His mother must have picked up the vibrations, because she said, "Niko, remember we agreed that after you talk you have to let the other person talk too." The boy stopped in the middle of his sentence like a switched-off radio and said to Crosetti, "Now you have to say something."

"Could we talk about stuff besides Warcraft?" said Crosetti.

"Yes. How many pennies are there in a cubic foot of pennies?"

"I have no idea."

"Forty-nine thousand, one hundred and fifty-two. How many are there in a cubic meter?"

"No, now it's my turn. What's your favorite movie?"

It took a while to figure this out, especially as Niko felt it necessary to review the plotlines of his choices, but eventually they settled on the original Jura.s.sic Park Jura.s.sic Park. Of course the boy had it on his hard disk (he had watched it forty-six times, he announced), and Crosetti made him run it with the promise that he would tell him how they did all the effects, and he brought out the special little plug that enabled two people to use their headsets at once off a single computer. After that it was dweeb vs. dweeb, and Crosetti felt that he had not disgraced himself as a purveyor of tedious facts.

The pilot announced their descent into Biggin Hill airport, and they reversed their seats and buckled in. The attendant distributed hot towels. Amalie smiled at Crosetti and said, "Thank you for bearing with Niko. That was very good of you."

"No problem."

"It is for most people. Niko is unlovable, but even unlovable people need love. It is a wretched fate to love them, but I think perhaps you are one of us who shares that fate."

Crosetti couldn't think of anything to say to this, but found himself thinking about Rolly. Certainly unlovable, but did he love her? And did it matter if he did, as it was unlikely that he would ever meet her again?

The plane landed gently and taxied briefly through the small airport to the terminal. A blowing rain beat against the windows of the jet. Crosetti and the Mishkin brothers gathered up their carry-ons and outer garments. Crosetti got a handshake and an unexpected kiss on the cheek from Amalie Mishkin, who said, "Thank you for talking with me, and with Niko. And now you will go off to whatever insane adventure Jake will take you to and we will not see you again. I hope you will make your movie, Crosetti."

Then Jake Mishkin stopped in the aisle, looming behind him; Crosetti got a strong third-wheel feeling and quickly left the plane. The terminal was small, clean, efficient, and a small staff of uniformed ladies carried him through customs and immigration with the sort of service now available only to the very rich, and which Crosetti had never before experienced. A Mercedes limo waited outside along with a fellow carrying a vast umbrella. Crosetti entered the vehicle and within ten minutes was joined by Paul and Jake Mishkin. The car drove off.

"Where are we going?" asked Crosetti.

"Into town," said Jake. "I have some legal business to attend to, trivial really, but enough to write off this trip and keep my firm happy, or at least less unhappy with me than they are. It should take no more than a day, if that. I'm sure you'll find a lot to do in London. Paul can show you the sights. Paul is quite the world traveler."

"Sounds like fun," said Crosetti. "And after that?"

"We'll go up to Oxford and see Oliver March. We'll return Bulstrode's personal effects and see whether we can get a line on what he was doing here last summer. Beyond that we'll just have to play it by ear."

They stayed in a small, elegant hotel in Knightsbridge. Mishkin had stayed there before, and the staff made noises indicating they were glad to see him and that Crosetti was included in the welcome. Paul did not stay in the hotel.

"My brother dislikes the trappings of luxury," Mishkin explained later in the hotel's tiny bar. He had drunk several scotches to Crosetti's single pint. "I believe he's gone to stay with his fellow Jesuits. And also to arrange for our security."

"He's a security guy?"

"No, he's a Jesuit priest."

"Really? He said that, but I thought he was putting me on. What does a priest know about security?"

"Well, Paul has a range of talents and interests, as I'm sure you'll learn. I often think he's one of the elite corps of papal a.s.sa.s.sins we read so much about nowadays. What did you think of my lovely family?"

"They seemed very nice," said Crosetti warily.

