The Sacred Cipher (14 page)

Before them on the screen was an intriguing series of semicircles assembled in clusters
of varying positions, quantities, and locations. It looked like a series of the letter
c
, or little half-moons, compiled into differing arrangements. Clusters of the same
symbol were in groupings of one, two, and three symbols, oriented in one of eight
directions, along three horizontal lines. That was it. Bohannon looked at the series
of clusters, at the little symbols, and figured Rizzo must have made a mistake.

“This is a code that no one has been able to break?” Bohannon asked. “You’ve got to
be kidding. This is so simple. What could be the problem?”

“The problem,” said Dr. Johnson, “is in its simplicity. Where do you start? What can
you compare it to? It’s not like the codes that were used in World War II, where letters
were scrambled in random series, sometimes with some letters designated as triggers
that would change the pattern. In those kind of codes, all that was required was deciphering
the key, and then the rest of the pattern would fall in line. Time, patience, a natural
proclivity to random thinking, and usually those codes broke down.

“But the Dorabella is treacherous,” said Johnson. “It isn’t what it seems to be. The
cipher consists of eighty-seven characters, or groupings, but it appears to be constructed
of an alphabet of twenty-four letters. The groupings are aligned in one of eight directions,
but the alignment appears to be random and ambiguous. And there is a small dot following
the fifth character on the third line, but no one knows why. Even Dora Penny was at
a loss. While speaking with Elgar about the cipher, the composer told her, ‘I thought
that you, of all people, would guess it.’

“Well, Dora Penny died in 1964. She may have been the only living person outside Elgar
with the key, but she never deciphered the code. Elgar died in 1934 and never revealed
the key. This code has been in existence for over hundred years. It has been relentlessly
pursued by the best cryptographers of each generation. It has been subject to countless
computer scans and analysis. It has been assumed to be alphabetical, numerical, geometric,
and algebraic. Researchers have applied the Chart of Elements of physics, the DNA
formula, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, even the monetary system of world currencies,
anything they could think of that has a system or sequence, and no one has yet come
up with a solution to this cipher.”

Johnson turned from the computer screen, stepped behind Bohannon and Rodriguez, and
leaned into the drafting table, studying the copy of the scroll’s symbols. “But I
believe that Spurgeon sent Klopsch to Schwartzman because Spurgeon knew that Schwartzman
possessed the key to the cipher of the scroll.”

“How can you be sure?” Bohannon asked with some frustration.

The light snapped on in Rizzo’s head so unexpectedly he jolted.

“Because Spurgeon had cracked the code!” Rizzo exulted. “Spurgeon was fearful, remember.
From his message, it appears he believed his life was in danger and that Klopsch’s
life could also be in danger. He wouldn’t have sent the decoded message to Klopsch;
that would have been too risky. But he would have sent the key. Schwartzman must have
had the key to the Demotic symbols.”

“Well, okay, Sammy, say all of that is true,” said Rodriguez. “Where does it get us
in deciphering the scroll? We don’t have Elgar, we don’t have Schwartzman, and we
certainly don’t have Spurgeon or Klopsch. How is this going to help?”

The light went out. They were all looking at Rizzo as if he could come up with the
magic answer. “Don’t look at me,” he said, settling back into his chair. “At least
I came up with something. You guys got zilch.”

Rizzo could feel the spirit draining from the room. It was Bohannon, the hardheaded
Irishman who had adopted this adventure as one of his offspring, who grabbed it by
the coattails and refused to let it go.

“Okay, we’ve hit a hurdle, but we’re not done yet,” Bohannon said to the others. “There
are at least two different places we can look for some insight, either into Elgar
and his codes or into what Spurgeon shared with Klopsch. I’m going back to the mission
and look through every drawer and every scrap of paper in Klopsch’s office, but this
time for anything that may even look like a code or a key or something, anything that
would have to do with Schwartzman or Elgar. Dr. Johnson, how about if you go down
to Trinity Parish? I think you might have the best chance of getting the rector to
allow us access to the church archives. See what you can discover about Schwartzman,
about his relationship with Elgar, and particularly about any contact or correspondence
with Spurgeon or Klopsch. We know there is a connection here. We’ve just got to find
it. Come on,” said Bohannon, grabbing hold of Joe’s shoulder, “let’s not give up now.
Especially now that we’re getting closer.”

