The Explorer's Code (32 page)

A sudden fear welled up in him. What if someone really
was
hiding in the maze, waiting for her? He knew it was unlikely, but he still couldn’t shake off the irrational fear. His heart began to pound—a stress response to losing control. He needed to find her quickly. He started to run down the alleys, calling her name. Once or twice he thought he could hear her movements, but he couldn’t be sure.

Suddenly it felt very claustrophobic in the narrow path. Disorientation came in a sickening wave. The old feeling of terror had welled up so fast, he was stunned. He fought the sensation and forced himself to breathe. He closed his eyes and tried to remain calm. But it wasn’t working.

“Cordelia!”
he shouted.

It was too much. He looked at the impregnable hedges. He was losing his capacity to control his anxiety. The claustrophobia was crushing him. He sat down on the damp path and tried to force air into his lungs. His hands were shaking, so he pressed them down on the cool earth. His knees felt weak. He looked up at the sky overhead and saw that it was bright. But looking up made the hedges appear taller and closer.

Deep down he could feel the knot of anger at himself for being so weak. Panic was like a stone on his chest, crushing his will. If he could calm down, he might be able to push the panic away. He started to concentrate on breathing, and focusing on his inner strength. He stood up
and got a good lungful of air. That was better. He tried another. The green walls of the maze were still bothering him, but when he was standing up they didn’t seem so tall.

Just then Cordelia came around the corner, laughing. Her hair was flying all over and there were leaves stuck in it. She looked so vital and pretty, the sight of her cleared his head.

“John, what
are
you doing?” She reached to take his hand. “I got all the way to the middle, and you didn’t follow,” she complained.

He pulled his hand back because it was so grimy.

“I got lost. Let’s get out of here. I find it a bit confining,” he replied, surprised his voice was so even.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked, hearing his somber tone.

“No, not at all. It’s just that it’s getting late,” he said, brushing his hand off on his trousers. “Any idea how we came in?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at him curiously. “It’s two turns to the left.”

“Good. It’s nearly teatime. Let’s go in.”

“OK,” she agreed. “I could use a cup of tea. And I want to see if they have any of that incredible gingerbread they make for the London shops.”

From the back courtyard, the Russian watched them go into the maze. He was dressed in the hunter green coveralls worn by the workers at the Cliff-mere Organic Farm. Any good observer would have noticed the pocket of his Barbour-waxed coat was listing to the right, weighed down by the Beretta 92. The Russian would have preferred his usual Glock 19. The thirty-four-ounce Beretta was damn heavy. Unfortunately it was the only gun offered by his contact, so he had to take it.

The Russian pushed the wheelbarrow across the lawn to the west terrace, just in front of the study. The French doors were ajar. He slipped carefully through the long window, removing his wellies at the doorsill, and padded noiselessly through the study into the library. There, in the middle of the library table, was the code they had been talking about, under a pane of glass. He took out his camera and photographed it four times. Then he slipped out the way he had come in. He was just crossing the stable yard when Sinclair and Cordelia came back across the lawn, hand in hand.

The fire in the Tudor study was warm and comforting. A tray held a silver teapot, two cups, and a plate of homemade gingerbread. Cordelia bit into the dense cake and let the spicy flavor melt on her tongue. The Earl Grey tea, with its light taste of bergamot, was perfect with it. Sinclair stood, warming his feet on the brass railing of the fireplace.

“How did you know?” he asked, looking into the fire.

“John, your face was frightening.”

“I thought I could hide it.”

“How could you think I wouldn’t notice?” She took a sip of her tea. “I’m glad you know now. It’s enclosed spaces. I can’t take them,” he admitted.

He looked miserable. She wanted to stand up and put her arms around him, but there was something in his stance that told her it wouldn’t be welcome.

“Cordelia, I
wanted
to tell you about the accident. But I didn’t want to put too much on you. You have your own problems.”

“I don’t have so many problems that I can’t help
you
.”

She reached out her hand to him. He took it, gave it a quick squeeze, and then dropped it. He turned away and looked out the window. Her heart froze at the gesture.

There was a long silence as he looked at the lawn. Finally he turned to her, and when he spoke his voice had the heavy tone of resignation.

“Cordelia, I might not be right for you. I am not good at relationships. I can barely manage my own private hell.”

“John! What are you saying?”
she cried out in dismay.

He turned to her, frowning with anxiety.

“Why would you need two hundred ten pounds of trouble?”

He paused, as if bracing for her response. She stood up and walked over to him.

“Don’t do this, John
. Don’t,
” she pleaded.

He said nothing. His expression was blank; he was trying not to show any emotion. She scanned his face and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Is it Shari?”

His eyes opened wide in surprise, but he didn’t respond.

“It’s not like it’s a secret, John. I read
Paris Match
on the ship,” she said.

“You
did
? And you still wanted to go ahead with me, after
that
?”

“I did. I didn’t believe that was the real you. That man in the photos was not the John Sinclair
I knew
.”

“I never behaved like that before in my life,” he vowed.

“I wonder if you want a supermodel?” she challenged. “Or somebody who is real?” Cordelia walked away and picked up her teacup, and took a sip to compose herself. He came over and took the cup away from her, put it on the table, and clasped both her hands.

“Cordelia, I want
you
.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I want you to know that things with Shari weren’t serious.”

“And this is?” she asked.

He sighed heavily. “Yes. Although I have to admit I’m worried about where this is headed.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Cordelia, look at our lives. We live on different
continents
. What are we going to do in a couple of weeks? Quit our jobs? Move? Or do we just e-mail each other from time to time?”

Cordelia pulled her hands away and put them behind her back.

“I know it’s going to be tough. But even so, I want to give it a try,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know how this is going to work out. But I am
not
going to just give up on it.”