"They are are nice. Nice as pie. Far too nice for me. My wife is Swiss, did you know that? The Swiss are nice. Nice as pie. Far too nice for me. My wife is Swiss, did you know that? The Swiss are very very nice. It's their national specialty along with chocolates and money. Did you know that Switzerland was a very poor country before the Second World War? Then it was suddenly very rich. That's because they supplied the n.a.z.is with all kinds of technical goodies from factories that couldn't be bombed because they were oh so neutral. Then there's the matter of the hundred and fifty million reichsmarks the n.a.z.is stole from exterminated Jews. That's nearly three-quarters of a billion bucks in current dollars. I wonder what became of that? Not to mention the art. My father-in-law has a superb collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings-Renoir, Degas, Kandinsky, Braque, you name it." nice. It's their national specialty along with chocolates and money. Did you know that Switzerland was a very poor country before the Second World War? Then it was suddenly very rich. That's because they supplied the n.a.z.is with all kinds of technical goodies from factories that couldn't be bombed because they were oh so neutral. Then there's the matter of the hundred and fifty million reichsmarks the n.a.z.is stole from exterminated Jews. That's nearly three-quarters of a billion bucks in current dollars. I wonder what became of that? Not to mention the art. My father-in-law has a superb collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings-Renoir, Degas, Kandinsky, Braque, you name it."

"Really."

"Really. He was a bank clerk before and during the war. How did he manage to acc.u.mulate such a collection? By being nice nice? My children are half Swiss, and that means they're only half nice, as you probably observed. You're probably a good observer, Crosetti, being a creative type, a writer like yourself, always lurking and taking things down. You probably have Amalie and me and the kids all figured out by now. You got a screenplay working in there? The Family Mishkin, now a major motion picture. The other half is half Jewish and half n.a.z.i, which is definitely not not nice. Have another drink, Crosetti! Have a cosmopolitan. The drink of your generation." nice. Have another drink, Crosetti! Have a cosmopolitan. The drink of your generation."

"I think I'll stick with beer. As a matter of fact, I'm feeling a little lagged out so-"

"Nonsense! Have a cosmopolitan on me. Best thing for jet lag, everyone knows that. Bartender, give this man a cosmo! And have one yourself. And give me another, a double."

The bartender, a swarthy fellow a little older than Crosetti, made eye contact before he started fixing the drinks, the kind of glance that asks whether this moose is going to go bats.h.i.+t in my tiny bar and are you in a position to get him out of here before he does? Crosetti let his eyes slip downward in a cowardly way.

"You think I'm drunk, don't you?" asked Mishkin, as if reading the vibes. "You think I'm going to be out of control. Well, you're wrong there. I'm never never out of control. Except sometimes. But this isn't going to be one of those times. Jews don't get drunk, according to my mother-in-law. That's the only advantage she admitted in reference to my wife's generally disgraceful marriage. They were not fooled by my members.h.i.+p in the one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic church. That, and they're good providers, Jews. Money, sobriety...oh, yeah, plus they don't beat you. She actually said that, lounging on her silk settee under her stolen dead-Jew Renoir. The Catholics of southern Europe are extremely anti-Semitic, did you know that, Crosetti? Most of the major n.a.z.is were Catholic-Hitler, Himmler, Heydrich, Goebbels. How about you, Crosetti? You're a Catholic. You anti-Semitic? You ever get p.i.s.sed at the Jewish mafia controlling the media?" out of control. Except sometimes. But this isn't going to be one of those times. Jews don't get drunk, according to my mother-in-law. That's the only advantage she admitted in reference to my wife's generally disgraceful marriage. They were not fooled by my members.h.i.+p in the one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic church. That, and they're good providers, Jews. Money, sobriety...oh, yeah, plus they don't beat you. She actually said that, lounging on her silk settee under her stolen dead-Jew Renoir. The Catholics of southern Europe are extremely anti-Semitic, did you know that, Crosetti? Most of the major n.a.z.is were Catholic-Hitler, Himmler, Heydrich, Goebbels. How about you, Crosetti? You're a Catholic. You anti-Semitic? You ever get p.i.s.sed at the Jewish mafia controlling the media?"

"I'm half Irish," said Crosetti.

