Season of the Witch

I always wanted to know what was knowable in the world. -Johannes Trithemius, Steganographia (Secret Writing), 1499

CHAPTER ONE

Was there anything as cool as rush hour traffic on a hot day?

The light turned red. Gabriel Blackstone brought his bicycle to a stop at a crowded intersection. Balancing himself with one foot on the pavement, the other still resting on the pedal, he half-turned and looked around him. He was surrounded by cars and he could sense the expectation-the barely tamed aggression-lurking in the hearts of the motorists sweating gently behind the wheels of their vehicles. They seemed relaxed; elbows pushed through open windows, heads casually cradled against the headrests of their seats. But he was not fooled. When the light turned to green, he would have to move quickly. In this part of the City of London, cyclists were barely tolerated. That was part of the fun, of course: moving in and out of tight spaces, taking chances. Still, the possibility of getting squished was rather high. In front of him he could see a cabdriver's eyes- puckered and creased with lines-watching him in the taxi's rearview mirror. Behind him a TV van was already inching closer with unnerving stealth.

It was hellishly hot. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Summer had come early. The tarmac underneath his foot felt soft. The air tasted like paraffin. But he liked the city this way: sticky, unkempt, the pedestrians moving languidly. People's emotions were closer to the surface, not muffled by scarves and thick coats or hidden by hats turned down against a freezing rain.

A flash of red caught his attention: a girl walking on the sidewalk next to him, swinging a fringed bag and wearing a crimson skirt and blouse. Her navel was bare and he could see the tattoo of a butterfly on her flat stomach. She walked with such devil-may-care insouciance that he smiled with pleasure. Life was good. Four o'clock in the afternoon in the Square Mile… and the City was his.

The light turned to green. The traffic bulleted forward. A rapturous roar of sound ricocheted off the steep walls of the buildings, making the ground tremble. He pedaled furiously across the intersection, dodging a green Mercedes whose driver seemed more intent on shouting into the cell phone in his hand than keeping his car on the road.

It was on days like these that he was also acutely aware of that other-secret-dimension to the City. Mingling with the car fumes, the layers of noise and the haze of heat was something even more ephemeral. Digital Stardust. As he pedaled past the looming facades of London's banks, insurance companies and businesses, he imagined himself moving through an invisible but glimmering cloud.

Humming quietly behind the walls of the City's skyscrapers were machines filled with dreams. Dreams of money and power. Dreams broken down into binary code. Data. The most valued currency of all in this city where the foreign exchange turnover equaled 4637 billion dollars every day. Hidden in the brains of the computers were files, memos, research documents. A treasure trove of information protected by locked doors, computer firewalls and killer passwords.

But nothing was impossible, was it? He smiled into the wind and curved his back as he made a sharp turn into a narrow side street, leaving the worst of the traffic behind him. Doors can be knocked down; walls can be scaled and the magic of encrypted incantations dissolved. Secrets were meant to be broken. You only needed focus and determination-and wasn't it fortunate that he was gifted with both.

Today he was on a scouting expedition. His client was Bubbleboy, a toy company specializing in toys for the six- to ten-year-old age group. His target was Pittypats, Bubbleboy's biggest competitor. In this bunny-eat-bunny world, the way to gain the edge was to know your rival's secrets. Companies can glean a great deal of information about the competition by studying reports by the city's financial analysts and by trawling through newspapers and trade journals. This modus operandi is boring, unadventurous but-to be fair-not ineffective.

Public documents, however, will only allow you a partial reading of the tea leaves. Ultimately, a more innovative approach is necessary. And that was where Gabriel came in. His scouting expedition today would be only the first step in an elaborate operation designed to give Bubbleboy deep access into its main rival's secrets.

Pittypats's City offices, he was interested to see, were located in two modest, if charming late-eighteenth-century houses complete with Venetian windows and scalloped arches. Very unassuming for a company with an impressive global reach. The offices sat quietly at the end of a narrow street, dwarfed by a sixties concrete tower that was unashamedly ugly. A steel railing ran the length of the building. He chained his bike to the railing, and as he straightened, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the plate glass window. Ankle boots, jeans, grubby T-shirt with the words "City Couriers" emblazoned on the front. Leather satchel slung across his back. Clipboard clenched underneath one armpit. Good. He looked the part.

Security at Pittypats's front door was basic: the ubiquitous security camera and a buzzer and voice intercom unit. He placed his thumb on the button and almost immediately the door clicked open.

Inside it was a different matter. Against the ceiling were motion detectors, and the door leading from the tiny reception room to the rest of the building was equipped with a magnetic key card reader. No cameras in this room. Although no guarantee there weren't any somewhere deeper inside the building.

A girl, sitting behind a green-and-gold leather-inset desk, looked up as he walked in. Her hair was coiled primly behind her head, but her lips looked as though they belonged to one of the replicants in Blade Runner. The gloss was stupendous and her mouth seemed to glitter. Quite stunning, actually. But also somehow forbidding. You had the feeling that if you kissed those lips you might lose some skin.

"Can I help you?" She was looking at him coolly, one eyebrow lifted to form an impressive arc.

He smiled at her and swung the leather bag from his shoulder. "Package to deliver."

She waited while he opened the bag, her fingers clutching a pencil and tapping it softly on the old-fashioned blotter in front of her.

"Here you are." He extracted a small package wrapped in brown paper, placing it along with the clipboard on top of the desk. "Package for Mr. Peake. And it needs signing for."

"Peake?" She frowned. "No. There's no one here by that name."

He knew there wasn't. He had made sure of it beforehand, but now he spoke with exaggerated patience. "Yes. Peake. See. It says so right here." He stabbed a finger at the clipboard. "Mr. Donald Peake."