Rizzo had a momentary vision of a football locker room, players pounding their helmets
against the metal lockers.

“Yo, Bo . . . what were you in your youth, a salesman?” Rizzo asked. “Sounds like
you want us to go out and win one for the Gipper. And I don’t have the foggiest who
this Gipper guy was.”

“Hey . . . Sammy,” snapped Rodriguez, standing up to his full height. “What’s wrong
with you? Can’t you ever take anything seriously?”

Rizzo planted his best snarl on his face as Rodriguez turned to Bohannon. “You’re
right, Tom, this is no time to back off,” said Rodriguez. “I’ll go to the mission
with you; we’ll get through the documents a lot quicker if two of us are working on
it.”

Rodriguez towered over Rizzo and his chair. “Well, Sammy, what do you want to do?
Stay here and keep working the Internet?”

“Actually, I’d rather go to the movies,” he said, ducking under Rodriguez’s arm and
dropping to the floor. “The new Bourne is out, and it’s a doozy.” Rizzo stepped to
the door, then turned around. “But I’d better go along to take care of you two. At
this point, I think we’re more likely to find something valuable either in Klopsch’s
records or at Trinity Parish. I agree with Tom, Doc is the man to deal with the rector
of that church. And I’m dying to get a look at that scroll.”

Rizzo stared as the others failed to move. He felt like a leader with no followers.
“So . . . are we leaving?”

Rodriguez had the scroll on the table, this time pouring over it with a powerful magnifying
glass. Rizzo stood on a chair at his side, while Bohannon slowly sifted through every
folder in the filing cabinets.

“Hey,” said Rodriguez, continuing his scan, “this language is really wacky. One symbol
looks like a mouse, another looks like a scorpion. Some letters look like they stand
apart by themselves; others are linked together in strips. And all of them have little
sweeps or flourishes at the end like an artist might have been playing mind games.
I don’t see any kind of pattern here, except that it’s all weird. Like this circle
here at the bottom of the left column . . . there are no other circles on the scroll.
But here’s this circle at the bottom of the first column.”

“Bottom of the last column,” corrected Rizzo. “Remember, Demotic is written right
to left, so the left-hand column is the last column. So the circle would be the last
thing written.”

“What?” said Bohannon, startled out of his search of the files. “What did you just
say, the last thing written? Could it be . . . ?

All three at once blurted the same idea. “A signature!”

In less than a heartbeat, they were huddled over the scroll. But Bohannon and Rizzo
were at a disadvantage. Rodriguez had the magnifying glass.

“I really hadn’t paid any attention to this before,” he said, moving the glass up
and down, trying to get the clearest view. “It’s a circle, but there’s something inside
the circle, something written or drawn. Get me a piece of paper, will you?”

Rodriguez brought the overhead light down even closer to the scroll and pulled a chair
over to the table. Taking the piece of paper and grabbing a pencil, he hovered unmoving
like a predator waiting to strike, only inches from the mysterious circle. Slowly,
his hand began to move—first a line, then a “v” on its side, intersecting the line.
Again he hovered. “This one is tougher to see.” Another line at the other side of
the circle, then another, smaller “v” attached to the top of the line, looking like
a pennant.

“That’s it,” said Rodriguez, “that’s what is inside this little circle.”

“So what’s it supposed to be?” Bohannon asked of no one in particular. “Those characters
don’t look anything like the Demotic characters on the scroll. There’s no comparison.
If it’s a signature, if the guy who wrote this message was signing his name, then
why didn’t he sign it in Demotic? Why go to all this trouble to create this scroll
in a dead language and then sign it in something else?”

“Because it’s a hallmark,” said a voice from behind them. “It’s the writer’s mark,
his seal.” Richard Johnson stood in the doorway with his keys in his hand. “Identify
the seal, and you will identify the author.”

