column
comprised of three vertical lines of symbols, could be a critical element in deciphering
the scroll. But nothing they had accessed, no one they had contacted had offered even
the slightest clue of how to unlock this Demotic puzzle.

Out of the dark, her voice was soft. “How long do you think you’re going to wrestle
with it tonight?” A rustle in the sheets, and Annie was at his side, her left arm
pulling him close to her warmth. The quiet joined with the dark for a few moments.
“Any luck tonight?”

“No,” said Bohannon, his left hand pulling her arm into a closer embrace. “Sorry I
woke you.”

“That’s okay,” Annie said softly. “I was sort of waiting for you, anyway. How are
you feeling?”

“Well, my ankle is still sore. The swelling is mostly gone, but being up and around
so much really puts a strain on it. Most of the other stuff is healing, and my back
doesn’t bother me anymore. So all in all, I can’t complain.”

“You shouldn’t complain,” Annie said. “Six people on that corner weren’t as lucky
as you. Seven if you count the driver.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Bohannon, thinking once again of the driver, then the man
in the subway train.
Odd coincidence
.

Annie broke his train of thought. “How’s Joe holding up?”

“We’re both pretty tired,” Bohannon said into the dark. “But more than that, we’re
both getting really frustrated. We just seem to be pounding up against a wall. There
is so little known about this darn language. It’s like we’re trying to pick it apart
so we can go in sideways or something. It just doesn’t make any sense on the face
of it. This Demotic doesn’t follow the patterns of other ancient languages, and even
those few people who know something about it, the information they’ve given us just
doesn’t apply to the symbols on the scroll. When we take the letters that have been
translated, apply them to the scroll, and use the standard methods that have been
suggested to us, we come out with bubkes. Joe’s tearing his hair out, and I swear
Rizzo’s gotten even smaller. I don’t know . . . We’re not getting anywhere.”

Bohannon felt Annie’s head nestle into his shoulder, her warm lips kiss his neck.
“You know none of this has been some accident, some chance quirk of fate,” she said
softly. “You know there was a reason you discovered those rooms, a reason you found
that scroll, a reason you are here working at the Bowery Mission instead of working
on a newspaper somewhere. And if there is a reason for it, which we believe, then
God will show you the way to find out what you need to find out. Right?”

Annie Bohannon had an infuriating way of speaking the truth in the midst of uncertainty,
of refusing to allow her husband to occupy that place of self-pity that he once found
so comforting. She was a real pain in his self-serving attitudes. And he loved her
for it.

They had met in their early thirties, an actual case of love at first sight. Bohannon
had been married as a teenager—his two adult sons now had families of their own—and
he had specialized in messed-up relationships. Annie was still waiting for her Prince
Charming. They saw each other, and after that, there was never another who had owned
their hearts. Annie had blessed Tom with two more children, a warm and inviting home,
a honed edge of common sense, nearly three decades of faithful intimacy, and the courage
to make the most important decision of his life.

It didn’t hurt that she was knockdown, drop-dead beautiful with a smile that lit up
the neighborhood. It didn’t hurt that she was hot, her skin was soft, and that she
dressed and walked with a totally innocent sexiness that had snapped quite a few necks.
For Annie, it didn’t hurt that, the first time she looked at Tom, fireworks had been
going off in his eyes, that he possessed that imperfect face and physique that was
uniquely masculine, a nose slightly askew from some mishap, that his hair was long
and curly at the back of his neck, that his quick smile and deep-blue eyes skipped
her heart and gripped her stomach.

It didn’t hurt that they had loved each other unflinchingly as they matured. They
endured career disasters, the deaths of those they loved, and deep disappointment
in each other. It didn’t hurt that they loved each other unconditionally once they
had “grown up,” once they could promise their kids that
divorce
was a word that would never enter their world. For twenty-eight years they had stood
shoulder-to-shoulder and slept side-by-side, even when they didn’t see eye-to-eye.
It took many years, until he had finally knocked down most of his walls, before Bohannon
could actually say that this woman really was his best friend. And once in a while,
he even took her advice.

“Yeah,” Bohannon sighed, “I know there’s a purpose. I know I’m supposed to be doing
this. Knowing is okay, but I need something more than knowing. I need a key. I need
to know where the switch is to flip on understanding. I need a clue in order to know
where to go. And I’m lost. I don’t have a clue, Joe doesn’t have a clue, and Sammy
doesn’t have a clue. We’re dead in the water. As much good as it’s doing us, the French
may as well have never found the Rosetta Stone.

“Aw, I might as well just get some sleep.”

