The Sacred Cipher Read online

  The days since his accident had been a numbing blur. Monday through Friday, he tackled his usual responsibilities for the Bowery Mission, overseeing the operation of its four ministry sites, pursuing several strategic options while keeping a steady hand on the organization’s administrative functions. Determined not to shortchange the mission with his time, Bohannon kept to his normal schedule, in the office by 9:00 AM, out of the office somewhere around 7:00 or 7:30 PM.

  But that wasn’t the end of his day.

  Leaving the office, Bohannon would then jump on the Uptown 6 at 33rd Street and travel just one stop, to Grand Central Station at 42nd Street. Up the escalator and out the doors into Pershing Square, he crisscrossed the streets depending on the “walk” signs and quickly made his way over to Fifth Avenue and the staff entrance to the Humanities Library. Joe had supplied him with an “all access” pass that was valid twenty-four hours a day, and even though by now Bohannon knew all of the guards who manned the staff entrance, he was closely scrutinized each time he entered the library, and nearly body-searched each time he left. But leaving didn’t come for several hours.

  Bohannon shook his head at the thought of Joe Rodriguez. Where Bohannon had respected his brother-in-law as a good man, he now marveled at Joe’s mastery of his profession, how he maneuvered their search through seemingly endless avenues of opportunity, almost always choosing the right track that led them to some new piece of the puzzle. Along with the help and guidance of Sammy Rizzo, Bohannon and Rodriguez began closing in on answers about the mysterious scroll. Accessing the archives of Christian Herald’s magazine, published from 1878 to 1992 for information about the Bowery Mission’s history and analyzing historic data culled from research among the miles of stacks at the Bryant Park library, along with information available on the Internet, they came to the conclusion that the letter signed “Charles” had indeed been written by Spurgeon to his friend and compatriot, Klopsch.

  Primarily in England, there were scores of Spurgeon correspondence extant and in excellent condition. Not only had they accessed the content of the letters, finding great similarities in the style Spurgeon used in his personal writing, they also found original correspondence existing in the Christian Herald records and in the files found in Klopsch’s hidden office. All of the sources confirmed not only the manner in which Spurgeon signed his letters but also, even to their untrained eyes, the grand swoop of the capital C.

  So they were sure of one thing. Eminent British preacher and scholar Dr. Charles Haddon Spurgeon had written a letter to warn his friend and colleague Dr. Louis Klopsch of the danger contained in this ancient scroll written in a Demotic script that was all but extinct.

  But that was also where Bohannon and Rodriguez were stopped dead in their tracks. Veiled communication with the University of Chicago’s Demotic initiative along with Internet scrutiny of Duke University’s collection of Demotic documents had brought the men no closer to having any clue as to what was written in the scroll. It appeared that the manner in which the symbols were arranged, seven distinct columns, each column comprised of three vertical lines of symbols, could be a critical element in deciphering the scroll. But nothing they had accessed, no one they had contacted had offered even the slightest clue of how to unlock this Demotic puzzle.

  Out of the dark, her voice was soft. “How long do you think you’re going to wrestle with it tonight?” A rustle in the sheets, and Annie was at his side, her left arm pulling him close to her warmth. The quiet joined with the dark for a few moments. “Any luck tonight?”

  “No,” said Bohannon, his left hand pulling her arm into a closer embrace. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “That’s okay,” Annie said softly. “I was sort of waiting for you, anyway. How are you feeling?”

  “Well, my ankle is still sore. The swelling is mostly gone, but being up and around so much really puts a strain on it. Most of the other stuff is healing, and my back doesn’t bother me anymore. So all in all, I can’t complain.”

  “You shouldn’t complain,” Annie said. “Six people on that corner weren’t as lucky as you. Seven if you count the driver.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” said Bohannon, thinking once again of the driver, then the man in the subway train. Odd coincidence.

  Annie broke his train of thought. “How’s Joe holding up?”

