A candle was burning on the woman’s bedside table, and it nearly guttered out when the door swung open. Ambrose fingered a switch on the wall but nothing happened. A jagged arc of lightning flashed across the sky as the two men crossed to the bed.
There was a sagging shelf of books and a crucifix mounted on the wall above her head. Asleep, she was lovely. White hair framed her pale face, and her thin chest rose and fell slowly under the white muslin gown. There was only a whisper of breath from her lips. She appeared so peaceful propped up against her pillow, Congreve was loath to disturb her.
“Hand me that chair, will you?” he whispered to Stokely.
“Thank you.” He pulled the wooden chair right up to the bed. He placed his gift on the nightstand beside the candle. Then he reached out and gently took the old woman’s hand.
“Frau Zimmermann?”
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Ja?” She responded automatically in German, asking Congreve if it was time for her medicine.
“Nein, nein,” Congreve said in a perfect mimicry of her dialogue, “I’m a friend of your late husband, come to ask you a favor.”
“Was ist los? What’s going on?” she asked, raising her head from the pillow and searching Congreve’s face. Stokely hung back in the shadows, invisible in this light.
“Do you speak English, Madam Zimmermann? It would be simpler.”
“Of course I speak English. I am a diplomat’s wife.” Her voice was remarkably strong given her feeble appearance.
“I saw the ambassador in England. Shortly before he died.”
“You knew my husband?”
“Not well. We met once, but we spoke of many things. He…he asked me to give you this. It was his last request.”
“Gifts are not allowed in here,” she said, a flicker of fear in her eyes, but then she saw the book in Congreve’s hand.
“Please take it. There is a letter for you. Inside.”
She took the book and it fell open to reveal the letter. She pulled the single page from the envelope. Congreve watched her eyes scan the rows of numerals as easily as if she were reading a child’s poem.
She folded the book across her chest and closed her eyes. For a moment, Congreve thought she’d gone back to sleep.
“Whose side are you on, Doctor?” she said, her eyes remaining shut.
“Your husband’s,” Congreve said, silently praying it was the right answer.
“Why have you come?”
“Before he died, your husband saved the lives of many hundreds of people at Heathrow Airport. I believe that, knowing the end was near for him, he had…he had a change of heart. About whatever it was he’d been involved with.”
“He was a broken man, Doctor Congreve. These people in Brasilia, these Arabs, they tricked him into doing things he should never have involved himself in. The bombing at the synagogue in Rio. What could he do? He protected his family. He was a good man, Doctor. A statesman. He had a brilliant career.”
“Why did he do it?”
“Money, of course. Why does one do anything? Money or power. He had plenty of the latter. He knew I was dying. We had spent all our money. We lived too well for too long. Sold everything. He still needed money for my treatment. Sadly, it only prolonged the agony. Look at me.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Have you broken our code?”
“Some of it. There is a break, right in the middle and—”
“I know, I—forgive me. I’m very tired.”
“I’ve come because I think you can help me, Frau Zimmermann. You, too, might save a lot of lives.”
“Help you?”
“With the balance of the code. Help me break it. Please. It’s another attack, isn’t it? Against the Americans this time?”
The nurse cracked the door and said, “Five more minutes.”
After she’d gone, the woman said, “I don’t want to die in this horrid place, Doctor. I want to go home.”
Congreve looked quickly over at Stokely, who nodded his head in the affirmative.
“Perhaps I can arrange that. I will try. I know someone who may be able to help you. You have to tell me who is responsible for your being here.”
She suddenly opened her blue eyes and looked up at him.
“Do you promise? You’ll help?”
“I promise. But you have to help me first. Now. There isn’t much time, I’m afraid. A matter of a week or less, if what I’ve deciphered thus far is accurate. Tell me who is holding you against your will. And why.”
“The answer lies above.”
“Above?”
“With Jesus.”
Congreve’s eyes went immediately to the crucifix. His mind racing, he looked at the peeling paint on Christ’s robe, the faded gold leaf of the cross. The feet, he noticed, and the hands, had nails driven through them directly into the plaster wall. The wood and porcelain figure would be difficult to remove and examine. There was no time.
“Jesus? I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“No, no, not the crucifix. The books! The books beneath the cross!”
“Ah. Of course.”
Ambrose stood and examined the drooping shelf of books, scanning the titles on the spines. They were mostly works of European history and politics. A book of poems by Longfellow. However, in the exact middle was a single novel. He pulled it from the shelf and examined the dust-jacket of the hardcover book.
O Codigo Da Vinci.
“If you know enough to bring me this book, you’ll understand that one. You’ll find the answers to your questions in that volume, Doctor.”
“The second half of the Zimmermann Code is in the Portuguese edition of the Da Vinci book,” Congreve said, more to himself than anyone in the room. It was not really a question.
“Yes. You’ll find the second half of my husband’s letter can easily be decoded with the Portuguese translation. It’s the way he liked to do things.”
The nurse was at the door again. Before she’d finished clearing her throat, Ambrose whirled and looked at her.
“One minute! Please!” Ambrose said it so sharply and with such authority that the nurse instantly withdrew, pulling the door softly shut behind her.
The poor woman looked up at him with pleading eyes.
“Exchange the dust jackets, I beg you, Doctor. Then replace the Portuguese edition on the shelf with the English one you brought. They check all my possessions. Every night. If one book is missing, I’ll go hungry. Or, worse.”
“One more question. Who is doing this to you? Who poisoned your husband?”
“The ones who come in the night. Las Medianoches.”
“Thank you,” Ambrose said, quickly slipping her book inside his yellow mac. “Thank you very, very much indeed. May I have your husband’s letter back, Madame Zimmermann? I promise to mail it along with the book to you when I’ve finished my work here.”
“Of course. The book is worthless without the letter. Good-bye, Doctor Congreve. I do pray I shall go home soon. I want to die in my own bed.”
“I shall do all that I can. I promise you. Good-bye.”
“Papa Top is an animal,” she whispered as he and Stokely moved toward the door. “He cannot be understood any other way. He cannot be treated in a civilized way, Doctor. Never forget that.”
