Vladimir said, “I believe the Rockefellers were devout, especially the Cleveland generation. John D. Rockefeller Jr. paid for the construction of this church.”
“That would explain Mrs. Rockefeller’s access,” Saitou-san said. “It would be impossible to keep anything here without inside help.”
“Inside help,” a whining, high-pitched voice said, “and a lot of cash.”
Vladimir turned to find that a toadlike old man in an elegant gray suit and neatly combed gray hair had appeared in the hallway. A monocle encircled his left eye, its gold chain hanging over his cheek. Vladimir stepped back instinctively.
“Forgive me for startling you,” the man said. “My name is Mr. Gray, and I could not help but notice you here.” Mr. Gray appeared to be half blind with anxiety. His eyes bulged wildly as he looked about the hallway, his gaze settling at last upon Vladimir and Saitou-san.
“I would ask who you are,” Mr. Gray said, pointing to Abigail Rockefeller’s card in Vladimir’s hand. “But I know already. May I?” Mr. Gray took the card from Vladimir, looked it over carefully, and said, “I have seen this before. In fact, I helped arrange for the printing of these cards when I worked as Mrs. Rockefeller’s errand boy. I was merely fourteen. I once overheard her say that she liked my obsequious manner, which I tend to believe was a compliment. She had me running her errands-downtown for paper, uptown to the printers, downtown to pay the artist.”
“Then perhaps you will tell us the meaning of the card?” Saitou-san said.
“She believed,” Mr. Gray said, ignoring Saitou-san, “that angelologists would be coming.”
“And we have arrived,” Vladimir said. “Can you tell us how we’re meant to proceed?”
“I will answer your questions directly,” Mr. Gray said. “But we must first go to my office, where we might speak with more ease.”
They descended a stone staircase off the antechamber, Mr. Gray moving downward at a rapid pace, skipping steps in his haste. At the bottom a darkened hallway opened before them. Mr. Gray threw open a door and ushered them into a narrow office piled high with papers. Stacks of unopened mail tipped from the edge of a metal desk. Curled pencil shavings were scattered across the floor. A wall calendar from the year 1978 hung next to a filing cabinet, the month of December left open.
Once they were inside the office, Mr. Gray’s manner became one of indignation. “Well! You have certainly taken your own sweet time in coming,” he said. “I was beginning to think there was some misunderstanding. Mrs. Rockefeller would have been furious at that-she would turn in her grave if I’d died without delivering the package in the fashion she wished. An exacting woman, Mrs. Rockefeller, but very generous-my children and my children’s children will feel the benefit of the arrangement, even if I, who have been waiting half of my life for your arrival, will not! I was but a young man when she hired me to oversee the workings of the church office-fresh from England, without a position in the world. Mrs. Rockefeller gave me my place here in this office, instructing me to await your arrival, which I have done, ceaselessly. Of course, provisions were made should I have expired before your arrival-which I must say could have happened any day now, since clearly I’m not growing any younger-but let’s not allow ourselves to ponder such morbid thoughts, no, sir. At this important hour, it is only the wishes of our benefactress that must concern us, and her thoughts turned upon a single solemn hope: the future.” Mr. Gray blinked and adjusted his monocle. “Come, let’s get down to business.”
“An excellent idea,” Vladimir said.
Mr. Gray went to the filing cabinet, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to work through the number until he discovered the match. With a turn of the key, the cabinet drawer popped open. “Let me see,” he said, straining to see the files. “Ah, yes, here! The very documents we need.” He flipped through the pages, stopping at a long list of names. “This is a formality, of course, but Mrs. Rockefeller specified that only those appearing on this list-or the descendants of these persons-would be authorized to receive the package. Is your name, or the name of one of your parents or grandparents, or indeed your great-grandparents, among this number?”
Vladimir scanned the list, recognizing all the major angelologists of the twentieth century. He found his own name in the middle of the final row, next to Celestine Clochette’s.
“If you don’t mind, you will sign here and here. And then once more here, on this line at the bottom.”
Vladimir examined the paper, a long legal document that, from a cursory view, affirmed that Mr. Gray had performed the task of delivering the object.
“You see,” Mr. Gray said by way of apology, “I receive my remuneration only after the delivery has been performed, as evidenced by your signature. The legal document is quite specific, and the lawyers are unrelenting-it has been inconvenient, as you might imagine, living without recompense for my labors. All these years I have scraped by, waiting for you to arrive so that I might retire from this wretched office. And here you are,” Mr. Gray said, giving Vladimir a pen. “Simply a formality, mind you.”
“Before I sign,” Vladimir said, pushing the document away, “I must have the object you’re holding for me.”
An almost imperceptible chill hardened upon Mr. Gray’s features. “Of course,” he said tersely. He slipped the contract under his arm and tucked the pen into the pocket of his gray suit. “Just this way,” 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.”