"No." She pushed it back at him, irritated. "There must be a mistake."

"This is Pittypats?"

"Yes, it is. But-"

He peered at the address on the package. "Mr. Donald Peake. Human Resources."

"Oh." Her face cleared. "Our human resources department is out in Croydon. You've got the wrong office."

No, sweetheart, I haven't, he thought silently but continued, "Would it be possible to leave the package here-for you to send it on to Mr. Peake, like?"

She looked uncertain. He watched as she worried her lower lip between her teeth. Surprisingly, the lipstick showed no sign of smudging, staying preternaturally glistening and smooth. Amazing.

"Maybe you could just ask?" he prompted. "Please, love. Help me out."

For another moment she hesitated. Then she opened the drawer of the desk and took out a small square of plastic. "Wait here."

She turned and swiped the key through the electronic scanner. The tiny red eye at the top of the scanner turned green and she pushed the door open. He caught a brief glimpse of a well-lit but completely bland hallway. There was no indication whatsoever as to what went on inside the building.

As the door swung shut behind her, he dropped to his knees and opened the bag wider. Inside was his iPAQ. Small, discreet, it was still his favorite tool for this kind of work. It was already powered up, and as there were no cameras around, he would be able to sneak a quick peek.

The screen blinked, and what it showed him made him smile with delight. Oh, great. The path forward would be relatively easy. This commission was not going to require any athletics, thank God. With his last job he had had no choice but to break-and-enter and he had found himself crawling around false ceilings, fighting his way through phone lines, air-conditioning equipment and fire sprinklers, all so he could bypass some truly maddening security controls and gain access to a restricted research area. This time around, he would be able to pluck the information from the air, so to speak.

The door opened. It was the girl. He got to his feet and closed the leather bag without fuss.

"Yes." The girl nodded. "You can leave the package here. We'll take care of it."

"Actually," he shook his head regretfully and hitched the bag onto his shoulders, "looks like it has to be Croydon, after all. Just spoke to my boss." He gestured at the cell phone clipped to his belt. "He says Mr. Peake has to sign for it personally. Sorry for the trouble."

She sighed with exasperation, but he could tell that she had already lost interest in him. "Just shut the door on your way out, please."

He opened the door and looked back. It had been a brief visit. No more than ten minutes had passed since he first walked in here. But the trip had been a definite success. Apart from everything else, it surely would have been worth it just to see those lips. He was going to have fun describing them to Isidore.

Outside on the street, he undipped the cell phone and speed-dialed Isidore's number. Isidore didn't answer his phone, but that did not mean he wasn't at home.

The answering machine kicked in, and for the next few moments he was forced to listen to Isidore's newest outgoing message. Isidore's idea of humor was to record Bible verses of the muscular kind-painful penance and eternal damnation-before inviting his caller to leave a message. Gabriel waited impatiently for the beep.

"Isidore, pick up. Now."

A click. "Gabriel, my man. Where you hanging?"

Gabriel sighed. Isidore had been to Eton and Cambridge but was hopelessly in love with black street rap, and every so often he would sprinkle his conversation with a highly personalized version of American street slang. As his accent remained stubbornly upper-crust, the effect was startling to say the least.

"I'm still in the City. Guess what? Bluetooth."

Isidore chuckled. "You don't say. Well, we be good boys. We due a break. See you soon?"

"I'm on my way."

He closed the cell phone and found himself smiling. This job was going to be a breeze.

His iPAQ had told him Pittypats was making use of wireless technology. Very cool. Wireless technology certainly made for lovely uncluttered work environments, with computers talking to one another without being connected by a rat's nest of hardwired cables. But there was one problem. Wireless electronic emissions can be picked up if you have the right equipment. And he and Isidore most certainly did have the right equipment.

He unchained his bicycle and took off his black-framed glasses, substituting them with a pair of Ray-Bans. The sting of the sun was easing slightly, but the glare was still considerable. He glanced at his watch: 4:30 p.m. Another twenty minutes at least before he'd get to Isidore's place.

Isidore lived close to Smithfield meat market and he liked it there, something Gabriel did not understand. The sight of bloody rib cages was too reminiscent of a horror painting a la Francis Bacon. Meat had been sold at Smithfield for eight hundred years, and for close to four centuries it had also been the site where witches, heretics and traitors were burned or boiled alive as so many pieces of meat themselves. Probably another reason why Gabriel was immune to the stunning architecture of the marketplace with its ornate ironwork and imposing arches and pillars.

Isidore lived in a narrow up-and-down duplex, squeezed in between two abandoned houses with boarded-up windows. Just as well he didn't have any neighbors: Isidore preferred his music loud. As Gabriel walked up the shallow steps leading to the front door, he could hear music pulsing through the double-glazed windows. It was a good thing he had a key to the house: there was no way Isidore would be able to hear the doorbell over this racket. He turned the key in the lock and braced himself for the onslaught of sound.

It was even worse than he had expected. Rap was Isidore's poison, but it seemed his friend was in a nostalgic mood. Vintage Guns N' Roses was the choice du jour. Welcome to the jungle! screamed Axl Rose with enviable lack of inhibition.

With his hands over his ears, Gabriel mounted the steps two by two and walked rapidly through the wide-open door at the top of the flight of stairs. Without pausing, he continued over to the wall unit and pressed his thumb hard on the power button of the CD player. The sudden silence was a shock.

He turned around. In the swivel chair in front of him, blond hair falling untidily across his forehead and eyebrows raised in pained surprise, was Francis James Cavendish, aka Isidore. Isidore was a nom de guerre, chosen in homage to Jack Isidore, the dysfunctional hero of Philip K. Dick's Confessions of a Crap Artist. The fictional Isidore believed the earth to be hollow and sunlight to have weight. The real-life Isidore was able to come up with theories easily more off-the-wall than that.

