Angelology(190)

“The labyrinth on the chancel of Riverside Church is similar to the one found at Chartres Cathedral

in France,” Alistair explained. “Traditionally labyrinths were used as tools in contemplation. For our

purposes a shallow vault was installed below the central flower of the labyrinth, a seamless

compartment that can be removed and replaced without damaging the floor. Abby locked the sound

chest inside. It was to be removed according to these instructions.”

“As for the strings of the lyre,” he continued, “that is another matter altogether. They are located in

the Cloisters and must be removed with the assistance of the director, a woman who has been

informed of Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes and will know the best approach in circumstances such as

ours. The museum will be open for another half an hour or so. The director of that space has orders to

allow full access. With a call from me, it shall be done. There is simply no other way to go about it

without causing mayhem. You said that your associates are there now?”

“My grandmother,” Evangeline said.

“How long ago did she go there?” Alistair asked.

“She should be there now,” Bruno said, checking his watch.

Alistair’s complexion drained of color. “I am deeply distressed to hear it. With the order of things

so upset, who can say what dangers await her? We must try to intervene. Please, tell me your

grandmother’s name. I will place the call immediately.”

Walking to a rotary telephone, he lifted the receiver and dialed. Within seconds he was explaining

the situation to another party on the line. Alistair’s familiar manner gave Evangeline the impression

that he had discussed the situation with the director on previous occasions. After he hung up, he said,

“I am greatly relieved—there have been no unusual occurrences at the Cloisters this afternoon. Your

grandmother may be there, but she has not been anywhere near the hiding place. Thankfully, there is

still time. My contact will do everything in her power to find your grandmother and assist her.”

He then opened a closet door and slid into a heavy wool overcoat, adjusting a silk opera scarf

about his neck. Following his lead, Evangeline and Bruno rose from the couch. “We must go now,”

Alistair said, leading them to the door. “The members of your group are not safe—indeed, now that

the recovery of the instrument has begun, none of us are safe.”

“We have planned to meet at Rockefeller Center at six,” Bruno said.

“Rockefeller Center is four blocks from here,” Alistair Carroll said. “I will accompany you. I

believe I can be of some assistance.”

The Cloisters, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Fort Tryon Park, New

York City

Verlaine and Gabriella stepped out of a taxi and ran up the pathway to the museum. A cluster of

stonework buildings rose before them, ramparts lifting over the Hudson River beyond. Verlaine had

visited the Cloisters many times in the past, finding its perfect likeness to a medieval monastery a

source of solace and refuge from the intensity of the city. It was comforting to be in the presence of

history, even if there was an air of fabrication to it all. He wondered what Gabriella would think of

the museum, having had the real deal in Pans—the ancient frescoes, the crucifixes, the medieval

statues that constituted the Cloisters’ collection had been put together in emulation of the Musée

National du Moyen Age, a place he had only read about in books.

It was the height of the holiday season, and the museum would be filled with crowds of people out

for an afternoon of quiet contemplation of medieval art. If they were being followed, as Verlaine

suspected they were, such a crowd might shield them. He studied the limestone façade, the imposing

central turret, the thick exterior wall, wondering if the creatures were hidden inside. He had no doubt

that they were there, waiting for them.

As they hurried up the stone steps, Verlaine pondered the mission at hand. They had been sent to

the museum without any notion of how to go about their search. He knew that Gabriella was good at

what she did, and he trusted that she would find a way to bring them through their part of the mission,

but it seemed a daunting task. With all his love of intellectual scavenger hunts, the immense difficulty

of what lay before them was enough to make him want to turn around, find a cab, and go home.

At the arched entrance of the museum, a petite woman with glossy red hair hurried in their

direction. She wore a fluid silk blouse and a strand of pearls that caught the light as she made her way

to them. It seemed to Verlaine that she’d been stationed at the door waiting for their arrival, but he