was odd, the abbot wrote, that here was a man who could be 'certified as born', but who had, officially, never died.
Putting aside all medieval myths of witchery and demonic intervention, the facts are quite straightforward: in the spring of 1092, Sir Alfred Hayes, Lord of Palmerston Estate, West Hampshire, simply vanished from the face of the earth.' [p. 46]
CONTEST
PROLOGUE
New York City
30 November, 2:01 a.m.
Mike Fraser pressed himself flat against the black wall of the tunnel. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to block out the roar of the subway train flashing by in front of him. The dirt and dust kicked up by the speeding train hit his face like a thousand pin-pricks. It hurt, but he didn't care. He was almost there.
And then, just as soon as it had come, the train was gone, its thunderous rumble slowly fading into the blackness of the tunnel. Fraser opened his eyes. Against the black backdrop of the wall, the whites of his eyes were all that could be seen. He peeled himself away from the wall and brushed off the dirt that had clung to his clothes. Black clothes.
It was two o'clock in the morning, and while the rest of New York slept, Mike Fraser was going about his work. Silently and swiftly, he made his way up the subway tunnel until he found what he was looking for.
An old wooden door, set into the tunnel wall, held shut by a solitary padlock. Pasted across the door was a sign.
NO ENTRY -- BOOSTER VALVE
HIGH VOLTAGE AREA
CONSOLIDATED EDISON PERSONNEL ONLY
Fraser examined the padlock. Stainless steel, combination lock, pretty new. He checked the hinges of the old wooden door. Yes, much easier.
His crowbar fitted snugly behind the hinges.
The door fell from its frame, and dangling from the padlock, swung silently into Fraser's waiting hand.
He peered inside the doorway, slipped the crowbar back into his belt and stepped inside.
Large box-shaped electricity meters lined the walls of the booster valve room. Thick black cables snaked their way across the ceiling. There was a door on the far side. Fraser headed straight for it.
Once through the booster valve room, he made his way down a narrow, dimly lit passageway until he came to a small red door. It opened easily and as Fraser looked out from the doorway, he smiled at the view.
Endless rows of bookshelves -- each one rising from floor to ceiling -- stretched away from him as far as the eye could see. Old and faded fluorescent lights lined each aisle, but at night only every third one was on. The lights themselves were so old that the whiteness of their fluorescent tubes had gone a mouldy ivory colour and a powder of oxidised fluorine had settled inside them. Their sickly state gave the lowest floor of the New York State Library a haunting yellowish glow.
The New York State Library. One hundred years old, a silent sanctuary of history and knowledge -- and also the owner of twelve brand-new Pentium III computers whose hard drives would soon be in the back room of Mike Fraser's apartment.
Fraser checked the lock on the door.
Safety lock.
From the booster room you didn't need a key, but from the library side you did. One of those automatically closing doors designed to keep the curious out, but not to accidentally lock the electricity workers in.
Fraser thought for a moment. If he had to make a hasty escape, he wouldn't have time to pick the lock. He searched around for an answer.
The door now safely ajar, Fraser hustled down the nearest aisle. Soon the small red door marked BOOSTER VALVE -- NO STAFF ACCESS PERMITTED was but a tiny square in the distance behind him. Mike Fraser didn't even notice, he knew exactly where he was going now.
Terry Ryan looked at his watch -- again.
It was 2:15 a.m. Four minutes after he'd last looked. Ryan sighed. Jesus, the time crawled on this job.
Idly, Ryan peered out through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the atrium of the New York State Library. Nothing stirred on the streets outside.
He touched the gun by his side and grunted a laugh. Security guards in a library -- a
He continued to stroll around the atrium, whistling quietly to himself--
He froze.
A noise.
There it was again:
Ryan held his breath. It had come from the left. He drew his gun.
Behind the Information Desk, Mike Fraser swore as he picked his screwdriver up from the floor. He peered out over the counter.
No one to the left. Nor to the right. He let out a deep breath. No one had--
Fraser snapped around. He took in the scene quickly. Security guard. Gun. Maybe fifteen metres, twenty at the most. As if there was a choice.
'I said, freeze!' Terry Ryan yelled. But the thief had already made a break for it. Ryan broke into a run.
Books on shelves became streaking blurs of colour as Fraser bolted down a narrow aisle. His heart pounded loudly inside his head. And then suddenly he saw the door. And the sign: stairs.
Fraser hit the stairs running, grabbing the banister, sliding down the first flight. The security guard, Ryan, flew in two seconds later, taking the stairs three at a time.
Down and down, round and round, Fraser went, clinging to the banister, hauling himself around at every turn. He saw the door at the bottom. He flew down the last flight of stairs and hit the door at full speed. It burst open easily -- too easily -- and Fraser went sprawling face-first onto the hard wood floor.
He could hear heavy footsteps bounding down the stairs behind him.
Fraser reached for the nearest bookshelf to hoist himself up and immediately felt a searing pain rip through