He now threw his hands in the air in mock surrender, the long fingers calloused from hours of slamming the keyboard. "Hey, bro. What's your problem?"

"I don't want to go deaf, that's my problem. Shit-" Gabriel paused and looked around him. Every available surface that wasn't taken up by computers, screens, keyboards, tech manuals, wires and other computer detritus was cluttered with empty pizza boxes, chocolate wrappers, soda cans and greasy chip packages. "It stinks in here. You're turning into a cliche, you know that? This is the stereotypical hacker hell. Why not try for a little originality for God's sake."

Isidore managed to look hurt. "Like you? Driving a Jaguar and listening to Chopin. Oh, yeah. That's original. I'm waiting for the day you start smoking cigars. Besides which, five years from now you'll still be paying off the mortgage on that fancy flat of yours and I'll be rocking in the sun sipping mai tais."

Gabriel knew that Isidore's plan was to retire within five years to Hawaii and spend his days surfing the waves off Banzai Beach. Which would be a good plan, except that he had never surf boarded in his life. And the idea that he would actually be able to break his addiction to the computer screen and leave the keyboard for the great outdoors was even more ridiculous. But Point Break was Isidore's favorite movie and the Patrick Swayze character his hero.

Gabriel sighed. Isidore was an ass but he was also a genius. No one could hack together code more robust and elegant.

"OK." Gabriel sat down on the edge of a pumpkin-colored velour chair, pushing two empty beer bottles out of the way. "Here goes. I wasn't able to see inside the offices themselves, but there's no doubt Pittypats are using wireless technology. I think it could be because they're situated in a protected building. Regulations probably prevented them from installing cables and disturbing the structure."

Isidore nodded. "Don't you just love planning permissions. What about WEP?"

"Yes. It looks as though their CTO is doing his job on that front."

Isidore grunted but, as Gabriel expected, didn't look in any way concerned. WEP was a cinch: it could be cracked by anyone with half a brain using freely available software. Isidore had more than his share of gray matter to begin with and seldom used anything but his own custom-designed software anyway.

It was amazing, Gabriel thought, how cavalier companies were when it came to computer security. High-tech companies and the biotech industry were more cautious, but in general very few compa-nies scanned their network regularly or even ran an integrity checker to see if their system files had been altered in any way. And very pf-ten with wireless networks, WEP encryption wasn't even enabled.

The bottom line was that the only way Pittypats could protect itself from electronic penetration would be to install layers of steel inside its offices. And one thing was for sure: that house didn't have any steel walls. So it was only a matter of fishing within the pond of electronic emissions and hooking a password, the name of a file, or a project handle and he and Isidore would be home free.

Gabriel yawned suddenly. For the first time today he was feeling tired. He glanced at his watch. "I have to get home. I wanted us to work out the surveillance schedule today but let's wait until next time."

"Heavy date tonight?" Isidore was watching him sardonically. "Is it still… what's her name… Bethany?"

"Briony. And no, it's not."

"She dumped you, huh."

"You could say that. I'm pretty cut up about it."

"Oh, give me a break. You dated her only so you could get close to her friend, the blonde with the cute lisp."

Gabriel frowned. "Not true. Well," he amended, "maybe at first, but that's all changed. Briony broke my heart."

"Heart? Man, you have no heart."

"So maybe hearts are overrated."

"Essential equipment for most of us, bro."

"Not me. I get by on sex appeal alone."

Isidore scowled. "Get out of here, you smug bastard. I have to get ready for a date myself."

"Don't tell me." Gabriel grinned. "Some digital babe in the kingdom of Dreadshine." He was referring to one of Isidore's regular haunts on the Internet: a multi-user domain of the more surreal kind. Here, in a cyberworld entirely built up of words, Isidore regularly turned himself into a medieval knight slaying gremlins and demons with ruthless gusto. Isidore and a host of other Dread-shine residents-all equally dazzled by the products of their own imagination-had a grand old time amazing one another with their cleverness and virtual feats of daring. But never any face-to-face contact. Romance and adventure via keyboard. It was all a little sad.

Gabriel gave Isidore an abbreviated salute. "So have fun."

"Always." Isidore grinned wolfishly.

As Gabriel walked down the stairs, the music started up again. Belinda Carlisle, this time. Good grief.

Contrary to what Isidore thought, Gabriel did not have a date tonight. He was looking forward to a glass of twenty-year-old Scotch, some spicy stir-fry and a long soak in his cedar-paneled and very expensive bathtub.

As he walked into the loft, the light was blinking on his answering machine but he ignored it. After hanging the bike on the wall, he walked across the huge room with its beautiful jarrah wood floor and pulled open the sliding door that gave access to a narrow balcony. His apartment was the biggest in this converted warehouse, and the balcony ran the entire length of the loft space. It was close to Tower Bridge, and the view onto the Thames never failed to make Gabriel feel deeply content.

He loved the river. He loved it in winter with the fog hanging still and white, shrouding the gold-tipped bridge with its high walkway so that it looked like a ghost. He loved it in summer, when the river became a lazy brown snake and the smell of wet earth hovered in the air.

The loft apartment with its radiant views was not merely a pleasant place to live. It was much, much more. It represented to him everything he had hungered for as a child. The Bristol neighborhood in which he grew up had been dreary and joyless. His father had been a long-distance trucker, while his mother added to the family income by making beds and cleaning bathrooms in a hotel. The family wasn't poverty-stricken, but their lives had very little grace. Seared into his memory was the house in which he had spent the first seventeen years of his life: the paper-thin walls, the cramped rooms and low ceilings. The television forever tuned to some or other Australian soap; the house smelling of macaroni and cheese and his brothers' dirty woolen socks. His mother's panty hose and bras dripping from the shower railing. The dreadful feeling of claustrophobia, of never having enough air to breathe.