"Oh, well, that lets you off the hook, then, the Irish being notably free of all taint of racism whatsoever. I myself am half anti-Semitic on my mother's side. Isn't it funny that all the big n.a.z.is sort of looked Jewish. Goebbels? Himmler? Heydrich was constantly getting pounded in the school yard because the kids thought he was a Yid. Aryan features but a big fat soft Jewish a.s.s. My grandfather, by contrast, was a real Aryan, as so of course was my mother, his daughter. And my wife. Do you think my wife is attractive, Crosetti? Desirable?"

"Yeah, she's very nice," said Crosetti, and checked the distance to the exit. The place was so small and Mishkin was so huge that it would be a d.a.m.ned close-run thing if he had to make a dash for it. It was like being trapped in a bathroom with an orangutan.

"Oh, she's more than nice nice, Crosetti. There are deep wells of heat in my Amalie. I noticed how you leaned toward each other across the aisle. You got a little kiss there too at the end. Did you arrange to meet somewhere? I mean, it wouldn't surprise me in the least-it cries out for redress. I must've f.u.c.ked forty or fifty women since we got married, so what could I say, right? You should go for it, man! Forget this Shakespearian horses.h.i.+t and fly out to Zurich. They're at Kreuzbuhlstra.s.se 114. You can f.u.c.k her in her little yellow girlhood bed. I'll even give you some tips on how she likes it: for example-"

"I'm going to bed," said Crosetti and slid off his bar stool.

"Not so fast!" cried Mishkin; Crosetti felt his arm gripped; it was like being caught in a car door. Before he knew what he was doing he'd grabbed his untouched cosmo off the bar and flung it into Mishkin's face. Mishkin grimaced and wiped at his face with his free hand but did not let go. The bartender came around the bar and told Mishkin he'd have to leave. Mishkin shook Crosetti hard enough to rattle his teeth together and said to the bartender. "It's all right. I was just explaining to this gentleman how to f.u.c.k my wife and he threw a drink at me. Does that seem right to you?"

The bartender now made the mistake of grabbing Mishkin's arm, perhaps hoping to establish a come-along grip, but instead the big man let go of Crosetti and threw the bartender over the bar and into his brightly lit shelves of bottles. Crosetti was out of there on a run, nor did he wait for the elevator but ran up three flights of stairs and into his room.

The next morning, Crosetti left the hotel very early and went to the British Film Inst.i.tute on the South Bank, where he watched Jean Renoir's Crosetti left the hotel very early and went to the British Film Inst.i.tute on the South Bank, where he watched Jean Renoir's Boudu Saved from Drowning Boudu Saved from Drowning and and The Rules of the Game. The Rules of the Game. He would have stayed for He would have stayed for The Grand Illusion The Grand Illusion, but while he was in the lobby seeking a drink of water, someone tugged at his sleeve, and when he turned around it was Paul Mishkin in a leather coat and clericals. Crosetti thought he looked like an actor playing a priest.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Where else would you be? Not Madame Tussaud's. Come on, there's been a slight change of plans."

"Such as?"

"We're leaving for Oxford immediately. The car's outside."

"What about our stuff at the hotel?"

"It's been collected, packed, and loaded. Just come, Crosetti. You can ask questions later."

The Mercedes waited in the street and Jake sat slumped in the backseat, wrapped in a lined Burberry and m.u.f.fler with a tweed cap pulled low on his head. Paul got into the shotgun seat (startlingly on the wrong side!) and Crosetti sat in the back as far as he could from Mishkin, who said not a word. The small area of skin visible above his collar looked gray and reptilian.

They drove out of the city through miles of wet brick suburbs, growing increasingly like country as they pa.s.sed Richmond, and soon they were on a freeway. Crosetti noticed that Paul was checking the side mirror and inspecting pa.s.sing vehicles with more interest than the average car pa.s.senger ordinarily showed.

"So, why the change of plans?" Crosetti asked when it became apparent after many miles that no one was going to volunteer an explanation.

"Two reasons. One is that there's a couple of teams of people following us. They're good at it, serious professionals, not like those jerks you were fooling with in New York. The second reason is that after Jake's performance in the bar last night, he was asked to leave, and rather than find another hotel in London we decided to go to Oxford now, stay the night, and see our guy tomorrow morning."

