The Judas Strain - James Rollins [75]
“No,” Harriet moaned.
The woman pulled the trigger. A snapping pop of electricity exploded from the barrel. Something spat past Harriet’s ear, trailing wire. It struck Jack in the bare chest, sparking and crackling blue in the dim light.
Taser.
He gagged, arms flying out—and crashed backward.
He didn’t move.
In the stunned silence a Fox News announcer whispered from the half-muted television: “Metro police are still continuing a manhunt for Grayson Pierce, wanted in connection to the arson and bombing of a local D.C. home.”
8:32 A.M.
Istanbul
ALONE AT THE roof rail Gray struggled to think of some secure channel to communicate to Washington. About the dangers at Christmas Island. He would have to be circumspect, some private communication that would not spread beyond Painter. But how? Who was to say that the Guild was not monitoring all manner of communication?
Seichan spoke behind him, back at the table. Her words were not directed at Gray. “Monsignor, you still have not explained why you called us to Istanbul. You claimed to have understood the angelic inscription.”
Curiosity drew Gray back to the table, but he could not sit. He stood between Seichan and Vigor.
The monsignor swung up his backpack and settled it in his lap. He fished through it and pulled out a notebook, flipping it open on the table. Across the page was a charcoal-etched line of angelic letters.
“Here is the inscription on the floor of the Tower of Wind,” Vigor said. “Each letter of this alphabet corresponds to a specific tonal word. And according to the father of angelic script, Trithemius, when combined in the right sequence, such groupings could open a direct line to a specific angel.”
“Like long-distance dialing,” Kowalski muttered from the other side of the table.
With a nod, Vigor flipped the sheet to the next page. “I went ahead and marked the name for each letter.”
Gray shook his head, not seeing any pattern.
Vigor slipped out a pen and drew a line under the first letter of each name, reciting as he did so. “A. I. G. A. H.”
“Is that some angel’s name?” Kowalski asked.
“No, not an angel, but it is a name,” Vigor said. “What you have to understand is that Trithemius based his alphabet on Hebrew, claiming power in the Jewish letters. Even today, practitioners of Kabbalah believe that there is some form of divine wisdom buried in the shapes and curves of the Hebrew alphabet. Trithemius just claimed his angelic script was the purest distillation of Hebrew.”
Gray leaned closer, beginning to understand the direction of Vigor’s track. “And Hebrew is read opposite from English. From right to left.”
Seichan traced a finger across the paper and read backward. “H. A. G. I. A.”
“Hagia,” Vigor pronounced carefully. “The word means ‘divine’ in Greek.”
Gray’s eyes had narrowed—then widened with sudden understanding.
Of course.
“What?” Seichan asked.
Kowalski scratched the stubble on his head, equally clueless.
Vigor stood and drew them all up. He walked them to face the city. “On his journey home, Marco Polo crossed through Istanbul, named Constantinople at the time. Here is where he crossed from Asia and finally reentered Europe, a significant crossroads of sorts.”
The monsignor pointed out to the city, toward one of the ancient monuments. Gray had noted it before. A massive flat-domed church, half covered in black scaffolding as restoration work was under way.
“Hagia Sophia,” Gray said, naming the structure.
Vigor nodded. “It was once the largest Christian church in all the world. Marco himself commented on the wonders of its airy spaces. Some people mistake Hagia Sophia to mean ‘Saint Sophia,’ but in fact, the true name of the structure is the Church of Divine Wisdom, which can also be interpreted as the Church of Angelic Wisdom.”
“Then that’s where we must go!” Seichan said. “The first key must be hidden there.” She swung away.
“Not so fast, young lady,” Vigor scolded.
The monsignor returned to his backpack, reached inside, and drew out a cloth-wrapped object. Gently resting it on the table, he peeled