His parents barely tolerated each other, their relationship worn thin through the repetitive strain of their daily routines. Some of his earliest memories were of the toneless bickering they kept up with mindless, dogged intensity, a despairing white noise. They were not cruel parents-no abuse or intentional neglect-but they did not seem to like their offspring very much and had very little interest or energy to invest in them.

By the age of twelve, he was running with a group of boys whose behavior hovered perilously between obnoxiousness and outright hooliganism. He might have found himself in serious trouble if it hadn't been for a teacher who had managed to find him a scholarship to a school where the emphasis was on hard work and high standards. The school ironed out his accent and gave him an excellent academic grounding, and he'd been offered a place at Oxford. Then, six months shy of graduation, he dropped out. His friends were aghast, but he never sought to explain his reasons to anyone. He simply packed up and left for London. And became a thief.

He had no illusions about his chosen field of endeavor. He had turned an aptitude for computers into a lucrative but criminal enterprise. Isidore, he knew, subscribed to the romanticized version of what it is to be a hacker, seeing himself as a caped crusader in cyberspace where corporations were fat-cat exploiters of the little man and fair game.

Much as Gabriel loved Isidore, he had no patience with this kind of bumper-sticker libertarianism. Theft was theft: whether in cyberspace or in the real world. Just because the medium was different didn't mean the principle was. If you download a piece of copyrighted music from the Internet without paying, you have just walked into Tower Records and pocketed a CD on the sly. If you hack into the research data of a company and peddle it to the competition, you're affecting the research and development budget of that company, stealing from them years and years of effort and monetary commitment. And although the bigger corporations might be able to survive the loss of trade secrets, smaller companies could be devastated.

So he never fooled himself. For ten years now he had been making a living-and a very good one at that-illegally leeching off the creative endeavors of others.

He stretched his arms wide-he had a knot in his back from the hours of cycling-and placed his hands on the railing of the balcony. As he stood there, suspended between sky and water, he experienced a profound sense of well-being. Dusk was his favorite time of day. He loved the feeling of the city letting go, kicking back. The glitter of lights on the other side of the river. The softer glow of the streetlamps reflected in the dark water slapping gently against the muddy bank.

It was as he turned away from the water, walking back into the apartment, that he spotted it again: the flickering light on his answering machine. For a moment he debated with himself whether to leave it until the next day-it was Friday evening after all-but then he walked over and pushed the play button.

The voice on the tape was unfamiliar. It was a male voice; rather thin, the words uttered with measured precision. The message was innocuous: a request for a breakfast meeting the following Monday to discuss a business proposition "that could be to our mutual benefit." The caller did not give his last name, identifying himself merely as William and specifying that he would be sitting in the booth farthest from the entrance.

The caller's reticence at identifying himself was not unusual. Prospective clients usually acted coy, at least initially, and it was quite understandable considering the kind of services they were hoping to procure. So the message seemed perfectly normal. Nothing out of the ordinary here, certainly nothing that could have set off an alarm bell inside his mind.

But months afterward he would think back on this moment when he had stood inside his beautiful apartment, his finger still on the button of the machine, the light fading outside the window, the sound of voices and laughter drifting upward along with the smells from the kebab house on the corner. He would look back on that moment as though it were frozen in time and search for some sign that might have indicated that his life was about to change completely. On that warm summer evening, when he had felt in absolute control of his destiny, was there not something that had served as a warning? Surely he should have sensed something. Surely there must have been an omen.

He lifted his finger from the button, unconcerned, merely making a mental note to himself to rise earlier than usual on Monday in order to get to Piccadilly in time for the meeting with his new, and as yet unknown, client.

But as he walked toward the kitchen, whistling tunelessly under his breath, a cool wind suddenly lifted one of the silk hangings on the wall. And in the wine red sky a fat moon was rising slowly.

Entry Date: 20 May

Follow the path that does not wander.

M is building a new door. The key will be large-as long as a woman's arm-and fashioned from silver. She is wording with such feverish haste, I am getting concerned. But it is true that the door is looking splendid.

On the other side will be a window. The sky outside this window will always be dark and the windowpanes smeared with frost.

Who will live in this place between door and window? A mummer with a heavy heart and blind eyes turning, turning.

I must meditate upon my name.

CHAPTER TWO

He looked wealthy. You couldn't put your finger on what it was exactly, but the aura of money was unmistakable. He was dressed conservatively in a dark blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a pale blue tie with tiny yellow flowers. His shoes were black brogues. But it wasn't really the clothes-even though the cut of the suit was impeccable-that gave you the idea that this was a man of material substance. It was something else altogether. Blue blood and money. A potent combination, as distinctive as a smell.

The well-born, truly rich are used to having their own way. They are seldom opposed or contradicted, usually protected against their own bad manners or errors in judgment. And everyone laughs at their jokes. This happy state of affairs-happy for the beneficiaries, not for their flunkies, of course-imparts an indefinable quality that can best be described as oblivious self-confidence. The man sitting in the booth farthest away from the entrance to the coffee shop had that quality.

He also had faded blue eyes, which were rather piercing.

"William?" Gabriel held out his hand.

The blue eyes surveyed him for a long moment, their expression slightly calculating, as though the man was trying to make up his mind about something. Then, unhurriedly, he held out his own hand. His grip was firm but not crushing.

"Gabriel. Thank you for coming. Please sit down."

Gabriel slid into his seat, and a waitress with a mournful smile approached the booth. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please. And poached eggs on toast. Three eggs. Runny."

