CHAPTER 5
_
“Oh-oh what?” Tom asked.
Robyn couldn’t keep her eyes off the last page of the coffee-table book. “The colophon,” she said. “It could be my imagination, but this looks like the name Marseilles here.”
“Hold it,” Tom said. “What’s a colophon?”
“An addition to a manuscript, with the name of the author and the circumstances of the writing, pretty much anything that can enlighten the text.” She handed him the book. “You would remember that. That would have been the place to start the deciphering.”
On the last page, four lines were scribbled. Different. Same handwriting, but different. The first line was only four words long: quo lebee simon nutzer. All in Latin script. The next three lines mixed Latin script and the unknown alphabet. On the second and third lines, words were separated by plus signs.
“Where d’you see Marseilles?”
She showed her the word. “It’s a stretch,” she admitted.
“That there doesn’t say Marseilles.”
“Could be Phocea, no?”
He made a face. “Maybe. That mean Marseilles?”
“Ancient name. Greek.”
“How’d you know that?”
“How’d you know where to book a helicopter and an Air Force flight?”
“Okay.” He was still looking at the last page.
“You recognize anything?”
He looked closely. “Yeah, that long line maybe,” he said, pointing to the second line. “But not the other ones.” He looked some more and shook his head. “Nope.”
“Not even the name Simon?”
“No.” His phone chimed. He glanced at it and handed the book back to her. “Time to go.”
“It’s an indication, some kind of key,” she said. “Has to be.”
He rubbed his forehead with two fingers. “You can read French, right? Concentrate on the introduction. You may find something that could relate to your father. But forget about the manuscript. It’s undecipherable.”
Something was not right. He remembered the manuscript enough to make the connection when he saw the symbol on Sybil, but he hadn’t committed the colophon to memory? Any deciphering work would have started right here, yet all he had was a vague memory of the second line.
“What did you work on? The whole manuscript? Excerpts?”
“Copies of random pages was all that was available. Never had the whole thing.”
“That last page?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Then how do you remember that line?”
“There was a theory about it being the key.”
She tried to read the line. It started with something like anchicon oladaba8. The rest was not readable as such.
“Mind showing it to one of your buddies?” she said. “That last page?”
He shrugged. “Sure.” He pulled his cell phone again, played with the touch-screen, shot a picture and then another one from a different angle. Played with the screen again and took two more pictures with the flash. Thumbed on the keypad. His large fingers barely moved over the small keys. “Done,” he said, snapping the cell phone.
***
It was nearing dawn when the chopper landed on the parking lot. Tom wheeled Sybil out on a stretcher. Robyn carried the luggage. The elevator hiccupped its way down, the doors opened painfully, and they walked out without any questions. Apparently once you were signed out from a French hospital, you no longer existed. Worked fine for them.
“I can’t imagine there’s a way to talk you out of this,” he said.
“Out of?”
“Staying here.”
“Damn right.”
“Why don’t you keep her suitcase,” Tom said. “You’ll need a change of clothes. And I could do without the burden.”
She stayed silent. Tightened her grip around the piece of luggage.
He seemed to want to say something.
“What?” she said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Damn right. Not yours either.”
He didn’t pick up on her sarcastic tone. “Then let the police take care of it,” he said. “It won’t change anything for Sybil. She’ll need you at her bedside.”
“I’m not the bedside type of person.”
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“Oh-oh what?” Tom asked.
Robyn couldn’t keep her eyes off the last page of the coffee-table book. “The colophon,” she said. “It could be my imagination, but this looks like the name Marseilles here.”
“Hold it,” Tom said. “What’s a colophon?”
“An addition to a manuscript, with the name of the author and the circumstances of the writing, pretty much anything that can enlighten the text.” She handed him the book. “You would remember that. That would have been the place to start the deciphering.”
On the last page, four lines were scribbled. Different. Same handwriting, but different. The first line was only four words long: quo lebee simon nutzer. All in Latin script. The next three lines mixed Latin script and the unknown alphabet. On the second and third lines, words were separated by plus signs.
“Where d’you see Marseilles?”
She showed her the word. “It’s a stretch,” she admitted.
“That there doesn’t say Marseilles.”
“Could be Phocea, no?”
He made a face. “Maybe. That mean Marseilles?”
“Ancient name. Greek.”
“How’d you know that?”
“How’d you know where to book a helicopter and an Air Force flight?”
“Okay.” He was still looking at the last page.
“You recognize anything?”
He looked closely. “Yeah, that long line maybe,” he said, pointing to the second line. “But not the other ones.” He looked some more and shook his head. “Nope.”
“Not even the name Simon?”
“No.” His phone chimed. He glanced at it and handed the book back to her. “Time to go.”
“It’s an indication, some kind of key,” she said. “Has to be.”
He rubbed his forehead with two fingers. “You can read French, right? Concentrate on the introduction. You may find something that could relate to your father. But forget about the manuscript. It’s undecipherable.”
Something was not right. He remembered the manuscript enough to make the connection when he saw the symbol on Sybil, but he hadn’t committed the colophon to memory? Any deciphering work would have started right here, yet all he had was a vague memory of the second line.
“What did you work on? The whole manuscript? Excerpts?”
“Copies of random pages was all that was available. Never had the whole thing.”
“That last page?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Then how do you remember that line?”
“There was a theory about it being the key.”
She tried to read the line. It started with something like anchicon oladaba8. The rest was not readable as such.
“Mind showing it to one of your buddies?” she said. “That last page?”
He shrugged. “Sure.” He pulled his cell phone again, played with the touch-screen, shot a picture and then another one from a different angle. Played with the screen again and took two more pictures with the flash. Thumbed on the keypad. His large fingers barely moved over the small keys. “Done,” he said, snapping the cell phone.
***
It was nearing dawn when the chopper landed on the parking lot. Tom wheeled Sybil out on a stretcher. Robyn carried the luggage. The elevator hiccupped its way down, the doors opened painfully, and they walked out without any questions. Apparently once you were signed out from a French hospital, you no longer existed. Worked fine for them.
“I can’t imagine there’s a way to talk you out of this,” he said.
“Out of?”
“Staying here.”
“Damn right.”
“Why don’t you keep her suitcase,” Tom said. “You’ll need a change of clothes. And I could do without the burden.”
She stayed silent. Tightened her grip around the piece of luggage.
He seemed to want to say something.
“What?” she said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Damn right. Not yours either.”
He didn’t pick up on her sarcastic tone. “Then let the police take care of it,” he said. “It won’t change anything for Sybil. She’ll need you at her bedside.”
“I’m not the bedside type of person.”
Back to top
Read Chapter 6
Buy Vaults of Power now
in paperback
from Amazon
from Barnes and Noble