He read through the poem once, twice, then laid the book aside.
Not ideas about the thing, but the thing itself. I respond to the question, the page itself.
And that was when he had the revelation. It wasn’t a riddle at all. It was a literal statement of fact. Ipsa pergamenta. The page itself or — quite literally — the vellum or parchment itself, the physical parchment, would answer the question.
Could it really be that simple?
It made perfect sense. The vellum of the Chi Rho page was different: thicker, finer, whiter, cleaner than the rest of the Book of Kells. The secret lay in the vellum itself.
There, in the dark, he blushed with chagrin. The answer was so obvious he had missed it completely.
He directed his wheelchair to the elevator and descended to the main floor. The back laboratory for Project Phorkys was empty. Glinn motored to the safe that held the Chi Rho page, punched in the code, and removed it. Laying it on a clean glass stage, he selected a sterilized surgical knife from a set of tools resting in an autoclave and, working with great care, cut a millimeter-square piece from a blank corner of the page. Using tweezers, he placed the square into a test tube and sealed it, labeled and racked it.
For a long time he stared at the square piece of skin. Then he muttered, under his breath: “I wonder…I wonder…just what kind of animal you came from.”
20
Gideon stuffed the two pistols into his waistband, feeling a bit like a pirate, and ascended to the pilothouse. In the twilight he could make out the boat they’d seen earlier just a few hundred yards off, coming into the bay, its running lights on, heading slowly in their direction.
Gideon slipped the 1911 to Amy, who tucked it into her pants and pulled out her shirttails to hide it. She pulled down the VHF mike and hailed the ship, identifying herself as captain of the Turquesa and asking, in a neutral voice, for identification in turn.
“This is the Horizonte,” came a male voice, speaking perfect, American-accented English. “Captain Hank Cordray. We don’t mean to bust in on your privacy, but you don’t often see cruisers along this coast.”
“What are you doing in these waters, if I may ask?”
“You may ask. We aren’t drug runners, if that’s what you were thinking.” An electronic chuckle followed this. “We’re a pair of documentary filmmakers. Myself and my wife, Linda.”
“Really? What are you making a documentary about?”
“Pelicans.”
A short silence. “Pelicans?” Amy said into the mike. “We haven’t seen any around here.”
“Not around here, but past Cabo de la Vela there’s a lagoon known for them. That’s where we’re headed.”
Gideon began to snicker. Drug traffickers, indeed. Amy waved a dismissive hand at him.
“We hope to anchor in this bay, if you don’t mind. There aren’t many decent anchorages along this coast.”
“No objections,” said Amy.
“And if we aren’t interrupting anything, we’d like to pay you a courtesy visit at your convenience. As I said, these are lonely parts and we haven’t seen anyone in days, aside from our hired crew.”
“You’d be welcome,” said Amy. She glanced at her watch. “We’re about to eat dinner — how about in an hour?”
“Very good.”
Amy racked the mike and glanced over at Gideon. The old boat was slowing and turning, preparing to drop anchor. A moment later Gideon heard a splash and the rattle of the anchor chain going out.
“Pelicans,” he said. “And here we thought they were drug runners. I’d better go below and finish cooking if we’re going to entertain. You want me to put your pistol away?”
“I’ll keep it, thanks. You should keep yours, too.”
Gideon looked at her. Her brow was furrowed with skepticism. “You still suspicious?”
“I don’t know. That’s an awfully large boat for a pair of filmmakers.”
“He sounded pretty harmless to me.”
Amy was silent.
“Why allow them on board, if you’re worried?”
She glanced at him. “It’ll give us a chance to check them out. And not allowing them to visit would be such a breach of cruising etiquette it might convince them that we’re drug smugglers. Which in turn might encourage them to call the Colombian coast guard — who, by the way, are known for shooting first and investigating later.”
She picked up her binoculars and scrutinized the ship, anchored about two hundred yards away. Gideon could see various figures moving about on deck. She was silent for a long time then lowered the binoculars with a frown. “Rough-looking crew.”
“How many?”
“Four. Listen…while you’re working on dinner, send an email to Garza, urgent. Ask him to look up the details of a boat named Horizonte, hailing out of Maracaibo.”
“Will do.”
She looked at the charts. Glancing over her shoulder, Gideon could see the lagoon Captain Cordray had talked about, some thirty miles down the coast. “And ask Garza if there are pelicans in Bahía Hondita, La Guajira, Colombia.”
Gideon went below, sent the email, and finished preparing dinner. Amy came down and they ate in silence, Gideon helping himself to wine. She drank Pellegrino. He had never seen anyone eat so fast, and with so little appreciation of her food. She just shoveled it in.
“How do you like the risotto?”
“Good.”
The dinner was over way too soon. Amy pushed away from the table. “All right, let’s get them on board. You got your sidearm?”
Gideon patted his Beretta.
She looked him over, narrowing her eyes. “It’s a problem, these tropical clothes. Anyone can see we’re packing.”
“Maybe it’s good they can see.”
“Maybe.”
He heard the ping of incoming email and checked the computer. Garza had come through: the Horizonte was a cheap charter vessel out of Maracaibo — that was all he could discover. And there were pelicans in Bahía Hondita. A lot of pelicans.
They went up into the pilothouse. Amy got on the VHF and made the invitation. Moments later the boat’s launch was lowered from stern davits into the water. The sky was clear and dark — no moon, but countless stars. As the launch hit the water there was a fizzle of bioluminescence. An engine started up and the launch came their way, leaving a phosphorescent wake. In a moment it had pulled up to the swim platform. Gideon looked at them intently in the dim light from the pilothouse. The captain, Cordray, was short and a little soft looking, almost geeky, with a wispy goatee and thick glasses. The wife was taller and leaner, with a hard-bitten look — as if life had not been easy for her. The launch was driven by a man who, in another century, would have looked quite at home on a pirate ship — shirtless, heavily muscled, covered with tattoos, his long brown hair tied back in a thick ponytail. He had a dark, nasty-looking face with scars.
Gideon helped the woman — Linda — out of the boat and onto the swim platform. The man got out on his own. The driver turned the launch around and headed back to the Horizonte.
“Come and have a drink,” said Amy, shaking hands and introducing herself, seating them outdoors in the stern cockpit. “Mark, bring out some candles and wine.”
A little miffed at her tone — in front of strangers no less — Gideon fetched the hurricane lamps and the wine. It was poured all around, glasses were clinked.
“That’s quite a boat for a pair of filmmakers,” said Amy. “What is it, seventy-five feet?”
“Seventy,” said Linda. “Terrible fuel consumption. But she was cheap and came with a crew.” She took a swig of wine. “You should see our crew. Scary-looking bunch, but they’re gentle as kittens.”