"I want to hear more about the professionals," said Crosetti. "If they're so hot, how did you find out they were there?"

"Because we've retained a firm of even more highly skilled professionals. Right, Mr. Brown?"

This was addressed to the chauffeur, who replied, "Yes, sir. They were on Mr. Crosetti from the minute he left the hotel this morning, and of course, they followed you from the Jesuit hostel to St. Olave's. They're in a blue BMW three cars behind us and a maroon Ford Mondeo in front of that white lorry in the outside lane just ahead."

"Brown is a member of a highly respected and extremely expensive security firm," said Paul. "It's a good thing we're made out of money."

"Is there going to be a car chase?"

"Probably. And at least one substantial orange ga.s.sy explosion. Do you want to know what I found at St. Olave's?"

"Clues to the location of the Holy Grail?"

"Almost. You'll recall Bracegirdle wrote that the key to the ciphers was 'where my mother lieth,' and that his mother was buried in St. Katherine Colemanchurch. Unfortunately, St. Katherine's, which survived the Great Fire, succ.u.mbed to the depopulation of the old City of London and the sad tide of unbelief and was demolished in 1926. The parish was united with St. Olave Hart Street in 1921, and so I went there."

"Why you're wearing your priest costume."

"Right. Father Paul doing a little genealogical research. Apparently, when St. K.'s bit the dust the graves were moved to Ilford Cemetery, but there were also crypts beneath the church. In medieval times, you know, people were buried in graveyards until they decayed to bones, and then the bones were dug up and put in ossuaries, because obviously a small urban graveyard couldn't possibly hold the dead of a parish for more than a few generations. And this crypt had a door, in which was a sort of window covered by a small rectangular bra.s.s plate, perforated to let in some light. The perforations were in the shape of a weeping willow tree. When St. K.'s was demolished, this plate came to St. Olave's along with the other church valuables and memorabilia and was displayed in a gla.s.s case in the vestry."

"Did you see it?" asked Crosetti.

"No. According to the curate I spoke to, someone broke into the church last summer and swiped it. Didn't take anything else, just the plate. I suppose we have to refer to it as the grille now. One other interesting thing. Shortly before it got ripped off, a young woman visited the church. She was taking rubbings of church bra.s.ses and asked if there was any furniture or bra.s.ses from St. Katherine Colemanchurch on hand. The curate showed her the various things and she took a number of photos and a rubbing of the crypt window plate. A few days later the thing was gone."

Jake Mishkin stirred, cleared his throat. "Miranda," he said, at nearly the same time that Crosetti said, "Carolyn!"

THE S SIXTH C CIPHERED L LETTER (F (FRAGMENT 2) 2).

yet the two held me & struggle as I might I could not get free: & there was the box empty & the accusing coines strewn about. Then Mr W.S. held up a candle to my face sayinge d.i.c.k what's this? Dost steal from thy friends? From me? With such a look on his face that I burst forth in unmanly teares. Then he sits me kindly upon a chayre & sending my captor to wait without he sits him too & saies d.i.c.k you are no thief, an you are in need cannot you come to your owen cosen, will Will not help thee? More teares upon this til I thought my harte would breke & say I Nay, thou art too goode for I am a foule traytour & no friend to thee for I have werked to thy destruction these manie moneths & now I am so tangled in complots I cannot see my waye clare, o woe &c. He saith, now d.i.c.k thou must confesse alle I shalbe thy priest & no man shall know what may be said between us.

Soe, my Lord Earle, I tolde him all, which I have related to you before in this letter, the Lord Dunbarton, Mr Piggott, the playe of Mary & all the plottinges. And further what I had learned that morn at the Lamb, St. Clements, & the two murtherers who tread close upon us both. Here he looketh most grave & stroakes his beard som tyme & saith: d.i.c.k thou foolishe boy we must twist harde to scape these netts. O cosen saies I dost forgive me, & he answereth yea thou art a childe in these thynges and were compelled to advaunce the plotts of these rogues to save thee from the Tyburn daunce. Yet all is not lost, for I am no childe.

