The God Machine (33 page)

“Like your neo-Pythagoras.”

“Sort of, I guess,” Koster said. “I never thought of it that way. Anyway, Boole was training to be ordained as a priest in the Anglican Church, when he began to have doubts about the literal truth of the Bible. He was also a staunch advocate of religious freedom and tolerance.”

“Like Franklin,” Sajan said.

“Although Boole lived a century later. This led him to a career in teaching at Queen's College in Ireland, where he developed his mathematical synthesis of human cognition, published sometime around the 1850s. It's the basis of all Boolean logic.”

“Oh, wait,” Lyman said. “I have heard of that. For computers, right?”

Koster nodded. “A century ahead of his time, this self-taught Victorian academic developed a decision-making methodology that would prove perfect for digital machines.” He shook the pages in his hand. “Two of Boole's formulae are referenced in this letter: his famous x = x
²
, which only holds true for two numbers—0 and 1, the binary numbers—and his proof that God really exists.”

“There's a proof for that?” Lyman said, and he started to laugh.

“It's x (1 − y)(1 − z) + y (1 − x)(1 − z) + z (1 − x)(1 − y) = 1,” Koster said seriously. “Anyway, the letter also states that von Neumann learned—from studying some old
papers of Boole's—that the Queen's College professor received his so-called ‘flash of psychological insight’ while working on a formula involving the phi.”

“The phi?” Sajan said. “Like the Triple Tau, back in Washington?”

Koster nodded.

“Wait a minute,” said Lyman. “You two have lost me again.”

“The Triple Tau,” Koster told him. “It's something we found in the layout of the streets in D.C. Tau is the nineteenth letter of the Greek alphabet. The lower T is sometimes used as a symbol for the golden ratio, although generally most people use
phi. Phi
is the twenty-first letter of the Greek alphabet. It's also used as a mathematical constant, like pi. It's around one point six one eight or so.” His fingers danced on his trouser legs. “In mathematics, two quantities are known as being in the ‘golden ratio’ if the ratio between the sum of those quantities and the larger one is the same as the ratio between the larger one and the smaller.”

“Forget I asked,” Lyman grumbled.

“You've seen it in art,” Sajan said, cutting in. “The golden mean. The golden ratio. Many Renaissance artists—”

“Like da Vinci,” said Koster, growing more and more excited.

“Yes, like da Vinci. They proportioned their works to approximate the golden ratio, believing it to be aesthetically pleasing.”

“Just tell me one thing,” Lyman demanded. “What does this Boole character and Alan Turing and your fee-fi-fo have to do with the Gospel of Judas and Ben Franklin?”

Koster shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“And don't you think it's awfully suspicious that a
man like this”—he gestured at the dead man at his feet—“would come into battle carrying this letter?”

“I doubt he thought he'd be caught.”

“Perhaps so,” Lyman said. “But still. What do you think?” He looked at Sajan.

Sajan stood there in silence.

“Savita?” said Koster. “Savita!”

Sajan glanced up at Koster. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I was thinking.”

“What about?”

“About Boole. I've always wondered about him. He seems like such an odd aberration. How could he have developed something so vital to computing a full century before his algebra could even be used? It doesn't make sense.”

Lyman sighed. “Look, I'll poke around this Turing connection if you want, see if any of his papers might have gone missing. Unofficially. In the meantime, I think you two should get out of here. Head for Paris. Find the third piece of that map.”

“What about him?” Sajan said, pointing down at the corpse.

“I'll take care of him. It's you two I'm worried about.” He paused for a moment then he looked at Koster. “You don't know, do you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're on the Interpol watch list. You're being monitored. And I don't just mean by the Knights and your nun friend. I mean the police.”

“The police? But what for? I haven't done anything.” Koster glanced back at the tunnel that led from the cave, half expecting the police to materialize.

“Suspicion of terrorism,” Lyman answered. “It comes straight from your Homeland Security. Which means that the Church and your government have formed an alliance. I can't help you any more, Joseph.”

“Don't you get it?” Sajan said. “Tell him, Lyman. You've got it all figured out.”

“I'm afraid you were being followed,” said Lyman.

“By the police?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Lyman reached into his jacket and pulled out Koster's digital camera. “By me.”

F
RANKLIN WAS BORED.
H
E STOOD IN A CIRCLE OF MEN IN THE
house of the Marquis d'Artois, on the rue Pérignon in the 7th Arrondissement. They had just finished dinner—a sumptuous affair, with oysters and pheasant and duck, plus a beguiling but insidious pudding—and were gathered in the gaming room, awaiting the ladies.

Dressed in a wig and his suit of blue Manchester velvet, Franklin was telling the marquis about his journey from London to Paris. It had been an unmitigated disaster. He and his traveling companion, Dr. John Pringle, had been forced to endure a miserable coach ride all the way from the coast. Cranky and travel-sore, Franklin had engaged in perpetual disputes with their innkeepers en route.

The marquis clucked and commiserated. But surely, he said, since coming to Paris, since Franklin's
convert
with King Louis XVI and Queen Marie, things had improved? Franklin had been feted as a celebrity wherever he went, especially by that strange breed of electrical experimenters called
franklinistes
, who swarmed around
the American legend whenever he made an appearance in public.

Another French nobleman joined them. He was some sort of count, or was it a baron? Franklin couldn't remember. He was still thinking about his host's delicious new bride, the Marchioness d'Artois, Estelle de Dinard, with whom he had flirted quite shamelessly throughout dinner.

“And what did you think of the Court at Versailles?” asked the baron or count. He had a false mole on his cheek in the shape of a rabbit.

