“It isn’t spam,” he said. “It’s a hidden message.”
“Right. I started thinking about what you told me in Ozan’s library. About Trithemius-and this little puppy . . .” She patted the copy of Steganographia on the table beside her. “But if you look at the stuff on Ozan’s notepad, you can clearly see that he was about as good at steganography as he was at e-mail security. So he took the easy route and used a shortcut to code his messages.”
Batty glanced at the screen full of spam. “What kind of shortcut?”
“I checked his browser cache again and found a Web site that allows you to enter a phrase into a text box, then encodes it to look like this. I figure the guardians on the other end are using the same Web site to decipher it.”
“So much for ancient tradition. I assume you decoded it, too?”
She nodded and touched the screen again, showing him the result:
Someone watching. Stay alert.
Batty studied the message grimly. “He obviously wasn’t being paranoid. He was a sensitive, so he knew what was coming. Must’ve felt it.”
“And, unfortunately, Gabriela was so wrapped up in her tour she never bothered to read the warning.”
“I’m not sure how much difference it would’ve made. What about the D.C. and London accounts?”
“Both read and deleted,” Callahan said. She touched the screen again. “But that wasn’t the only spam Ozan sent. I found another exchange in his trash file-with the recipient from Thailand, dated a couple weeks earlier. I decoded it, but it’s still pretty cryptic.”
She showed him the results. First Ozan’s message:
Tell me about C Gigas, 7 pages.
Followed by the Thailand recipient’s reply:
Don’t make the same mistake the poet made.
You may lose more than your eyes.
Batty felt his heart accelerate.
“I tried Googling this C. Gigas guy,” Callahan said, “but all I got was a page on Pacific oysters. And I don’t think Ozan and his buddy were discussing seafood.”
“Or a person. They’re talking about the Codex Gigas.”
“Which is?”
“Another book.”
“What-are these people obsessed?”
“Apparently so,” Batty said. “But what surprises me is that it’s Ozan asking the question. He has one of the most extensive collections on the occult I’ve ever seen, so it seems to me he’d already know all about the Gigas.”
“That makes at least two of you. You mind filling me in?”
“It’s also called the Devil’s Bible,” Batty told her. “It was written in the thirteenth century, supposedly in one night. With the help of Satan.”
“Wonderful.”
“It’s about the size of a small packing trunk, and at one time it was considered one of the wonders of the world. This thing has survived fire and the Thirty Years’ War. And right now it’s housed in a library in Sweden.” He looked at the e-mail again. “But like I said, Ozan would already know all that. His interest was in the seven missing pages.”
“The what?”
“There are seven pages missing from the Gigas. Nobody knows how or when they disappeared, but there’s been all kinds of speculation about what’s on them, from a message from Satan to the secrets of God and the universe. And that’s probably what Ozan was after.” He tapped the iPad screen. “But it’s the response that has me puzzled.”
“Why?”
“Because it mentions the poet. ‘Don’t make the same mistake the poet made. You may lose more than your eyes.’ I think we both know who he’s talking about.”
“John Milton.”
“Exactly. He went blind nearly a decade before he wrote Paradise Lost. But this reply is couched as a warning to Ozan-don’t make the same mistake-as if Milton did something to cause his blindness.”
“So let me get this straight,” Callahan said. “On one hand we have these seven missing pages, on the other hand we have two guardians searching for secret messages, and smack in the middle of it all we’ve got a blind fucking poet.”
“There’s obviously a connection there. We just need to figure out what it is.”
Callahan got to her feet, stretched. “Well, maybe we’ll get lucky when we talk to the monk.”
Batty looked at her. “Monk?”
“I cross-referenced those e-mails with Ozan’s client database,” she said. “I got about a hundred different hits for D.C. and London, but only one for Chiang Mai. Three months ago he sent a package to a Christian monastery there. To a monk called Brother Philip. I’ve already chartered a flight.”
“Then maybe he will have the answer. I guess it makes sense when you think about it.”
“Why?” Callahan asked.
“The Devil’s Bible was written by a Benedictine monk.”
BOOK VII
Then in the East her turn she shines,
Revolvd on Heav’ns great Axle
31
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Finding a new skin was always a problem for him.
Had he been like his sister, Belial, he’d simply tempt, seduce and lie his way into getting what he wanted. But over the years he had formed a personal code. One he did his best to follow.
No subterfuge, no games.
He would get what he needed simply by asking.
So his choices were limited. There weren’t too many humans out there who would willingly give up their bodies without the promise of some kind of reward. Which was why he found himself in Central City East, a section of downtown Los Angeles known as “the Nickel” or skid row, just blocks from the Angels Flight-a hillside rail tram that had only recently reopened for business.
The body he occupied-the body he was now forced to replace-had been found right here, a young man in his mid-twenties who had been a heroin addict since he was seventeen years old and had no qualms about leaving this world behind.
The young man’s speech had been slurred by drink and drugs, but he was cognizant enough to know what was being asked of him. Rewards no longer mattered. He had simply wanted a change, and was more than willing to take his chances in the afterlife.
“What’s it like out there?” he had asked.
“Like nothing you’ve ever known.”
“Will I see God?”
“I can’t give you any promises, but I can tell you that what you’ll see is a world created by God. What you make of it will be up to you-and it won’t be without its dangers.”
“I’m willing to take my chances.”
“Are you? I don’t want to do this unless you’re absolutely sure.”
“I’m sure,” the young man had said. “There’s just one thing I want to know before we start.”
“Ask.”
“Your name. I need to know your name.”
He remembered resting his palm on top of the young man’s head and thinking that, despite appearances, this was a good soul who would do well in the otherworld. Telling him his name was the least he could do.
“Michael,” he’d said softly. “They call me Michael.”
But that was then and this was now.
After the fight in the alley and the severe loss of blood, the young man’s body was no longer useful to him. So Michael had patched up his wounds, gotten some much-needed rest, then used what little strength he had left to make his way back to skid row.
He hadn’t felt good about leaving Jenna behind. His instinct was to stay with her, keep watching her-especially with Zack still on the loose. He hadn’t intended to lose an entire day and much of the night, but what choice did he have? She seemed to be in good hands at the shelter, and with any luck he’d be back listening to her song before morning.