  “We’re both pretty tired,” Bohannon said into the dark. “But more than that, we’re both getting really frustrated. We just seem to be pounding up against a wall. There is so little known about this darn language. It’s like we’re trying to pick it apart so we can go in sideways or something. It just doesn’t make any sense on the face of it. This Demotic doesn’t follow the patterns of other ancient languages, and even those few people who know something about it, the information they’ve given us just doesn’t apply to the symbols on the scroll. When we take the letters that have been translated, apply them to the scroll, and use the standard methods that have been suggested to us, we come out with bubkes. Joe’s tearing his hair out, and I swear Rizzo’s gotten even smaller. I don’t know . . . We’re not getting anywhere.”

  Bohannon felt Annie’s head nestle into his shoulder, her warm lips kiss his neck. “You know none of this has been some accident, some chance quirk of fate,” she said softly. “You know there was a reason you discovered those rooms, a reason you found that scroll, a reason you are here working at the Bowery Mission instead of working on a newspaper somewhere. And if there is a reason for it, which we believe, then God will show you the way to find out what you need to find out. Right?”

  Annie Bohannon had an infuriating way of speaking the truth in the midst of uncertainty, of refusing to allow her husband to occupy that place of self-pity that he once found so comforting. She was a real pain in his self-serving attitudes. And he loved her for it.

  They had met in their early thirties, an actual case of love at first sight. Bohannon had been married as a teenager—his two adult sons now had families of their own—and he had specialized in messed-up relationships. Annie was still waiting for her Prince Charming. They saw each other, and after that, there was never another who had owned their hearts. Annie had blessed Tom with two more children, a warm and inviting home, a honed edge of common sense, nearly three decades of faithful intimacy, and the courage to make the most important decision of his life.

  It didn’t hurt that she was knockdown, drop-dead beautiful with a smile that lit up the neighborhood. It didn’t hurt that she was hot, her skin was soft, and that she dressed and walked with a totally innocent sexiness that had snapped quite a few necks. For Annie, it didn’t hurt that, the first time she looked at Tom, fireworks had been going off in his eyes, that he possessed that imperfect face and physique that was uniquely masculine, a nose slightly askew from some mishap, that his hair was long and curly at the back of his neck, that his quick smile and deep-blue eyes skipped her heart and gripped her stomach.

  It didn’t hurt that they had loved each other unflinchingly as they matured. They endured career disasters, the deaths of those they loved, and deep disappointment in each other. It didn’t hurt that they loved each other unconditionally once they had “grown up,” once they could promise their kids that divorce was a word that would never enter their world. For twenty-eight years they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder and slept side-by-side, even when they didn’t see eye-to-eye. It took many years, until he had finally knocked down most of his walls, before Bohannon could actually say that this woman really was his best friend. And once in a while, he even took her advice.

  “Yeah,” Bohannon sighed, “I know there’s a purpose. I know I’m supposed to be doing this. Knowing is okay, but I need something more than knowing. I need a key. I need to know where the switch is to flip on understanding. I need a clue in order to know where to go. And I’m lost. I don’t have a clue, Joe doesn’t have a clue, and Sammy doesn’t have a clue. We’re dead in the water. As much good as it’s doing us, the French may as well have never found th
e Rosetta Stone.

  “Aw, I might as well just get some sleep.”

  Bohannon tried to roll over on his right side, but Annie held him fast with her arm.

  “Annie, please, I’ve got to get some rest if—”

  “Tom,” Annie interrupted, her voice carrying the hint of a question.

  “What . . .”

  “Tom, isn’t the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum?” Annie asked.

  “Yeah, everybody knows—”

  “Tom, will you listen to me for a minute?” Annie interrupted again, this time sitting up on her side of the bed. Bohannon returned to his back and looked up at the dark shadow of his wife with a startled, quizzical look on his face. “The Rosetta Stone is in the British Museum, and there are three languages on it, right?”

  Bohannon nodded his head at the shadow.

  “And one of them is this extinct Demotic, the script that’s used on that scroll, right?” Again the nodding shadow. “And you need somebody or something to help you figure out the symbols on the scroll, right?”