Then he strides crost the room & back manie tymes, at last he saies know you the Lord Verey is clapped in the Tower, the same as carreyed you the supposed letter from my Lord of Rochester that began these merrie games; & I say nay, I did not & what's this news to us? Why, he saies, Vesey is my lord Rochester's man & if he be taken up, it telleth that he hath been discouvered plottinge in some way gainst the Spainish match, it matteres not howe & may soone be put to the queastion & thus all will be revealed & this affayre of oure play will oute withal. Therefore must they covere the trayle they have laid: you & I must be cut off & the play burnt, so my lord Dunbarton may saye if asked nay my lord tis but a phantasma of a racked man wherein I had no hand & no one left to give him the lye.

I asked how we may escape this troubel what shal I do & he answereth canst use a sword lad & I saie pa.s.sing onlie for I am a gonner & never learned fenceing & he saies no matter we shal have Spade & Mr Wyatt & Mr Johnson shal be of oure partie he hath killed his man, or soe he often saith & I too. What you, quoth I? Aye, saies he, have I not fought more duellos than half the dons in Flanders? Yea, but with false swords onlie, say I. Think you, so? saies he. This sword at my belt is no trumperie boy and have I not walked a thousand nights through Sh.o.r.e-ditch with a sack of silver from the box & fought cut-purse rogues for't with my steel? Ask Spade can I wield a blade for he taught me & I ween he'll call me not his least pupil: ho now Shake-spear shall shake sword to-night. Tremble thou murtherers!

Soe did we gather oure forces Spade & Wyatt, Mr W.S. & Mr Johnson & mee at the George Inn at South-Wark & that night did set out Mr W.S. & I alone with the otheres at a distanse & lo we are set upon by these rogues three or foure of them I think. I drew but some man knocked me on the head & down & I saw naught but dark shapes & smale lights & when I could rise agen I saw Mr W.S. playing his blade & heard one cry oute in payne o I am slain you b.u.g.g.e.r & then did oure partie come to oure aide & fought, but I did but knele & spew. Yet we gayned the field those two murtherers dead & Mr Spade gets hym a hande-cart & lades the corpses upon it they will feed fishes saies he & Mr W.S. saies no mete but jointes for us d.i.c.k for fortnight at least lest we be called canibbals at one remove & no crabs til Michaelmas.

17.

In the days following the Evening of Death I arranged our trip, which included my family as well as Crosetti. Amalie likes to spend the holidays in Zurich, and while she could have chartered a plane by herself, she took my offer of a lift, and I only had to cry a little and make her feel sorry for the trauma I had just been through, besides which it was a considerable savings, and like most rich people, Amalie prides herself on small economies.

Cops-no problems there, but no information either. The captured thugs just laughed at them when asked who they worked for. The firm-happy to see me off for a nice rest and delighted to let me use the flight card for some minor legal work in London. I did not tell them I was going to visit the heir of Bulstrode.

Went to see Paul, nice conversation about killing, wanted to weep but resisted with help of 2 mg Xanax. He volunteered to come along, to, in his phrase, watch my back. I'd never heard this used literally before and I laughed, then reconsidered. I inquired after his sacred mission. No problem, G.o.d would watch over, and besides he wanted to spend Xmas with Amalie and kids, he deserved a vacation from the fields of the Lord. So I agreed. From time to time, as then, I acquire the notion that my brother actually loves me, that I am not merely a contemptible nuisance. This always inspires a kind of nervous fear, I don't know why. Omar wanted to come too, but he is on all the terror watch lists and this makes it inconvenient for him to cross borders. But he said he would pray for me.

Next morning early we picked up Crosetti at his hut, made sure he had copies of ciphers, just in case. He said the originals were with a reliable pal of his at NYPL, behind bronze doors, good move. Met the others at Teterboro, was wound up tight, unpleasantness with little a.s.shole cursing into cell phone, approval from waiting room but Amalie stared in dismay. What? I snarled. We had words. On plane: the usual fine service and, as luck would have it, the flight attendant is Karen "Legs" McAllister, and both of us are acting cool as sherbet in the circ.u.mstances, although we have been several times to the Eight Mile High Club on past flights. Amalie naturally sniffed this out. How? Do I leave spoor on women? Does my face betray me all unknowing? Anyway, we had a crying jag, silent heaving, the worst, she shrugged me off, couldn't bear it, I went aft, tossed Crosetti out of his seat, and talked to Paul.