Bohannon tried to roll over on his right side, but Annie held him fast with her arm.

“Annie, please, I’ve got to get some rest if—”

“Tom,” Annie interrupted, her voice carrying the hint of a question.

“What . . .”

“Tom, isn’t the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum?” Annie asked.

“Yeah, everybody knows—”

“Tom, will you listen to me for a minute?” Annie interrupted again, this time sitting
up on her side of the bed. Bohannon returned to his back and looked up at the dark
shadow of his wife with a startled, quizzical look on his face. “The Rosetta Stone
is in the British Museum, and there are three languages on it, right?”

Bohannon nodded his head at the shadow.

“And one of them is this extinct Demotic, the script that’s used on that scroll, right?”
Again the nodding shadow. “And you need somebody or something to help you figure out
the symbols on the scroll, right?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . and yes,” he said petulantly. “I know all that. What’s the point?”

Annie gave Tom grace in that moment, consideration for his many days of endless work
and limited sleep. She reached over gently, stroked his cheek, folded herself down
and back into his body contour.

“Tom, you may already have your key,” she nearly whispered to him. “And the key is
not far away.”

“What . . . what do you mean?” he said, turning to her.

“Richard Johnson,” Annie said carefully, lovingly, tightening her grip with her left
arm.

“Oh . . . oh, no,” Bohannon nearly groaned. “No—no—no. I don’t care. If I have to
take this to my grave and it’s still a secret, I don’t care. No, not Johnson. Anybody
but Johnson.”

Annie Bohannon released his arm and rolled away. “Good night, sweetheart,” Annie whispered
into the darkness. “God bless you.”

Sleep would likely elude him that night. This was a battle that only he could fight,
that only he could determine. Tom would have to decide whether the key to the scroll
was worth consulting a man he hadn’t spoken with in more than a decade.

It truly was a beautiful building. Standing across 35th Street late Friday afternoon,
waiting for the light to change, Bohannon once again gazed at the strikingly beautiful
architecture of the Collector’s Club. He had often stared at the building as he walked
to his dentist’s office, admiring the details of the late nineteenth-century brownstone
that housed the club’s offices. The club was one of the world’s greatest resources
on stamp collecting, but Bohannon’s visit had nothing to do with the philatelic. He
was looking for his old nemesis, Dr. Richard Johnson
Sr.
, former chair of the Antiquities College at Columbia University, fellow of the British
Museum and now—in his retirement—managing director of the Collector’s Club in Manhattan.

Bohannon banged heads, and egos, with the erudite Dr. Johnson about fifteen years
earlier when one of Bohannon’s investigative blockbusters for the
Philadelphia Bulletin
claimed millions of dollars had been swindled from investors for phony “rare” antiquities—a
scoop Bohannon remembered vividly because it had led to numerous journalism awards,
some very generous expressions of thanks from some of those who had been duped, and
a bitter castigation from Richard Johnson.

Standing on the far side of 35th Street, Bohannon recalled Dr. Randall Swinton, former
antiquities curator of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, who had concocted a plot to
pave his retirement. Shortly after aging out of the museum’s leadership, Swinton approached
several less-than-pure collectors with the deal of a lifetime. Over his two decades
with the art museum, Swinton informed his victims, he had managed to “liberate” scores
of priceless treasures from ancient civilizations. And he was willing to part with
these treasures for only half of their real value, considering the circumstances of
the transactions. Only one condition did Swinton place on his buyers: they could never
display the items in public, or they would all end up in prison.

It was a masterly deception. During his many trips to the Near and Far East, Africa,
and the Pacific Islands, Swinton had kept a weather eye for masters of forgery, those
indigenous and entrepreneurial craftsmen who made a sweet living from preying on unsuspecting
tourists, even on some unsuspecting museum collectors. With many of these talented
tricksters, Swinton entered into what appeared to be a legitimate business arrangement.
“I need the most accurate copies you can make,” he would commission them. “Often these
most beautiful artifacts are lent to other institutions, and I need something to sit
in their place until they are returned. At times, there may be a threat to their safety
and it would be wise to have the real item removed for safekeeping and replaced with
an identical copy. So give me your best rendition.” And the unsuspecting forgers would
render for him their best work ever; after all, it would one day sit in the Philadelphia
museum, representing the real thing.

Swinton was amazed at how easy it was to swindle those who were less than honest themselves.
Within months, he had multiple millions in a Swiss bank account and a sprawling, seaside
villa in Barbados. He was lying on a lounge chair on the patio of his island fantasy,
shaded by a palm tree, eagerly feeding his slide into soddeness, when it all swiftly
fell apart.