  “Yes . . . yes . . . and yes,” he said petulantly. “I know all that. What’s the point?”

  Annie gave Tom grace in that moment, consideration for his many days of endless work and limited sleep. She reached over gently, stroked his cheek, folded herself down and back into his body contour.

  “Tom, you may already have your key,” she nearly whispered to him. “And the key is not far away.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?” he said, turning to her.

  “Richard Johnson,” Annie said carefully, lovingly, tightening her grip with her left arm.

  “Oh . . . oh, no,” Bohannon nearly groaned. “No—no—no. I don’t care. If I have to take this to my grave and it’s still a secret, I don’t care. No, not Johnson. Anybody but Johnson.”

  Annie Bohannon released his arm and rolled away. “Good night, sweetheart,” Annie whispered into the darkness. “God bless you.”

  Sleep would likely elude him that night. This was a battle that only he could fight, that only he could determine. Tom would have to decide whether the key to the scroll was worth consulting a man he hadn’t spoken with in more than a decade.

  7

  It truly was a beautiful building. Standing across 35th Street late Friday afternoon, waiting for the light to change, Bohannon once again gazed at the strikingly beautiful architecture of the Collector’s Club. He had often stared at the building as he walked to his dentist’s office, admiring the details of the late nineteenth-century brownstone that housed the club’s offices. The club was one of the world’s greatest resources on stamp collecting, but Bohannon’s visit had nothing to do with the philatelic. He was looking for his old nemesis, Dr. Richard Johnson Sr., former chair of the Antiquities College at Columbia University, fellow of the British Museum and now—in his retirement—managing director of the Collector’s Club in Manhattan.

  Bohannon banged heads, and egos, with the erudite Dr. Johnson about fifteen years earlier when one of Bohannon’s investigative blockbusters for the Philadelphia Bulletin claimed millions of dollars had been swindled from investors for phony “rare” antiquities—a scoop Bohannon remembered vividly because it had led to numerous journalism awards, some very generous expressions of thanks from some of those who had been duped, and a bitter castigation from Richard Johnson.

  Standing on the far side of 35th Street, Bohannon recalled Dr. Randall Swinton, former antiquities curator of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, who had concocted a plot to pave his retirement. Shortly after aging out of the museum’s leadership, Swinton approached several less-than-pure collectors with the deal of a lifetime. Over his two decades with the art museum, Swinton informed his victims, he had managed to “liberate” scores of priceless treasures from ancient civilizations. And he was willing to part with these treasures for only half of their real value, considering the circumstances of the transactions. Only one condition did Swinton place on his buyers: they could never display the items in public, or they would all end up in prison.

  It was a masterly deception. During his many trips to the Near and Far East, Africa, and the Pacific Islands, Swinton had kept a weather eye for masters of forgery, those indigenous and entrepreneurial craftsmen who made a sweet living from preying on unsuspecting tourists, even on some unsuspecting museum collectors. With many of these talented tricksters, Swinton entered into what appeared to be a legitimate business arrangement. “I need the most accurate copies you can make,” he would commission them. “Often these most beautiful artifacts are lent to other institutions, and I need something to sit in their place until they are returned. At times, there may be a threat to their safety and it would be wise to have the real item removed for safekeeping and replaced with an identical copy. So give me your best rendition.” And the unsuspecting forgers would render for him their best work ever; after all, it would one day sit in the Philadelphia museum, representing the real thing.

  Swinton was amazed at how easy it was to swindle those who were less than honest themselves. Within months, he had multiple millions in a Swiss bank account and a sprawling, seaside villa in Barbados. He was lying on a lounge chair on the patio of his island fantasy, shaded by a palm tree, eagerly feeding his slide into soddeness, when it all swiftly fell apart.

  One of the beneficiaries of Swinton’s largesse had too much ego, and not enough common sense, and allowed several of his rotating girlfriends to hold the little goddess he had purchased from Swinton. Unfortunately for all involved, one of the girls had been the administrative assistant for the Bulletin’s editor-in-chief and part of Bohannon’s circle of friends at the paper. One phone call to the newsroom, and the wheels of unrelenting discovery began to turn.