He looked at her for a long minute and then shut his eyes. He opened them and reached for her, and pulled her to his chest.

“OK, Delia. That was your chance to put the brakes on. If you want to stop this, it’s
your
call. But if you want to make this work, I’m willing.”

“I want this
so much,
John,” she said. “I’ve never felt like this before. I know it’s soon, I know it’s complicated, but I want it.”

“I want it too, you know,” he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead. He pulled back with a rueful smile. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

T
he manager of the rare-book store came to the phone. Twice in one week was too much of a coincidence. He needed to know what was going on. He took the phone from the salesgirl.

“Bauman’s Rare Books, may I help you?”

“Yes,” said the assassin. “I am looking for a certain copy of
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
by Jules Verne. None of the other American booksellers seem to have one.”

“Yes sir, we can help you. We actually located that volume for another customer just yesterday.”

“I am looking for a 1908 edition, printed in America. It can be a slightly earlier date.”

“I have a 1906 copy—we found it when we were doing the search for our previous customer.”

“I will take it.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like it leather-bound? That will take an additional three weeks. I can recommend a burgundy calfskin—it looks quite handsome.”

“No. No leather binding. Just the original book. I will send someone to pick it up at your store. Is four o’clock good? I want to get it right away. It’s a birthday gift.”

“Certainly, sir, we will set it aside. Who will be calling for it?”

“Mr. Jones will be coming by at four,” the man said, and hung up.

The manager stood holding the phone, wondering why the customer had never asked the price.

T
he setter was moving at a brisk trot down the wooded trail. It was a handsome animal, larger than a traditional gundog. This one stood twenty-seven inches at the shoulder, an excellent bird dog with the distinctive black and tan markings of a Gordon setter. Sinclair let the animal set the pace and increased his speed to keep up.

The trail was a mossy track through the woods, a cross-country bridle trail. It was just on the verge of dusk, and dense foliage on each side of the trail nearly obscured the sunlight. It was damp and cool—very soothing to Sinclair after the tension of being indoors so much of the time.

As Sinclair inhaled the fresh air, he began to feel better. It was good to get out of the house and move a bit. He needed to think on his own. The strain of being vigilant day after day was getting to him. Even when he slept, he wound his fingers through Cordelia’s hair so no one would be able to capture her without waking him.

He had been on edge for days. Today he was at the breaking point. So when an opportunity for a moment’s respite had turned up, he had seized it. Right now he had no worries about leaving Cordelia. She was in the kitchen, flanked by three men: the head chef, the assistant cook, and the pastry chef. They were teaching her how to make a traditional English game pie. The interior kitchen of the house was secure, and the men were armed with sharp knives. All that seemed safe enough.

Sinclair had watched for a while, and then, realizing he was not needed, he kissed her cheek and went out for a quick walk. She barely noticed when he slipped out through the kitchen door.

The path wound down through the woods to the river. He had been
moving at a fast clip, but suddenly he stopped, on alert. Something was wrong. The dog halted and growled. There wasn’t a sound; the forest seemed empty. But he knew something was there; he trusted dogs more than he trusted people. Charles had taught him that. The dog growled again as Thaddeus Frost stepped from behind a tree.

“You had me worried there,” said Sinclair, coming up to put a hand on the dog’s collar.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. But I saw you coming out of the house.”

His eyes were hard, and for the first time Sinclair saw how utterly dangerous Frost would be as an adversary.

“What’s going on?” Sinclair asked.

“We picked up another Russian. This one was inside the house.”

“
Inside the house, here
?” Sinclair stared, aghast. “When?”

“This afternoon.”

“You got him?”

“Yes, we got him. He’s out of commission,” said Frost.

“I can’t believe this!” Sinclair exclaimed.

“He’s Russian, just like the one we got outside your house in Ephesus. We’re not sure if they’re connected.”

“Connected or not, they tracked us here.”

“Yes. The one we got today actually photographed the document in the library. It was nice of you to put it under glass for him. He got a good picture.”

“Oh, no.” Sinclair groaned.

“You
know
they are trying to kill her. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Be extra careful at night,” Frost cautioned. “Don’t let your guard down. We’re not here after the alarms go on at eleven p.m.”

“We? How many. Two?”

“And you make three.”

“OK, so what do we do now?” Sinclair asked.

Frost walked over to a tree to examine a fan-shaped fungus on the trunk. In the wooded setting, dressed in his tweed jacket and tan slacks, he was halfway camouflaged. Frost bent low to examine the underside of the shelf of fungus. It was bright yellow orange. He broke off a chunk and sniffed it.

“I
said,
what do we do now?” Sinclair said forcefully.

Frost turned back, as if he had just noticed him.

“Can’t we hide somewhere?” Sinclair burst out. “I
hate
having to sit here just waiting for these bastards to go after Cordelia.”

Frost walked soundlessly over to Sinclair, the pine needles cushioning his footsteps. His voice was low, as if he were concerned about being overheard.

“No. It’s a good setup here. Much better than in London. There is a lot of activity during the day, with the farm. A lot of people are around to keep their eyes open. And at night the house is Fort Knox with the alarm system on.”

“So how’d he get in?” Sinclair was careful to keep the accusation out of his voice.

“Disguised as a farmworker. He walked in through the French doors by the library. We saw him immediately. We were watching him the whole time. We bagged him the second he came out of the house.”

“That still makes me nervous. What should we do?”

Thaddeus Frost turned back to the growth on the tree. He snapped off a larger section of the fungus. Holding it gingerly, he took a ziplock bag from his pocket and sealed the sample inside.

Sinclair watched the whole process without comment. Frost turned back.

“You need to decode that book and find the deed. After you find it, sell it, or give it away. Once it’s out of your hands, they will leave you alone.”