The man opposite Gabriel made a negative gesture with his hand. "Nothing for me, thank you." Up close he was quite a bit older than he had appeared from outside. His movements were effortless, but the skin around his mouth was dry and raddled with tiny grooves. He was very thin.

Gabriel looked him full in the face and smiled. "Before we start, a few ground rules. I take it you have an information-gathering problem and you think I might be able to supply a solution. I probably can. But first I need to know your full name. I like to know who I'm dealing with. And then we can take it from there." He finished with another smile calculated to diminish the sting of his little speech. It was always best to get straight down to business. Sometimes prospective clients entered into a long courtship dance, too embarrassed to come straight out with what it was they had in mind. This could be very tiring.

"By all means," the man said courteously. "My name is William Whittington."

He had been right about the money. William Whittington. Well, well. Philanthropist and investment banker who had managed to add substantially to an already vast fortune inherited from his grandfather. A brilliant strategist. And a bit of a recluse. This could be interesting.

It was also puzzling. Why would Whittington meet with him in person? Gabriel did not usually deal with players at this level. In the normal swing of things he did not get to meet with CEOs, board directors or other members of top management. He was usually approached by someone much lower down the food chain. William Whittington was taking a big risk.

Whittington smiled faintly. "You're right, of course. I do have a problem and I do have need of your special talents. Except, maybe not quite in the way you expect."

For a moment he had the uncomfortable feeling that Whittington was enjoying a private joke at his expense. Before he could respond, the waitress appeared at the booth and plonked a chipped white plate down in front of him.

"Three eggs, runny. Right?"

"Right." He looked at Whittington. "Are you sure you won't join me?"

Whittington shook his head. He was looking at the plate with a mixture of amusement, horror and respect. "I couldn't possibly. But please go ahead."

The eggs were exactly as he liked them. After taking a bite, he said, "You were saying?"

"Do you have children, Gabriel?"

This was a new one. "No, I don't."

"I have a son." Whittington's face was suddenly set, no hint of amusement left in his eyes. "His name is Robert. Robert Whittington. He is twenty-one years old." A pause. "He is missing."

"Missing?"

"He disappeared nine months ago. I want you to find him."

Gabriel lowered his fork to his plate. "I think you may have been misinformed about what it is I do. I'm an information broker. I'm not a private investigator. I don't look for missing people."

"But you used to." A long pause. "At Eyestorm."

For a moment Gabriel felt as though the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He tried to keep his face expressionless, to wipe away the shock he knew must be reflected on his face. He found himself focusing intently on a black fly, which was walking delicately along the very edge of the Formica-topped table. It was the warm weather: the city was crawling with them.

"Gabriel?" The man opposite him was watching him speculatively.

"I can't help you." He took a deep breath and carefully wiped his mouth with his paper napkin. "You and I have no business. I am sorry about your son, but you should be talking to the police, not to me." He was trying to keep his voice calm.

"Don't you want to know how I know about Eyestorm?"

"Not particularly." The fly had taken flight. It settled on the rim of the sugar bowl on the table in the next booth.

"Cecily told me."

He had started to edge out of his seat, but at this he stopped. "Cecily. Cecily Franck?"

"Yes."

"Frankie is in the United States."

Whittington shook his head. "Not anymore. For the past two years she's been living in London."

"You're mistaken again. She would never come back here."

"She is back." Whittington smiled, rather sadly. "I know this, for a fact. You see, we were married two years ago. She's my wife."

CHAPTER THREE

"Call me Frankie," she had said the first time they were introduced. "Everyone does. Cecily was my grandmother's name. And to tell you the truth, I was never fond of the old lady. She was a mean broad."

She smiled widely-a delightful smile-and Gabriel found himself smiling back. Not exactly pretty, Cecily Franck was nevertheless immensely attractive. Narrow face. Light brown hair springing from her forehead in a widow's peak. A sweet mouth and surprisingly shrewd eyes. Flawless skin. Her voice was low but carrying, the American accent pronounced in that room filled with the hum of British voices.

He looked around him. There must have been close to forty guests in the large old-fashioned living room of Alexander Mullins's Oxford house. The room had a tired feel to it, with its dusty moss green carpet, fringed lamps and porcelain knickknacks. The guests, all of them sipping lukewarm wine and nibbling on pieces of rubbery cheese, were an odd-looking bunch. Judging from the information displayed on their name tags, they seemed to come from different walks of life and from different parts of the UK. Frankie was obviously American but her name tag stated simply that she was a student. As did his own, which was probably why they had instinctively sought each other out. The only common denominator linking all the guests was that each person present was there because he or she had responded to the same advertisement in one of the national newspapers.

"What do you think of him?" Frankie's eyes followed his gaze to where a tall, thin man with an impressively aquiline nose was talking to a woman with an eager expression.

"Mullins?" Gabriel shrugged. "Too soon to tell."

"He doesn't look anything like I thought he would." Frankie's voice was dubious.

"What did you expect-someone clutching a crystal ball?"

She smiled ruefully. "Someone more colorful, at least. You know what I mean."

"Well, the man's a scientist. They're not usually known for their flamboyance." But Gabriel knew what she meant. Considering the reason for tonight's meeting, she could be forgiven for expecting someone a little more theatrical. Not that Mullins was the kind of man you could ignore. His eyes behind the incongruous cat's-eye spectacles were cold but laser sharp. And his reputation was impressive.

Alexander Mullins was an eminent neuropsychologist with a thirty-year research background in statistical methods and cognitive processes. But his true passion lay in the field of psychic phenomena. Eyestorm. The reason this motley collection of people had gathered here tonight.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." Gabriel glanced at her inquiringly.

