Deception (7 page)

“Okay,” Jackie Burns said. She raised a hand, and the group piled to a stop around her. “Now we're going to head to the prison tower. Please try to stay together. There are other tour groups, as you can see, and they have a way of getting mixed up together. We'd like to avoid that. And be careful on the stones. They're slippery.”

The sleepy-eyed Turk—Yildirim—was standing near the back of the group like a shepherd watching over a flock. Hannah looked at the man, looked away, and then looked back. He was really quite good-looking, in a rather exotic way. Tall, dark, and handsome. And he was much closer to her own age than the Epsteins.

As long as she was here, she might as well try to enjoy the experience to the fullest. Who knew the next time she would find herself in the Greek Isles?

She made her way toward Yildirim, conscious of the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Epstein were still following her, sticking close. But when she reached the spot where he had been, he was gone—having slipped around to the other side of the group, to share a word with Jackie Burns. She was left, once again, with the elderly couple. The woman's husband was looking away, off at the horizon; but in truth it seemed he was looking inside himself.

Alzheimer's
, she thought again. That must be it.

“We'll enter the tower in groups of three,” Jackie was saying. “Please find two buddies to accompany you. If you can't find a buddy, there's always me or Mr. Yildirim.”

Mrs. Epstein gave Hannah a smile. “What do you say?” she asked. “Buddies?”

Hannah tried to keep her disappointment from showing. It could have been worse, she supposed. In a way—despite the age difference, the irritating homework assignments, and the crusty husband—she was growing to like this woman. Because she reminded Hannah of her grandmother, perhaps. Once, long ago, Hannah and her grandmother had been very close.

“Buddies,” she said.

The group began moving again, with Hannah and the Epsteins bringing up the rear.

2.

The argument went back and forth in Steven Epstein's head: Procrastination, posing as rational consideration.

Already his procrastination had come back to haunt him. In the bathroom of the hotel in Venice, moments after watching the flame consume the last of the paper, he had scribbled the equations inside the back cover of the book. Immediately after making what had seemed like an irreversible decision, he had changed his mind. And now Renee had given the book away.

Part of him would be pleased, to have the formula slip through his fingers and continue to survive. For the work, of course, was the ultimate achievement of Epstein's career. It took Greenwich's efforts and leapfrogged years, if not decades, ahead. But those in control would take his discovery as license to press the Project at ever-increasing speed, despite the fact that a misstep would make the Phoenix reaction, which had been feared during the Manhattan Project, look like just a spill on an existential carpet.

And still this did not confront Epstein's greatest fear: that the Project would be a success. That the fruits of his genius would result, somewhere down the line, in the creation of a weapon unparalleled in the existence of man.

So his achievement had to vanish. Without it, even Keyes would not be able to force the Project ahead.

But was it really necessary that it vanish forever?

Procrastination
, he thought.
Foolishness.

The entire past decade, it seemed in retrospect, had been an exercise in procrastination. When he had first accepted the post at ADS, he'd had his doubts. But he had put the doubts off, and bent himself to his task. There always would be time, he had thought, to change his mind. Now his time had run out.

The book must be destroyed.

Yet the scientist in him obstinately refused to accept this fact. There were places that knowledge could be kept safe. In the right hands—cautious, learned, philosophical hands—the knowledge could be kept safe.

For the hundredth time, he reached a decision. He would remove himself from the equation, frustrating ADS. But he would connive to let his work fall into the right hands, so that his discovery would not vanish forever. A compromise.

When they returned to the ship, he would retrieve the book from the woman, put it in an envelope, and have the cruise director mail it to his colleague in Princeton. Then he would lock himself in the bathroom and swallow the entire vial of propoxyphene. He would claim seasickness; Renee would not bother him. Within five minutes, he would be dead, and as far as ADS knew the formula would be lost. They would be forced to slow down, for a decade, or a century … to let the slumbering beast of progress remain asleep, until they were better prepared to deal with it.

