Crouched there, I checked my phone. It was eleven thirty-four. There were no notifications showing but just as I was about to put the phone away, a text from Ashna popped up on the screen.
—they’re almost all at the chapel. Just guards patrolling now. Second floor east wing looks empty at the moment.—
I typed a quick thanks then headed for the stairway Angela James had used when she showed me the flats, keeping low and moving from one cubicle to the next in case anyone came through.
Upstairs, the corridor was deserted as Ashna had promised. I just had to hope Saint Martin had gone to the ritual and wasn’t skulking in his apartment with his electronics all turned off. The lock was a thing of beauty—a Corbin Russwin mortise. I was glad I didn’t have to pick it. Angela James’ key turned soundlessly and the latch clicked. I pushed the door open a crack, stepped inside, and pulled it closed behind me, resetting the lock.
The flat was dark inside and still. I smelled cologne or maybe spilled alcohol—something aromatic like gin. I knew the layout from my tour and from studying the floor plans with Ashna. It was open plan. A short hallway led to the living room and kitchen. Above the kitchen was a loft that held the master suite. Off the hallway were a smaller bedroom and bathroom. I made my way down the hall and into the living room where moonlight from large windows illuminated the interior enough for me to see a desk against one wall, a sofa and chairs arranged around a dark colored carpet, a kitchen island. A rocks glass lay overturned on the carpet. Maybe the source of the smell. A sleek, silver laptop was positioned precisely in the center of the desk. To the side was a bundle of papers and a small lamp. I crossed the room, flipped the lamp on, and rifled through the papers. They were Wolhardt’s notes. I recognized the neat writing and carefully hand-lined charts. I should have been elated but, in the moment, I just felt tired and still shaky from the concussion. A shoulder bag was propped against the desk. I lifted it to the chair, unzipped it, and was about to put the notes and laptop in it when I heard a noise and froze. I heard it again—almost like a muffled whimpering, then someone thrashing and a wall being kicked. It was coming from the loft. There were stairs at the opposite end of the living room, leading up. I climbed them slowly. Upstairs I found a king sized four-poster. Saint Martin, hands and feet bound by duct tape, mouth covered also, was sprawled on the bed. His hands were stretched above his head and fixed with more tape to one of the posts. His eyes watched me suspiciously and he thrashed again, breathing hard through his nose. It was no use. They had bound him effectively. I went over and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth. He began gasping at once, taking in huge lungfuls of air. I waited for him to calm before speaking.
“Are the papers downstairs Wolhardt’s original notes?”
He gave me a suspicious look again. “Release me.”
“First I need you to answer my questions. If you cooperate, I’ll let you go.”
He considered for a moment. “Fine. Yes, those are the notes.”
“Why bring them here?” I asked. It didn’t make sense to me. Why had they even brought Saint Martin? “Were you still working on the solution? When did you crack it?”
“Yesterday. I gave it to him last night. He had another cryptographer go over my solution this morning. Some asshole American he flew in. No offense. They brought me here so they could keep an eye on me I guess. I didn’t expect this!” Saint Martin inclined his chin, gesturing toward his bound hands.
“Doesn’t surprise me. Any copies you know of?”
“None.”
“And your solution. Is it written anywhere? Saved on the laptop?”
“Only on the laptop. Except a copy I wrote
