“And 1930?” Vladimir asked.
“Riverside Church, which, to be honest, I have never found interesting, must have been completed around 1930.”
“That leaves 1939,” Evangeline said, the anticipation of discovery making her so nervous she could hardly speak. “Did the Rockefellers build something in 1939?”
Verlaine was silent, his brow furrowed, as if he were sifting the multitude of addresses and dates cataloged in his memory. Suddenly, he said, “As a matter of fact, they did. Rockefeller Center, their own Art Deco magnum opus, opened in 1939.”
“The numbers communicated to Innocenta must refer to these locations,” Vladimir said.
“Well done, Verlaine,” Saitou-san said, ruffling his mess of curls.
The atmosphere in the room had shifted drastically to a buzz of restless anticipation. For her part, Evangeline could only stare at the cards in astonishment. They’d rested in a vault beneath her and the other unsuspecting sisters for more than fifty years.
“However,” Gabriella said, breaking the spell, “the lyre can be in only one of these four locations.”
“Then it will be most expedient if we divide into groups and search them all,” Vladimir said. “Verlaine and Gabriella will go to the Cloisters. It’ll be packed with tourists, so getting anything out of there will be a delicate procedure. I believe it best accomplished by one familiar with its conventions. Saitou-san and I will go to Riverside Church. And Evangeline and Bruno will go to the Museum of Modern Art.”
“And Rockefeller Center?” Verlaine asked.
Saitou-san said, “It’s impossible to do anything there today. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake. The place will be a madhouse.”
“I expect that’s why Abigail Rockefeller chose it,” Gabriella said. “The more difficult it is to access, the better.”
Gabriella took the leather case holding the plectrum and the angelological notebook in hand. She gave each group the card associated with its location. “I can only hope the cards will assist us in finding the lyre.”
“And if they do?” Bruno said. “What then?”
“Ah, that is the great dilemma we face,” Vladimir said, running his fingers through his silver hair. “To preserve the lyre or to destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” Verlaine cried. “From all that you’ve said, it’s obvious that the lyre is beautiful, precious beyond all reckoning.”
“This instrument is not just another ancient artifact,” Bruno said. “It isn’t something that one might put on display at the Met. Its dangers far outweigh any historical importance it may have. There is no option but to destroy it.”
“Or to hide it again,” Vladimir said. “There are numerous places in which we could secure it.”
“We tried this in 1943, Vladimir,” Gabriella said. “It is plain that this method has failed. Preserving the lyre would imperil future generations, even in the most secure of hiding places. It must be destroyed. That much is clear. The real question is how.”
“What do you mean?” Evangeline asked.
Vladimir said, “It is one of the primary qualities of all celestial instruments: They were created by heaven and can be destroyed only by heaven’s creatures.”
“I don’t understand,” Verlaine said.
“Only celestial beings, or creatures with angelic blood, can destroy celestial matter,” Bruno said.
“Including the Nephilim,” Gabriella said.
“So if we wish to destroy the lyre,” Saitou-san said, “we must place it in the hands of the very creatures we wish to keep it from.”
“A bit of a conundrum,” Bruno said.
“So why hunt it down it at all?” Verlaine asked, dismayed. “Why bring something so important out of safety only to destroy it?”
“There is no alternative,” Gabriella said. “We have the rare opportunity to take possession of the lyre. We will have to find a way to dispose of it once we recover it.
“If we recover it,” Bruno added.
“We are wasting time,” Saitou-san said, standing. “We will have to decide what to do with the lyre once we have it in our possession. We cannot risk the Nephilim’s discovery of it.”
Looking at his watch, Vladimir said, “It is nearly three. We will meet at Rockefeller Center at exactly six. That gives us three hours to make contact, search the buildings, and reconvene. There can be no mistakes. Plan the quickest route possible. Speed and precision are absolutely necessary.”
Leaving their chairs, they put on jackets and scarves, preparing to face the cold winter dusk. In a matter of seconds, the angelologists were ready to begin. As they walked toward the staircase, Gabriella turned to Evangeline. “In our haste we must not lose sight of the dangers of our work. I warn you-be very careful in your efforts. The Nephilim will be watching. Indeed, they have been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The instructions Abigail Rockefeller left us are the most precious papers you have ever touched. Once the Nephilim understand we’ve discovered them, they will attack without mercy.”
“But how will they know?” Verlaine asked, coming to Evangeline’s side.
Gabriella smiled a sad, significant smile. “My dear boy, they know exactly where we are. They have planted informants all over this city. At all times, in all places, they are waiting. Even now they are near, watching us. Please,” she said, looking pointedly at Evangeline once more, “be careful.”
Museum of Modern Art, New York City
Evangeline pressed her hand to the brick wall running alongside West Fifty-fourth Street, the icy wind searing her skin. Above, sheets of glass reflected the Sculpture Garden, simultaneously opening the intricate workings of the museum and presenting the garden’s image back upon itself The lights inside had been dimmed. Patrons and museum employees moved through the interior of the galleries, visible at the outer edge of Evangeline’s vision. A darkened reflection of the garden appeared in the glass as warped, distorted, unreal.
“It looks like they’re closing soon,” Bruno said, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his ski jacket and walking to the entrance. “We’d better hurry.”
At the door Bruno swept through the crowds and made his way to the ticket desk, where a tall, thin man with a goatee and horn-rimmed glasses was reading a novel by Wilkie Collins. He looked up, glanced from Evangeline to Bruno, and said, “We’re closing in half an hour. We’re closed tomorrow for Christmas, but open again on the twenty-sixth.” With that he returned to his book, as if Bruno and Evangeline were no longer there.
Bruno leaned on the counter and said, “We’re looking for someone who might work here.”
“We are not allowed to disclose personal information about employees,” the man said, without looking up from his novel.
Bruno slid two one-hundred-dollar bills over the counter. “We don’t need personal information. Just where we can find him.”
Peering over his horn-rimmed glasses, the man placed his palm on the counter and slid the money into his pocket. “What’s the name?”
“Alistair Carroll,” Bruno said, giving him the card included in Abigail Rockefeller’s sixth letter. “Ever heard of him?”
He looked over the card. “Mr. Carroll is not an employee.”
“So you know him,” Evangeline said, relieved and a bit amazed that the name corresponded to a real person.
“Everyone knows Mr. Carroll,” the man said, walking out from behind the desk and leading them to the street. “He lives across from the museum.” He pointed to an elegant prewar apartment building, slightly slouched with age. A copper mansard roof punctuated with great porthole windows topped the building, a wash of patina streaking the bronze green. “But he’s hanging around here all the time. He’s one of the old guard of the museum.”