"Do you…" Frankie hesitated, colored. "Do you feel a little silly being here? You know, don't you feel like this is all just too woo woo?"

He smiled but before he could answer, Alexander Mullins was tapping a knife to the stem of his wineglass.

The hum of voices ceased and all eyes turned toward the host.

"Welcome. I am very pleased you have decided to attend tonight's meeting." Despite his words, Mullins's voice lacked warmth. "The fact that you have responded to my advertisement means that all of you believe you may be in possession of a latent talent-a rare gift. Tonight will be the first step in determining if this is the case."

A wintry smile. "Not all of you will be successful. But if you make the grade, you will receive an invitation to join a great adventure…"

But in the end, of the forty-seven original participants, only three made the grade. After six months, only Gabriel, Frankie and a middle-aged plumber by the name of Norman were invited to join an existing group of psychics known collectively as Eyestorm.

Eyestorm was the British equivalent of the American STAR-GATE project. First launched in the U.S. by the Department of Defense, STARGATE was designed to study real-life applications of telepathy and clairvoyance or, as it subsequently became known, remote viewing.

The term "remote viewing" was chosen on purpose. It was considered an acceptable, neutral term and was adopted by two physicists at the Stanford Research Institute, Dr. Harold Puthoff and Russell Targ, who were involved in some of the earliest work. As Mullins explained that first night, "Unfortunately, terms such as 'clairvoyance' and 'telepathy,' which could have been useful, have been hijacked by charlatans. We needed something fresh in their place. 'Remote viewing' is a term not yet tarnished by the exploits of fake psi practitioners."

Gabriel lifted his hand. "There are those who would argue that psi practitioners are per definition fake."

Mullins's cold eyes glittered from behind his spectacles. "Mr… Blackstone, is it? If you're not a believer in psi, why are you here tonight?" Without giving Gabriel a chance to answer, he continued, "Please accept my assurance that STARGATE's exploration into inner consciousness was based on very strict methods. And this is the way we work at Eyestorm as well."

He looked away from Gabriel and allowed his eyes to travel over the faces of his audience. "Let me be very clear indeed," he said forcefully. "The protocols used at Eyestorm are exceptionally rigorous. This is not a forum for Loch Ness searches or UFO sightings."

Even though Eyestorm was largely following the model and ideals of STARGATE, there was one big difference, Mullins continued. Unlike its American cousin, which received federal funding before it was closed down in the nineties, Eyestorm did not benefit from direct government sponsorship. The group had to rely on fees paid by private clients and, as Mullins explained with a self-deprecating smile, on the considerable inherited wealth of its founder member.

The approach of the two groups was very similar, however. Both Eyestorm and STARGATE were firmly oriented toward results in the outside world. The two units were not merely think tanks; their research was applied to real blood-and-guts problems.

One of the bigger successes of the American unit was in tracking down smugglers of illegal narcotics. Working with the U.S. Coast Guard, STARGATE's remote viewers had used their clairvoyant skills to identify suspect ships and in several instances had been able to sketch the exact location of hidden drug caches. Another notable achievement was helping the American Air Force search team track down a downed Soviet airplane in Africa. A remote viewer managed to pinpoint a site to within three miles of the downed craft.

In contrast, Eyestorm's clients were not government-affiliated but people who turned to it after exhausting the more conventional routes of police and private investigators. Many of Eyestorm's cases involved tracking down stolen artworks or lost heirlooms. And then there were the search-and-rescue missions. Using their remote viewing skills, Eyestorm members would assist in finding missing relatives and hostages.

This was what attracted Frankie. The human factor. "Just think how awful it must be, Gabriel, not to know if a loved one is truly lost. Isn't it wonderful that we can bring peace of mind to these people?"

He nodded in agreement, but in his heart of hearts Gabriel knew that for him, the attraction lay elsewhere. Remote viewing was power. He reveled in the opportunity to exercise this talent that was hardwired into his brain. For him it was a rush. For Frankie it was a calling.

Ah, Frankie. Frankie of the soft mouth and bright mind. Frankie who slept with the night-light on because she was afraid of the dark, but who did not hesitate to confront a street thug menacing an elderly shopper. Frankie who was laughter and comfort and serenity. When they met in Mullins's living room, they had liked each other on sight. The connection was strong, immediate and blessedly uncomplicated. And liking soon turned to love.

The transition had been free of the extreme mood swings and passionate excesses usually associated with a first romance. This wasn't thunderclap stuff. It was an exceptional friendship gradually elevated to a more intimate level. Around them on campus, fellow students were involved in brief, passionate flings; testing their boundaries, experimenting at love. He and Frankie did it differently. It was a remarkably mature relationship considering it started when they were both only eighteen years old.

Still, it probably was their youth that finally let them down. If they had been older, they might have weathered Eyestorm a whole lot better. Instead of being blown apart, they might have been able to emerge from that whirlwind without the anger-or worse, the terrible sense of disappointment they had ended up feeling in each other.

Eyestorm tore them apart. But Eyestorm also forged a bond between them that was unbreakable. And it created an environment where they could give free rein to an exceptional and mysterious talent shared by them both.

Remote viewing. Second sight. The Gift. The Shining. In the end, though, they all came down to the same thing. And ever since he was a little boy Gabriel had been aware of it: a tiny bump in his unconscious. At the time he had no way to explain what it was, either to himself or to others.

Only after joining Eyestorm was he taught the concept of "psi-space," that nebulous field of information that encapsulates the accumulated knowledge of different minds. It was explained to him that as a psi-sensitive he already had a highly developed neurophysi-ological network in place, which made it possible for him to enter the psi environment and merge his thoughts with information generated by the minds of others. With practice, he would be able to pick up on the resonance of those thoughts with increasing ease.

