Angelology(197)

he said, his voice clipped as he led them out of the office and up the stairs.

As they returned to the upper level of the church, Vladimir hung back, shadowed in the recesses of

the hall. His study of ethereal musicology had consumed his youth, driving him deeper and deeper

into the closed world of angelological work. After the war he’d left the discipline. He had run a

humble bakery, making confections and cakes, the simplicity of which gave him comfort. He had

believed that his work was futile, that there was little humanity could do to stop the Nephilim. He

returned only after Gabriella had come to him herself, pleading with him to join their efforts. She had

said that they needed him. At the time he’d been doubtful, but Gabriella could be quite persuasive,

and he could see the dark changes that had begun to occur. He could not say how he knew—perhaps it

was the rigorous training of his youth or perhaps simple intuition—but Vladimir understood that Mr.

Gray was not to be trusted.

Mr. Gray walked haltingly up the central aisle of the nave, bringing Vladimir and Saitou-san into

the cool dark church. The scent was instantly familiar to Vladimir, the mossy fragrance of incense

filling the air. Despite innumerable stained-glass windows, the space remained dark, nearly

impenetrable. Above, Gothic candelabras hung by thick ropes, oxidized-iron wheels of intricate

fretwork topped with candles. A massive Gothic pulpit, ring after ring of sculpted figures climbing

the sides, rose at the altar, while Christmas poinsettias, bright red ribbons tied about their pots, stood

on pedestals throughout the church. Separated from the nave by a thick maroon cord, the apse lay in

shadows before them.

Mr. Gray unclipped the velvet rope and dropped it to the floor, the buckle echoing through the

nave. Worked into the marble floor was a stonework labyrinth. Mr. Gray tapped his toe upon it,

nervous, creating a frantic rhythm. “Mrs. Rockefeller placed it here,” Mr. Gray said, sliding his shoe

over the chancel. “At the center of the labyrinth.”

Vladimir walked the length of the pattern, examining the lay of the stones with care—it seemed

impossible that anything could be hidden in it. It would have required breaking the stones, something

he could not imagine that Mrs. Rockefeller, or anyone else involved in the care and preservation of

art, would condone. “But how?” Vladimir asked. “It looks perfectly smooth.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Gray said, moving to Vladimir’s side. “That is simply an illusion. Come, look

closely.”

Vladimir squatted to the floor and examined the marble. A thin, fine seam had been cut along the

border of the central stone. “It is practically invisible,” Vladimir said.

“Step away,” Mr. Gray said. Positioning himself over the stone, he applied pressure to its center.

The stone lifted from the floor as if on springs. With a twist of his hand, Mr. Gray removed the central

stone of the labyrinth.

“Amazing,” Saitou-san said, watching over his shoulder.

“There is nothing a fine stonemason and an abundance of funds cannot achieve,” Mr. Gray said.

“You were acquainted with the late Mrs. Rockefeller?”

“No,” Vladimir said. “Not personally.”

“Ah, well, a pity,” Mr. Gray said. “She had a keen sense of social justice marked with the folly of

a poetic nature—a combination quite rare in women of her stature. Originally she designated that

when angelologists arrived to claim the object under my care, I was to lead whoever came here to the

labyrinth and ask for a series of numbers. Mrs. Rockefeller assured me that whoever came would

know these numbers. I have them memorized, of course.”

“Numbers?” Vladimir said, baffled by this unexpected test.

“Numbers, sir.” Mr. Gray gestured to the center of the labyrinth. Below the stone there was a safe,

a combination lock at its center. “You will need numbers to open this. I suppose you might think of

yourself as the Minotaur making your way into the stone labyrinth.” He smiled, enjoying the

bafflement he had caused.

Vladimir stared at the safe, its door perfectly flush with the floor beneath the labyrinth as Saitou-

san bent over it. Saitou-san said, “How many numbers in each combination?”

“That, I cannot tell you,” Mr. Gray said.

Saitou-san turned each of the dials in succession. “Abigail Rockefeller’s cards were made

specifically for Innocenta to decode,” she said, speaking slowly, as if searching her thoughts.

“Innocenta’s responses affirmed that she had counted the lyre strings on the cards and had—I assume

—written down the numbers.”