I recall complaining about the wife, a tedious stanza I shall not relate and him listening and then somehow we were talking about Dad and Mutti, and who was the least and most favored son, a familiar trope of ours on the few occasions when we talk about our mutual past, and we merrily recalled an incident in which Paul, aged around seven, had broken a precious Meissen figurine, and Mutti took after him with the hairbrush, our usual instrument of discipline. This was, by the way, not one of your cheapo drugstore plastic models, but a solid chunk of Deutsche maple stuck with boar bristles from the Schwarzwald, a weapon suitable for seizing Jerusalem from the Saracens. On this occasion Paul was attempting to escape by running around the oval dining room table, shrieking hysterically, Mutti in pursuit, uttering threats in German, with we smaller kids watching in fascination. After we had milked this one of its warmth, I happened to remark that, unlike him and Miriam, I had hardly ever felt the hairbrush, me being the good son. He looked at me strangely and said, "Yeah, she used to beat you with her hand. In the bedroom."

"What're you talking about? She never touched me."

"You really don't remember this? Almost every time Dad punched her out, she'd pick a fight with you and take you into the bedroom and lay you across her knee and pound your bare b.u.t.t with her hand, and you'd wail like a lost soul, and then she'd hold you on the bed and rock you and murmur endearments until you stopped. Miri and I used to watch it through the keyhole. She used to call you mein kleines Judchen. mein kleines Judchen."

"Oh, bulls.h.i.+t! You're making this up."

He shrugged. "Hey, don't believe me-ask Miri. We thought it was weird even then, even compared to the normal freak show that was our home."

"You think I suppressed suppressed this abuse? G.o.d, how unbelievably trite! And this explains all my current problems on the love and family front?" this abuse? G.o.d, how unbelievably trite! And this explains all my current problems on the love and family front?"

"No, the explanation is that G.o.d has given you free will and you have decided to use it to sin, rather than abandoning your monstrous pride and submitting yourself to G.o.d's will. Since you asked."

Or something to that effect, a style of discourse that goes right past me. The other interesting thing from that conversation is that somewhat later I musingly asked Paul why our parents had ever hooked up in the first place, and he looked at me strangely again and said, "You really don't know?"

"A wartime pa.s.sion, I always thought. They never talked about the feeling part, though."

"No kidding. You never thought it was strange that a n.a.z.i princess would choose to marry a Jew? And a very Jewish Jew at that."

"The mysteries of exogamy?"

"No, she was just being a good n.a.z.i."

I must have shown puzzlement because he said, "Look, they took this master race business seriously. The Herrenvolk Herrenvolk have the right to conquer everyone else because they're strong, yes? And who is the chief rival for world domination?" have the right to conquer everyone else because they're strong, yes? And who is the chief rival for world domination?"

"The Russians?"

"No, the Russians are cattle. The Jews are the only rival race. They control Russia and they control the western powers, especially including the United States. The war was fought against the Jews. And the Jews won."

"What? The Jews were destroyed."

"They won. They lost six million, sure, but they got back to Jerusalem, and the Germans lost seven seven million. And the armies that beat Germany into the ground were controlled by the secret machinations of the Jewish race. You never got this from her?" million. And the armies that beat Germany into the ground were controlled by the secret machinations of the Jewish race. You never got this from her?"

"Never."

"Lucky me, then. It follows that since the Jews conquered, it was the Jewish race that was superior-sorry about the camps-and it further follows that it behooves an Aryan maiden to join her loins to those of the superior breed. It all makes perfect sense, if you happen to be crazy."

I have to say that this had never occurred to me, and neither Paul nor my sister had ever brought it up. My parents fought like fiends, of course, but I had woven a romance around this, which I got from the movies. People fell in love, they had children, the man was unfaithful and the wife threw plates, at which point the man reformed and realized that home was where the heart was, or else he left, and the mom found a new and better husband (Robert Young) and turned the bad old husband away when he came crawling back, or (even better) he died.