Record within a week. If they would have him . . .
He phoned Andy, instructing him to email any new files from Bishop the second they came in. He had no idea what the Times’s man in Bangkok would find out.
‘Well, thanks for breakfast.’
‘Shit, sorry. I’ve been on the phone.’ TC was holding a piece of paper. ‘Have you done it?’
She showed him. It just said fOrtY.
‘Yeah?’
‘At first I thought it was just a typing error. But this guy is very neat and precise. Everything is deliberate.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s emphasized two letters: the second and the fifth. I started trying to say it out loud. I thought maybe it was “forty O-Y” but that makes no sense.’
‘TC—’
‘Anyway, it’s even simpler. It’s forty, second and fifth. Or, put another way, 42nd and 5th.’
‘That’s the public library.’
‘Exactly, which means—’
Suddenly TC tensed up. Will looked round. His father had come in, wearing Sunday morning chinos.
‘Is there some news?’
‘Yeah, we just got another text message. Sending us to the public library.’
‘Is this man suggesting he meet you there? Be careful, William, please.’
‘No, he hasn’t said anything yet. Just the address. Forty second and fifth. That’s all we’ve got.’
‘Well, let me at least give you a ride to the station.’
There was another buzz. Another message.
Dare to be a Daniel.
Will showed it to his father and then to TC.
‘Oh, I think I know what that is,’ said his father, a matter of seconds later. ‘What did Daniel do?’
‘He entered the lions’ den.’
‘And the New York Public Library—’
‘—is guarded by two lions. Of course. The statues.’
‘Patience and Fortitude. That’s what they’re called. Maybe that’s what he’s saying you need.’
‘No, I think it’s simpler than that.’ It was TC. ‘I think he’s just saying go into the library. Dare to be a Daniel, enter the lions’ den. That’s it.’
The phone buzzed once more.
1 new message
Will fumbled to press the right buttons. All three of them were watching and waiting.
Primers’ domain discovered in the orchard of fruit
‘Christ. What the hell’s that? Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.’
‘It’s worded like a crossword clue. Or perhaps there’s a room in the library that has a painting of an orchard?’
‘TC, what do you reckon?’
‘Your father’s right. It’s a cryptic crossword clue. But I can’t quite see—’
‘Come,’ said Monroe Sr, calling a halt to proceedings. ‘You can make the next train if you hurry.’
Once on board, Will watched as TC got to work. She bit her nails, then twitched her leg, before finally stroking her eyebrow with her right index finger, over and over. She borrowed Will’s notebook and made a series of scribbled attempts at codebreaking – trying to write the words backwards, forwards and broken up into pieces. Nothing.
Occasionally she broke off for more of the conversation that had consumed them since their unscheduled reunion on Friday night. They tried to untie the logical knot which events and the succession of riddles had handed them. They went back and forth, trying to tease out any clues they might have missed, again and again.
Finally, as they clattered past Flatbush Avenue and Forest Hills, TC had a breakthrough.
‘It works like a clue for those crosswords I used to like doing whenever you bought the British papers.’ Will had a fleeting memory of the two of them in his college room, lazing away a Sunday morning. ‘When it says “discovered in”, that’s code for an anagram. Like when they say “messed up” or “hidden in”. So the fruit orchard is somehow “discovered in” primers’ domain.’
‘In those two words?’
‘Yep. Primers’ domain is an anagram.’
‘For what?’
‘For Pardes Rimonim. It means “Garden of Pomegranates” in Hebrew; an orchard of fruit.’ She was smiling.
‘OK, but what on earth is it?’
‘We’re about to find out.’
Sunday, 2.23pm, Manhattan
Patience and Fortitude were gazing elsewhere, as always. Apparently uninterested either in the volumes of learning behind them or the hordes of knowledge-seekers marching towards them, they maintained their poses: stone sentries, silent guardians of the house of wisdom.
Will had always loved this building. As with all young men, the discovery of his own conservatism had come as a shock. But shortly after his arrival in America, Will found he had a great affection – no, it was more than that – a need for old buildings. He was more English than he realized: he needed the solidity of aged walls and stones. He had grown up in a country where the most unremarkable village boasted a church that was six, seven, eight hundred years old – if not older. When it was all around him, he had barely noticed it. But now, in a country that was still so new and unformed, the absence of such agedness almost made him feel queasy, like a sailor on an unsteady ship.
New York was different. Like Boston or Philadelphia, it had enough mature masonry to reassure Will. And the Public Library was a perfect example, a structure that could have been plucked from London or Oxford and dropped onto Manhattan island from the air.
On their way in, Will’s phone had buzzed once more. The message: 3 times I kiss the page. It seemed obvious that this was the final instruction they needed. Pardes Rimonim was the name of the book, that much TC had worked out. This was telling them where to look, perhaps even the page.
TC fairly galloped up the two flights of stairs to the Dorot Jewish Division. She told the librarian which book she wanted to see, prompting a sharp intake of breath. ‘You mean the 1591 manuscript of Pardes Rimonim?’ TC and Will looked at each other. ‘You