As a small boy, of course, he had been unable to articulate what was happening to him. All he knew was that he had an uncanny ability to track down missing things-to "see" where they were.

He did not test this ability, and he certainly did not receive encouragement from his family to develop his talent. His mother reacted suspiciously the few times he found objects that had been lost or misplaced by members of the family, accusing him of hiding them himself in an attempt to get attention. After Jack, his older brother, stomped on him because he had inadvertently betrayed his brother's secret hiding place, he decided firmly that this was not a talent worth exploring. No one else seemed to share his gift, and it made him feel "different." And who the hell, at that age, wanted to feel different?

Maybe, he thought, if he ignored this weird skill it would go away. By his late teens, however, he realized it wasn't going to be that easy. Wishing it away was not going to work. He was stuck with it.

The realization brought him to Eyestorm and Alexander Mullins.

Alexander Benedict Mullins. The name sounded intimidating. The man certainly was. For three years Mullins was his mentor and surrogate father. Not that there was anything even remotely paternal in the way Mullins treated him. Mullins was not given to extravagant praise or, for that matter, any kind of feel-good interaction with his students. But the loyalty and admiration he inspired among his remote viewers was undeniable. Gabriel, although he would never admit to it, vied fiercely with the other RVs at Eyestorm to gain Mullins's approval.

Gabriel knew the older man thought him arrogant. "Remember," Mullins would preach. "Never, ever fall in love with your gift. Never allow yourself to become blinded by its light. It is merely an ability- like someone who is blessed with perfect pitch, or wide-angled vision. Psi sensitivity is widespread in the general populace. A policeman's hunch, a woman's intuition-these are all everyday examples of latent psi ability. Yes, only a small number of people are truly psi-talented. People like you. But the talent for remote viewing is not something you've earned: you can't take credit for it. It is merely something you were born with."

But even though there was friction between student and teacher, they needed each other. Gabriel required the older man's help to impose some kind of discipline on a gift that was wildly unpredictable. And if Mullins nursed misgivings about his pupil, he was nevertheless tremendously excited by the systematically high level of hits scored by Gabriel during that first year of training. In all his years of research, Mullins had never come across a subject who performed as consistently.

What interested Mullins in particular was Gabriel's versatility. Most remote viewers had a particular cognitive style, which they favored and followed almost exclusively. Some RVs were more successful in accessing targets while awake; others were incapable of psi activity unless they made use of dreams-lucid or otherwise; yet another group relied on a deep meditative state to do their work. Some scored better at accessing and describing landmarks, objects and geometric shapes; others preferred to home in on personal aspects such as feelings and thoughts. Gabriel, though, showed no preference for any specific cognitive style, and was able to describe visual configurations as well as emotional impressions with equal ease.

After twelve months of "staring" experiments, "double-blind" tests, "dreamwork," "filtering" and more, Gabriel was outperforming the rest of the class by a wide margin. By this time he was champing at the bit. He wanted to get into the field and work on actual problems, and he did not appreciate his mentor's caution.

"What the hell is he waiting for?" he would complain to Frankie. "You're already working on cases, and I don't want to sound conceited, sweetie, but I'm better at this than you."

"Oh, thanks."

"Come on, Frankie. I love you too much to BS you. You know it's true."

Frankie sighed. "OK. Why don't I see if I can't get Alexander to rope you in."

"Yes," Gabriel agreed eagerly. "The old man has a real soft spot for you. Give him that killer smile and bat some eyelashes, why don't you?"

"Sometimes, Gabriel," Frankie said strongly, "you're a total asshole."

But she did actually manage to get Mullins to allow Gabriel to assist on some relatively minor cases. There was the recovery of a stolen T'ang horse from the Qing period. The tracking down of a lost manuscript. Another time he and Frankie were paired with a veteran RV to pursue the whereabouts of the perpetrators of an Internet scam.

They were not always successful, of course. Remote viewing was free energy. Harnessing that energy was like threading a needle in a hurricane. Specific data such as exact street addresses could not be accessed as easily as opening a telephone book.

Furthermore, remote viewing was often a less than comfortable business. Remote viewers referred to the "seeing" process as slamming the ride and the ride often took you into someone else's mental space. This was not always a warm and cozy place to be.

Not that Gabriel subscribed to the cliched image of the tortured psychic forever at the mercy of his dark gift. He was no victim; he was a warrior. And the thrill of success was addictive. He became hooked on that massive surge of self-satisfaction that accompanied every ride.

To a certain extent he was leading a schizophrenic life. On the one hand was Oxford, his school friends and his studies; all-nighters in the library, papers, tutors, study groups, "boat races" in the pub. On the other was Eyestorm. The only link between the two worlds was Cecily Franck. Inevitably, the fact that they were both living a kind of double existence deepened the bond between them. It was an exciting time.

And then the Cartwright case came along.

Six weeks later he quit Eyestorm, left Oxford and headed for London and a different life.

Entry date: 28 May

I was dreaming of R last night. He was smiling at me and his hands reached for mine. The idea that I will never see that lovely angel smile of his again is so painful I sometimes feel my mind shutting down.

M is losing patience with me. She thinks I'm stuck in the past- "wallowing" as she puts it. And she wants us to look for someone new to play with. Maybe she's right: the work is so important. It needs to continue. But I am heartsick. Where will we find someone like my sweet boy again? Someone who is looking for new challenges not new comfort zones. A searcher. An initiate. A man apart.

For what it's worth, we built another room last week. In this room will live a man with the head of a baboon. Thoth. God of magic and writing. Of alchemy and arithmetic and astrology.

I must meditate upon my name.

