The Paradise Prophecy

his guide.”

“What is it?”

“A three-volume treatise on conjuring up spirits to send secret messages.”

“Come again?”

“It was written by a fifteenth-century abbot named Johannes Trithemius. Kind of a how-to book on communicating with your colleagues through the use of angelic messengers. But when his friends found out what he was working on, it caused such a commotion he decided not to publish it. He even destroyed the parts he thought were particularly incendiary.”

“What kind of commotion?”

“He was accused of dealing in the black arts and consorting with demons.”

“There seems to be a lot of that going around.”

“But here’s the thing,” Batty told her. “It’s not really a book of magic at all. The stuff about spirits is all coded writing, and Trithemius clearly says in the preface that it’s just an exercise in cryptology and steganography. But nobody believed him, and his reputation as an occultist was sealed.”

“And it looks like someone published it anyway.”

“Nearly a hundred years after he died,” Batty said. He closed the book and returned it to the table. “The first two volumes were deciphered almost immediately, pretty much proving that the incantations were exactly what Trithemius had said they were-harmless encryption exercises. But the key for the third volume wasn’t cracked until the seventeenth century by a guy named Heidel, and he hid his solution in his own coded message. So it effectively wasn’t deciphered until about a decade ago.”

Callahan gestured to the notepad. “And you think Ozan was using the same encryption keys to hunt for secret messages in these verses?”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“But why? What does he know that you don’t?”

Batty shrugged. “Milton was a controversial figure in his day, who got into a lot of trouble for speaking his mind. Maybe Ozan was working on the assumption that he used Trithemius’s encryption methods to conceal his later work-although you’d think, if anything, the material in Polygraphiae is a better choice.”

“Polygraphiae?”

“Another one of Trithemius’s books. His true masterpiece on cryptology.”

Callahan sighed. “My head’s starting to hurt.”

“Welcome to my world. Whatever the case, Ozan or Gabriela strike me as naive amateurs more than anything else, yet they both seemed convinced that there’s something in Milton’s poetry that the rest of us haven’t . . .”

Batty paused, his gaze now drawn to the stone figurine of Saint Michael at the corner of the table. He studied it a moment, suddenly aware that there was something off about it.

It was a familiar-looking piece, one he recognized from the Garanti catalogue, but the depth and pattern of the chisel marks didn’t look right, and he’d bet his last dollar that it wasn’t an original. In fact, it wasn’t even that great of a reproduction.

“What’s wrong?” Callahan asked.

“Probably nothing. It just seems odd to me that someone with Ozan’s taste would have such an obvious fake on his worktable. Especially in a room like this. And especially of Saint Michael.”

Callahan shrugged. “Maybe he liked it.”

Batty reached over, picked it up. “That’s like finding a jazz purist who likes Kenny G. Besides, there’s something about this thing . . .”

“Let me guess. You feel an energy.”

Batty looked at her. “Mock me all you want, Mrs. Broussard, but unless I’m mistaken, you were feeling it pretty strong back in that archive room.”

But she was wrong-this was more instinct than energy. Flipping the figurine over, he examined the base, which was rounded and about the same circumference as a soda can. Grabbing hold of it, he pressed and twisted until he felt it give, then the lower half of the base swung to one side, revealing a narrow, hidden compartment.

There was a key inside. Hollow shank. Antique.

He looked at Callahan. “You were saying?”

“Luck. Nothing more.”

There was some truth to that, but Batty would never admit it. He removed the key, set the figurine back onto the tabletop and scanned the room, staring at the bookshelves. “It’s obvious Ozan was hiding something. What do you bet some of these books aren’t real?”

“I think that’s a pretty safe assumption.”

Batty moved into the first row again and began running his hands along the books, this time looking for a faux book panel. Following his lead, Callahan went to another row, the two moving from shelf to shelf until, a few minutes later, Callahan called out to him.

“Professor, over here.”

He found her at a bookshelf against the far wall. She had already put the faux book panel aside-a phony fourteen volume collection on neopaganism and witchcraft-to reveal a locked wooden compartment.

Batty tried the key in the lock-a perfect fit.

He turned it, felt the mechanism give, then pulled the compartment door open to reveal a large rectangular wall safe, complete with LED readout and electronic keypad.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Relax,” Callahan said. “Despite appearances, these things are cake to get into.”

Pulling her purse from her arm, she rooted around inside until she found a small nylon tool case, then unzipped it and removed a miniature screwdriver. Moving up to the safe, she unscrewed a rectangular nameplate just below the keypad and set it aside.

Behind it was a lock cylinder. “This is the bypass lock,” she said. “In case you forget your key code.”

Returning the screwdriver to its case, she reached into her purse again and brought out a ring of what looked like keys, but were less defined.

She held one up. “Jigger key,” she told him. “They’re old school, but they work.”

“You’re like a Boy Scout,” he said. “Only a lot better looking.”

She arched a brow at him. “Careful, Professor. I wasn’t kidding about killing a man with one hand.”

“I’ve already come to the conclusion you’re never kidding.”

“Glad we have an understanding.”

She inserted the key into the lock and jiggled it, but nothing happened. Choosing another key, she tried again-and again got nothing. The third and fourth keys wouldn’t fit and the fifth one was a bust as well.

One last key.

She slipped it into the lock, gave it a jiggle, and Batty could tell by the look on her face that she’d done it. Not quite a smile, but a very faint smirk. As she turned the key, the electronic mechanism thunked and the LED readout flashed O-P-E-N.

“Impressive,” he said.

“Not really,” she told him, pulling the safe door open. “But let’s hope it was worth it.”

There was only one item inside: a moldering old leather-bound manuscript.

Batty gingerly removed it, staring in surprise at the thin leather strap wrapped around it, a familiar-looking Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the light.

Callahan was staring at it, too. “Custodes Sacri. I guess there’s no question now.”

Batty said nothing, his attention drawn to the manuscript itself and the initials J. M. discreetly etched into the bottom right corner of the cover. Feeling his heart kick up, he quickly removed the strap and flipped the manuscript open to reveal gray, aging pages-handwritten pages, in a faded violet scrawl.

“Holy Christ,” he muttered. “This can’t be right. The only known copy is a transcription. A printer’s draft. And only thirty-three pages survived.”