It was the only way.

So that was it. He had reached his decision. And this time he would stick to it.

Why, this is my last day on earth, Epstein thought.

It seemed that it should be a profound day, a special day. The sunlight should look remarkably golden; the conversation surrounding him should be gravid and insightful. Yet the sun was a bleached-out white, and the conversation was prosaic. A couple ahead of them was concerned that the batteries in their camera would die before the end of the tour. A man to their left was complaining about drinking warm bottled water.

His wife and the young woman—Vicky Ludlow—were walking just behind him, talking. Epstein listened with half an ear. Did this woman realize what she had, back in her cabin? Of course not. She was an innocent. She had stumbled into this entirely by mistake.

He cast his eyes around at the other tour groups dotting the fortress grounds. Had someone from ADS followed him? It seemed possible. Yet he didn't see anything to justify his concern. Nobody was paying any attention to him, except for a young boy who seemed to have become separated from his own group—a lad of twelve or thirteen, looking at him with bright eyes from under the brim of a baseball cap.

Their eyes met, and the boy turned away.

Foolishness
, Epstein thought again. The boy is just a boy. It was natural to feel concern, considering his situation. But in just a few more hours, it would be finished for good.

Or would it? He had reached this decision before, and then balked. But this time was different. This time, he would go ahead.

Renee was calling his name. The tour group was venturing out across the spit of rock that led to the tower. He shot one more glance at the boy in the baseball cap. The boy was moving away now, heading in the opposite direction.

For a moment, Epstein looked after him.

Then he turned back to his wife, and went to join her.

3.

“I want you to close your eyes,” Jackie Burns said dramatically, “and try to imagine this place as it looked nearly eight centuries ago.”

To Hannah's surprise, everyone in the tour group immediately obeyed. The elderly were like children, she thought. They left this world as they had come into it, with their food cut up for them, their hands held, and their activities structured by others. And sure enough, like children, a few of them promptly began cheating—surreptitiously lifting eyelids, and stealing peeks.

“Five centuries ago,” Jackie intoned, “a naval assault on the fortress of Sapienza would have reached this prison tower first. Now: I want you to imagine that you are a Greek soldier who has been captured on an earlier expedition. You know something that your Venetian captors don't—another expedition is following close behind. You expect to be rescued. But now, as the day on which you expect your saviors approaches, something is happening. You're being moved out to this tower. As we explore inside, think of what must be going through your mind. When the next ship comes, they'll reach this tower first. And will they recognize you as their brothers? No. They'll be in the grip of a blood lust—primed and raring to go, after so long on the open seas. When they throw their ladders against the tower walls, they'll climb them with swords drawn.”

The group was assembling outside a rusted iron gate. Past the gate, inside the confines of the tower, were crumbling stone steps half lost in shadow. Nearby, the sea pounded against the shoals of the island and dissolved into droplets of spray.

“And as you're chained to these walls, the irony of your situation slowly begins to impress itself upon you. Hour after hour, day after day, you're forced to live with the knowledge that when your brothers arrive, the first to fall beneath their swords will be you and your brethren. The thought tortures you—chained in your own filth, starving, desperate. Eventually, perhaps, you'll call to your captors. You'll tell them everything you know about the coming expedition in exchange for a drink of water. But the best mercy you'll receive is a quick death …”

Eyes were opening all around now. Even Renee Epstein, who had been listening with rigid concentration, was peering out from below a heavily made-up ridge of eyelashes.

“All right!” Jackie said sunnily. “Please be very careful on the steps inside, which are as slippery as the rock bridge. And make sure to stay with your buddies. We'd hate to lose any of you. And if you see any ghosts in there, don't stare too long! We don't want them following us back to the ship.”

Lukewarm laughter. Then the crowd was reassembling, shifting into groups of three. Somehow, Hannah and the Epsteins had moved up to the front of the pack. Hannah glanced across the bridge that led back to the fortress. A young boy was moving across the rocks in their direction, evidently unable to wait for his own group.