  It wasn’t long after Bohannon’s first investigative blockbuster linking Swinton to the theft of priceless treasures from the art museum that the buyers began turning state’s evidence in droves. And not long after the pieces were recovered and revealed as fakes, Swinton was found on the patio of his villa, sprawled on a lounge chair, his throat sliced from ear to ear.

  Buyers were relieved that they were not prosecuted and that Swinton had spent only a portion of the millions he had swindled. Eventually, restitution was ordered by the courts. And for most, the story went away.

  But not for Bohannon.

  He had made a mortal enemy in Dr. Richard Johnson, Swinton’s colleague and friend, a man who believed passionately in his friend’s innocence.

  Johnson, more than Swinton, went straight for Bohannon’s jugular. In a series of broadside attacks—in professional journals, letters to the editor, and in follow-up stories where other reporters were looking for colorful quotes—Johnson ridiculed Bohannon’s ignorance on antiquities, questioned his motives, berated his sources, and defended Swinton.

  In the time between the first article and the ultimate discovery that the items were frauds, Johnson dished out an amount of abuse equal to what he believed his friend had received. Bohannon’s investigative reports on Swinton’s scheme led to journalistic accolades while the vitriolic counterattacks by Johnson ultimately led to a quiet, internal investigation at the British Museum and a conversation between Dr. Johnson and the chancellor of Columbia University. Then Swinton was found, and Dr. Johnson retreated from the public eye, behind the cloak of academia. But he and Bohannon continued the battle, more intensely, outside the earshot of the rest of the world. Johnson believed Bohannon was irresponsible in his journalism and responsible for the death of his friend, in spite of Swinton’s crime, and Bohannon was seething at what he believed were unfounded public attacks on his character and integrity.

  After fifteen years of near quiet, Bohannon was surprised by just how much turbulence he felt at the mere thought of coming face-to-face with Richard Johnson. Bohannon tried to slow his heart rate and unclench his fists by concentrating on the tantalizing breath of early May rolling up Lexington Avenue. Might as well get it over with, he thought, wondering whether, when he left the buildi
ng, he would walk out or get tossed out.

  There was only one way to find out. And it appeared that Johnson was one of the few men in the world who might be able to help them decipher the meaning of the Demotic symbols. He had studied the Rosetta Stone almost exclusively during his many summers of service at the British Museum and had written a few scholarly pamphlets about the amazing complexities of the Demotic language.

  In this country, he was their best chance at finding an answer.

  Bohannon took a deep breath and walked up the marble steps of the Collector’s Club. He had called ahead and made an appointment, noting the quizzical tone to the secretary’s voice when she came back to the phone to acknowledge the meeting.

  Bohannon’s trained observation noted the military carriage of the attendant behind the desk in the foyer, and the slight bulge under his left armpit as the man reached into the small elevator and unlocked access to the top floor. “Go right up, sir. Dr. Johnson is expecting you.”

  “There sure must be a lot of money in stamps,” Bohannon mumbled to himself as the elevator strained to the top floor. The opening doors revealed an elderly, stooped woman wearing a long black dress, her hair tightly pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. “This way, please,” she whispered. A flush of satisfaction warmed Bohannon as he walked along the elegant corridor. Serves him right, Bohannon thought, that he’s got an old hag for a secretary.

  Smiling inwardly, Bohannon stepped through the door the elderly woman opened and came face-to-face with a wantonly beautiful blond whose breathtaking curves had been poured into a shimmering, electric-blue dress. Before his heart could start beating again, there was a voice from his left. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bohannon.”

  Tearing his eyes from the heart attack in blue, Bohannon turned to see Dr. Johnson standing in the doorway to his office. “Please come in,” he said, stepping aside as he waved with his left arm. That suspicious part of Bohannon’s nature waited for the knife thrust under his rib cage as he passed Johnson, but the smile Johnson shared was disarming.