“Exquisite,” said Franklin. “We have nothing in all the colonies to compare.” He put on a smile. The palace had indeed been magnificent, though poorly maintained, with shabby brick walls and more than a few broken windows. “And Paris,” he added, changing the subject. “The streets are so clean.”

“Swept daily,” said the Marquis d'Artois.

“I hear that the water supply is purified by filtering it through cisterns of sand. Quite ingenious. I have to admit that Paris is far cleaner than London.” Franklin took another glance at the entrance to the gaming room.
Where were the ladies?
he wondered. If he had to endure another ten minutes with these gentlemen, he'd go mad.

“The marchioness tells me you're an art connoisseur,” said the Marquis D'Artois.

Franklin stiffened. He turned toward his host. “I would be hard-pressed to call myself that, sir. It's true, though: I like what I like.”

“So it appears,” quipped the marquis. “They say that you've shown quite an interest in my new acquisition.”

“What's that, sir?”

“Why, the portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, the mistress of the Duke of Milan. My da Vinci. Some call her La Belle Ferronière.”

Franklin smiled. “They say the word
‘belle’
is a gross understatement.”

“You realize, of course, that it's not the genuine masterpiece. The real portrait was rendered on wood. Mine is only an earlier study, done on canvas.”

Franklin felt his heart skip a beat. “Is that so?” he replied carefully. “And from whom did you acquire it, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“From the Comte de Saint-Germain,” said the Marquis. “Do you know him?”

“I've heard tell of his doings.”

“The comte's a remarkable gentleman, to be sure,” said the man with the mole on his cheek. “He speaks several languages, including Arabic, Sanskrit and Chinese. Apparently, he spent some time in the Court of the Shah, preoccupied, so they say, with alchemical studies.”

“An extraordinary violinist,” gushed the marquis. “And a painter of remarkable skill. I hear that he mixes mother-of-pearl with his pigments to help create that luster you see in the precious stones on his canvases.”

“He's a Freemason,” said another man, “and quite ambidextrous. I've seen him compose a poem with one hand while writing music with the other. And he recalls ancient events as if he actually lived them. My wife is convinced he was born in Chaldea, several centuries ago. He's in Russia now…”

“No, in Germany,” corrected the marquis. “He left Russia after helping place Catherine the Great on the throne. I heard his exploits recounted at his apartments at the Royal Chateau of Chambord, in Touraine, which the king gave to him after returning from India with General Clive.”

Franklin took a step back. “Yes, his exploits are known to me,” he said cryptically. The truth was, he had been corresponding with the Comte de Saint-Germain for years now. Working with the Duc de Choiseul, France's
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Brother Saint-Germain had been instrumental in forging the Family Compact of 1761, a treaty between the Bourbons of France and of Spain. This had paved the way for the Treaty of Paris—signed by Britain, France and Spain—which had put an end to the Seven Years' War. He looked at the Marquis d'Artois with a smile.
If only you knew just how familiar I am with your friend
, he considered. But he was obliged to play along with this game. “You were saying,” he added, “about your new painting.”

The marquis turned toward the door. The ladies were ready, it seemed. They awaited the gentlemen in the salon. The marquis motioned toward his guests and they started to file from the gaming room.

At last
, Franklin thought. He spied the Lady d'Artois at the center of the paneled salon. She wore a lavish pink gown, trimmed with diamonds and pearls, and her wig was twisted up into a great mound of curls on her head. She looked spellbinding. As soon as he entered the room, he headed straight for her. She was surrounded on all sides by well-wishers and sycophants, young ladies mostly, with twittering fans. Franklin swept in from the side.

“Have you forgotten your promise already?” he said, and a great sigh went up from the ladies.

“What was that, Monsieur Franklin?” said the marchioness.

He tugged at his wig. It had started to slip, just a little, down one side of his head. “Why, I'm heartbroken, Lady d'Artois. Remember? At dinner, you promised to show me your…” He hesitated. He stared at the young ladies around him. “Your…”

“Da Vinci,” the marchioness finished for him.

“Why, yes,” Franklin said, with the slightest of bows. “That, too.”

The ladies started to laugh. The marchioness took
Franklin by the arm and led him away. “A hasty retreat,” she said privately, “before you ruin what's left of my soiled reputation.” Then she stopped, and she pointed, and he looked up at the wall.

There it was. He could scarcely believe it. The woman in the portrait stared off to the side with strong, vital eyes. Her luminous henna-red hair was parted in the middle, drawn over the ears and tied back. She stood behind a small parapet, her face modeled in light. The painting's name,
La Belle Ferronière
, stemmed from the fillet she wore—a jewel held to the forehead by a chain.

“Some say that it's the duke's other mistress, Lucrezia Crivelli,” the marchioness told him. “And, indeed, the finished portrait looks entirely different. The Comte de Saint-Germain believes that da Vinci altered the painting when the duke turned his attention to Crivelli. But look at the face,” she said. “Does it not look like the woman he painted years earlier, the one holding the ermine?”

“I've never seen it,” said Franklin.

“I have. Last year, in Milan. Although, of course, this one features a door in the background.”

Franklin couldn't tear his eyes away from the painting. What was she thinking, this Renaissance beauty? With her eyes looking off to the side like that, there was something sly, something devious going on in her mind, despite her bald look of innocence. And that door. The background was so dark that the portal was practically invisible. At least in this light. There was no doubt about it. This was the one. Saint-Germain had been right.

Franklin turned and stared down at Estelle de Dinard. He would have to be bold if he were to pull off this drama. Without warning, he leaned over the marchioness, until his face was only inches away from hers.

“Ambassadeur!” she cried out, pulling back.

“I was just wondering,” Franklin said, as he glanced to the side. Yes. The ladies-in-waiting were watching.

“About what do you wonder, Ambassadeur? I would say you're too certain by half about some things.”