Rizzo snatched up the sheet of paper with the hallmark symbols and jogged over to
the computer. “Let’s go baby,” he said, powering up the computer. “Come on, let’s
hunt down this shy author.”

As Rizzo and Rodriguez peered into the computer screen, Bohannon watched Johnson fall
into the nearest chair. “Dr. Johnson, Doc, what happened to you? Are you okay?”

Slowly, as if he were sleepwalking, Johnson turned his attention to Bohannon, a placid
resolve on his face, a fearful wildness in his eyes. “Why, why do you ask?” he said
from some distance Bohannon couldn’t reach.

“You look like you’re about to collapse. Doc, what happened?”

Johnson’s expression gradually faded from ambivalence to a quizzical uncertainty.
“Have you ever seen something but then wondered if that was actually what you saw?”
Johnson paused. “I was taking the train back from Trinity, waiting at Rector Street
for the 1-and-9 . . . leaning up against a pole near the front of the platform . .
. lost in thought about what I just learned from the rector at Trinity. The train
was coming into the station, and I looked to my left, you know, to see which train
it was. I must have hooked my arm around the pole at the same time, I guess. I’m not
sure . . .”

Johnson fumbled through the story, and Bohannon’s mind sorted out the pieces. As Johnson
had turned to identify the number of the incoming train, there was a commotion behind
him. To his right, two voices exclaimed. Reflexively, Johnson had pressed closer to
the pole and quickly pivoted himself to the right. A rushing body brushed past his,
a hand glancing off the edge of his right shoulder. The body—it was a man, in workman’s
clothes—flashed past. The man appeared to stumble, twisting and turning toward Johnson,
his hands outstretched, as he fell in front of the oncoming train. Screams, the screech
of brakes, and the smell of oil burning against hot metal filled the platform.

“It all happened so fast. It was terrible. I can still see it and still hear it, the
thud and the screeching of metal-on-metal brakes at the same time. It looked as if,
at the last moment, he changed his mind and was trying to save himself. And I’m wondering,
could I have gotten my arm out in time, somehow, to hold him back? Was there something
I could have done?”

A sadness as blank as snow in fog covered Johnson’s countenance. “I could have saved
him . . . I should have saved him.”

Bohannon squatted down in front of Johnson’s chair, coming eye-to-eye with the doctor,
putting his arm on Johnson’s shoulder. “Doc, listen to me, look at me. This was not
your fault. It’s not your fault this man took his own life. He was obviously determined.
Even if he had a doubt at the end, he was the one who sent himself running across
that platform. There was a split second of time; no one could have reacted fast enough
to save that guy, not you, not a professional athlete. Come on, don’t beat yourself
up with guilt. Sadness at a man’s meaningless death? Sure. Shock at being so close
to death? Yeah, I know about that. But guilt? No, Doc, that’s not yours to carry.
The guilt was carried by that man as he threw himself in front of that train. It was
his sin, not yours.”

Johnson’s eyes softened with gratitude and relief.

“You’re right . . . You’re right, Tom. You know, I’ve got to admit that I have never
believed in sin. Foolish idea. We’re just here, doing our best. Sure, there’s right
and wrong. But sin? In order to have sin, there has to be a God to sin against. Foolish
idea. There’s just no proof,” said Johnson, turning to include Rizzo and Rodriguez.
“But today, I saw sin. I saw sin flash behind me. I saw sin as a man threw away his
life in front of a train. He had no right to do that. Who did he leave behind? Who
will be grieving for him tonight? That’s wrong; that is sin.

“And I just can’t get that last image out of my mind,” said Johnson. “The man’s face,
looking at me, his eyes wide, his hands outstretched. He was closer to me than you
are. I could hear his breath escape. And as the train flashed past, that necklace,
a cross of some kind, with a lightning bolt going through it, hanging motionless in
the air, then gone, snapped away with a crushing force.”

Bohannon felt as if his face, his head, his body was being sucked right into Johnson’s
eyes, into his mouth, into his brain. He was losing contact with the present.