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He felt Vedel grab hold of the collar of his robe and start dragging him across the floor.

Jon kept his focus on the book, stammering his way through the first words. He was sweating. His hands shook. The first sentence meant nothing to him. He was having a hard time concentrating, but he forced himself to continue.

Vedel laughed again and kept dragging him towards the railing.

Word by word Jon stuttered his way into the next sentence, and then he realized that he knew this text. He recognized the sentence he had just read, and he knew what would come next.

He had read this book before.

42

Jon couldn't recall how many times Luca had readPinocchio to him.

His mother once told him that it started even before he was born. Luca had read aloud to her and their unborn child almost every evening. They liked to compare her growing belly to the whale in the story, and then they would laugh so hard that Luca couldn't go on reading. During Jon's first years, it was the story he wanted to hear most often. He never grew tired of it, and every evening he pestered his parents with his requests for just one more chapter. Usually they gave in. Especially his mother. She too enjoyed the story, and she performed all the roles with such feeling and using so many different voices that Jon never forgot them.

It was a magical book written in a magical language that only he and his parents spoke. That was how it seemed to Jon, at any rate. He had loved the sound of the words and quickly memorized entire passages. Luca would often test him by starting a sentence and then Jon would finish it, regardless of whether they were sitting on a bus, standing in a queue at the butcher's shop or seated at the dinner table. His mother would shake her head at them, but it didn't matter. It was the game he shared with Luca, and Jon loved it.

Even better than the words were the images they created. Jon knew every stone and every blade of grass in the story. He had walked through that landscape countless times and knew precisely what the houses looked like, how the tree branches curved, and what the facial features and gestures were of all the characters. There was no doubt in his mind about how the waves moved, the size of the boat or the colours of the whale.

Jon had pictured these images so many times they practically sprang forth as he began to read. The reading room in Alexandria instantly vanished, to be replaced by the story's gently shaded colours and the soft undulations of the landscape. He hardly had to make any effort at all. This was completely different from the other seances when he'd really had to work to make the images flow. This time they emerged all on their own, leaving him energy to enjoy the experience. Gone was the pain in his foot, and Remer was no longer a concern. He was overcome by a serenity he hadn't felt in years, and the sense that everything was going to work out fine.

It occurred to Jon that the images he was creating were really not his own. Luca had most likely passed them on through his readings. If he had been as skilled a Lector as everyone claimed, it stood to reason that he would have given his child the best possible experience. That it would one day save his son's life was not something Luca could possibly have foreseen, but Jon didn't think it was accidental. Why would he end up with this particular book, in the least imaginable place, under the most improbable circumstances, exactly when he had the most use for it? The odds of that happening had to be astronomical.

Jon took another look at the scene. Everything was in its proper place and the story was proceeding as it should. He found it reassuring to know this was Luca's work. The images were as clear and pure as if Luca had read the story to him yesterday. After Jon had learned to read, he had gone throughPinocchio many times, but he still preferred to have Luca read it aloud to him. Even when Jon started getting interested in more action-packed stories, it was alwaysPinocchio he wanted to hear at bedtime. He loved to fall asleep to the sound of Luca's voice.

He could almost hear it now.

*

After tossing the book down to Jon, Katherina prepared herself to support him as soon as he started reading. She was ready the second Jon reached for the book, but when he stopped after the first glance, she got nervous.

'What was that book you gave me?'

Mehmet shrugged. 'I have no idea. It was just the first one I could find.'

The man with the red hair had seized hold of Jon.

'We have to go down there,' said Katherina.

Mehmet set off at a run, but Katherina stopped abruptly.

Jon had started to read.

'I'll be right there,' she called, and then focused on Jon's reading. She concentrated all his remaining energy on moving through the text, trying to keep out other impressions and fixing his attention on the story. Slowly he got into the rhythm.

After only a few sentences the red-haired man began to scream. He had a firm grip on the collar of Jon's robe and didn't let go, even though his body was shaking violently. Suddenly there was a loud bang and the red-haired man was hurled away from Jon with great force. He flew backwards until his body slammed into a stone pillar and he sank to the ground.

He didn't get up again.

Katherina slid down with her back against the railing. She closed her eyes and concentrated on receiving. The images emanating from Jon appeared as gentle, calm pictures – pictures she realized she recognized.

The energy in the room began to change. What had felt like a rushing torrent now little by little diminished in intensity and speed until at last it stopped altogether. Instead of moving in one direction, it began steadily pulsating, like gigantic inhalations and exhalations. The energy encircled them in a completely different way, feeling closer and bringing with it a warmth and peace quite unlike the frenzied and insistent mood that had reigned up until now. All the accumulated energy in the library was directed towards a specific pulse, a pulse determined by Jon.

Katherina sensed it was now safe to stand up. Jon was still lying in the same place, calmly readingPinocchio from his position on the floor.

Over by the podium stood five people who were still reading. The expression on Remer's face was strained, the veins clearly visible at his temples, a glistening film of sweat on his brow. Katherina could tell from what she was receiving that they were working hard to maintain their concentration. They must have noticed the shift in energy and were fighting back with their last strength.

Katherina ran out into the corridor and down the stairs. They had to seize the chance to escape while Remer was preoccupied. On the floor below she practically ran into Mehmet, who stood as if paralysed, regarding the scene before him.

'What the hell should we do?' he said. 'This is going to end up bad.'

Katherina cast a glance at Remer. His facial features had changed. His expression was tormented and his body had started to tremble.

'Jon is the only one who can stop this,' replied Katherina. She ran over to where he was lying. He looked quite unaffected as he almost sprawled on the floor with his eyes on the book. She focused on his reading, homed in on the rhythm and gave him the signal to stop. The pulse of the energy made an extra leap, then a few irregular beats before it finally stopped. Jon's expression changed as he turned towards Katherina. He smiled but then seemed to remember where he was. His smile froze as he looked at the podium.

Remer's body was now shaking harder than before. The energy was no longer under control and had lost its focus so it was striking out in all directions. Katherina sensed that Remer was stubbornly fighting to regain control. It was an impossible battle. There were far too many opposing surges of energy and there were no receivers left to help him, but he refused to give up. A couple of sparks enveloped him for a moment; blood began running out of his ears, down his throat and into the collar of his robe, which slowly turned red. He kept reading through clenched teeth. His face was now drained of all colour, an eerie white in contrast to the blood, and contorted with great pain. Streams of blood started pouring from his nose and running down his white robe.