“We're next,” Renee Epstein said. One hand took her husband's; the other moved for Hannah's.

4.

As they stepped into the prison tower, Hannah could hear Jackie Burns, from outside, continuing her lecture in loud, insistent tones.

“This fortress occupies a key position—the watchtower of the eastern Mediterranean. The essence of its fortification comes by virtue of the location. Shoals on one side, a bay on the other. It's always easier to defend a bay, of course; you just block off the mouth. And the Venetians, whenever possible, preferred to conduct their military business on the sea.”

The first floor of the tower smelled of lichen and centuries. The space in which Hannah stood with the Epsteins was circular, almost twenty feet in diameter, made of rough gray stone with nooks carved into the walls. Beside each nook was a set of iron clamps. A spiral stairway of rock, leading up, was illuminated by weak sunlight trickling through higher windows.

Renee Epstein stood beside her in the gloom, examining the stairway. “That doesn't look safe,” she said timidly.

“It'll be fine,” Hannah assured her, although secretly she found herself thinking the same. The stone of the steps looked weathered and treacherous.

A moment passed. Then they began to climb, Hannah in the lead, the Epsteins close behind. Outside, Jackie was still talking.

“When you reach the second story, you'll notice a wooden ladder leading to the third. Whether or not you choose to climb the ladder is up to you—but if you do, please be very careful. The ladder, of course, has not been a part of the tower since the thirteenth century. It's a recent addition, for the benefit of tours like ours. In reality, the tower consisted of only two stories. Why, then, does the ladder lead up to a stone platform on the third? Look closely and you'll notice the remains of a gallows up there. Imagine the psychological effect of having your fellow soldiers dangling beside you, as you're locked in one of these stone nooks, too small even to turn around in … and think twice about that before you complain about your cabins on board being too claustrophobic.”

Mild laughter; but only mild. Already the passengers had become weary of Jackie's ceaseless attempts at wit.

Hannah was coming off onto the second floor now. The ladder leading higher looked none too sturdy. She waited until the Epsteins had joined her, and then said, “What do you think?”

“I think,” Renee said, “we'll wait here, dear.”

The woman's husband hardly seemed to have heard the question. He was peering back toward the first floor, frowning.

Hannah reached for the ladder. It creaked, but held. Once she had reached the third story, the interior of the tower looked even smaller. She could see the top of the Epsteins' heads, and the metallic shine of the manacles set into the wall.

She turned to look out through the window at the sea. The view was stunning: sweeping water, craggy rocks, a tremendous azure sky. It really
was
unchanged, she thought. Through all those civilizations, all those centuries. How could there not be such a thing as second chances, with so much time in the world?

A sound came from below.

She looked down from the window. Another figure was coming onto the second story. It was the boy she had seen following them across the bridge, she thought. How had he gotten past Jackie Burns? Perhaps he had come around the back of the tower, and slipped through one of the crevasses in the rock.

The boy reached into a pocket—or something like it—and raised a small silver object. There was a puff, almost a sigh. Then Steven Epstein was choking.

Hannah stared.

The boy circled around behind Renee Epstein as she reached for her husband. Now Steven Epstein was sinking to his knees, still choking. And the boy was not a boy at all, Hannah thought. His carriage was that of an adult; his face, in the gloom, was oddly ageless.

As Hannah watched, the man-child stabbed Renee Epstein in the side. She saw it very clearly—the blade moving in and then out, three times in quick succession.

Mrs. Epstein crumpled onto the floor beside her husband.

The boy looked up. His gaze fell on Hannah. He reached for the ladder, and began to climb.

Hannah's eyes slid to the top of the ladder. The wood was old, mossy and half rotted. She took a step toward it and raised a foot. She watched, almost curiously, as her foot hammered down onto the top rung. It splintered, buckling.