CHAPTER FOUR

Gabriel knew who was on the other side of the door even before he opened it. Although he had expected her to turn up on his doorstep ever since his meeting with William Whittington three days ago, he was suddenly feeling completely unprepared. Thirteen years. A long time by anyone's standards.

She rang the bell again.

As he opened the door he got an immediate whiff of her perfume. Jasmine, cinnamon and the hint of a more exotic bloom. Her tastes had changed. She used to prefer lighter, more woody scents. But her eyes were still the same. Clear gray eyes set underneath delicately feathered eyebrows, which looked like the wings of a bird in flight. Cecily Franck. No, not Franck. Whittington. Mrs. William Whittington III to be exact.

"Gabriel." She smiled at him, a tentative smile. For a moment he thought she was going to hold out her hand, but then she leaned over and her lips brushed his cheek.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" She smiled again, and the smile was slightly bolder this time, though the expression in her eyes was still wary.

He stepped back and held the door wider. She walked past him into the room.

"Oh." Her voice was surprised. She looked around her, her gaze taking in the satisfying proportions of the loft, the glow of lights filling the skyline outside the windows. "This is lovely."

"Thank you. Let me have your jacket."

She turned around and allowed the jacket to slide down her arms. The rustle of the fabric sounded expensive. The drape of the deceptively simple dress she was wearing suggested that someone had taken a great deal of care in both cut and design.

He gestured at the sofa. "Please."

She sat down on the very edge of the seat, but then, probably realizing how tense she looked, settled deeper into the cushions.

"Can I offer you a drink?"

"Sherry. If you have it."

He walked to the drinks cabinet and took out a glass and a bottle of bone-dry amontillado. Another change here. She never used to drink. Well, no doubt all the fancy cocktail parties and glamorous socializing of her new lifestyle necessitated her moving on to something a little more sophisticated than OJ.

She took the glass from him. He noticed she wore no rings. The light of the floor lamp gave a golden sheen to her brown hair. He sat down in the deep leather armchair, which stood in the shadow, outside the circle of light.

She was staring down at the amber liquid in the glass, frowning slightly. As he watched her he was surprised at how detached he felt. After all, he had loved this woman. Not only that, she had been his first love. And what with the first cut being the deepest and all that, surely he should feel some emotion; a little quickening of the pulse, at least. Instead, here he was, his mind Zen calm, his heartbeat even. Pretty amazing.

"You look good, Gabriel. You've hardly changed."

"Thanks."

"You're supposed to respond in kind, you know." She smiled faintly. "It's only polite."

"Oh, sorry. You look great." Which was actually true. Her face had matured and she had lost the baby fat she had still carried around at age twenty. She looked elegant, groomed, and she had the air of a woman who was sure of herself and her abilities.

She had become a stranger.

"You've done well for yourself." She glanced around her.

"So have you."

She flushed at the irony in his voice.

"You've met William. He's a remarkable man."

"Indeed. How old is he?"

The flush deepened. "Sixty-three."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Well. He looks good for his age."

"Doesn't he." There was something in her voice now that he didn't understand. Not that he was all that interested. Time to cut to the chase and end this.

"Why are you here, Frankie?"

She placed the glass on the side table flanking the sofa and looked at him steadily. "You know why I'm here."

"Your husband sent you."

"No." She shrugged her shoulders. "This is me coming to you. But yes, I'm here on his behalf."

"Why didn't you approach me yourself in the first place?"

"We thought you might be more interested if you thought it a purely financial arrangement. If you had given him a chance, William would have explained how he can make it very much worth your while." She paused. "I hope I'm not offending you."

"Money never offends me."

There was a tiny mole at the side of her cheek, just above her jawbone. He remembered it well. She saw him looking at it and touched her fingers involuntarily to her face. And in that movement, slightly awkward, he suddenly saw the old Frankie. The shy but determined girl whose smile had been enough to make him dizzy. She used to have such faith in him; it made him feel ten feet tall. Until the day her face went blank with disappointment. Disappointment in him… the man she was supposed to love no matter what.

He took a deep breath, looked away. "You should go to the police. They deal with missing persons."

"The police have given up. Oh, they don't say that, of course. But it's obvious. And I also think they believe Robbie's not so much missing as wanting to be missing."

"Why?"

"Robbie and William have a rather… problematic… relationship. Robbie took off once before-William finally tracked him down to a commune in California. Sort of a New Age hideout where they start the day with a group hug and grow hemp and weave baskets. You know the kind of place I'm talking about. That was three years ago."

"So what makes you think he's not there now?"

"He's not."

Below in the street someone was pressing the horn of a car impatiently. The sound was strident, irritating.

He leaned forward and smiled at her. "So Daddy and his little boy don't get along."

"You could say that." There was hostility in her eyes now. She clearly didn't like where this was going.

"Let me guess. The heir doesn't measure up. Footsteps too big to fill. Parental expectations too high?"

She didn't answer but he sensed he had hit the bull's-eye.

When she spoke again, he could hear her trying to keep her voice level. "I wouldn't have come to you if there was any other choice, Gabriel. I'm asking you to help me… for old times' sake."

Old times' sake? God, what a cliche. What a crock. And suddenly he was angry. Gone was his calm. His breathing came fast and he knew his face was flushed.

"You'll be a rich widow one day. With no son around, things will be a whole lot less complicated when it comes to the will. Have you thought of that?"

"Jesus." Her face contorted. "What the hell's happened to you?"

He stood up, his movement so violently abrupt that she flinched. "OK. Enough of this. I can't help your husband. Not in the way you want. You of all people should understand that."

"He's dying."

"What?"

"William. He's dying."

He stared down at her, his mind refusing to compute what she said. "What do you mean, dying?"

"Just that. Another year, eighteen months at the most." Her face was eerily serene. Her hands were clutched together so tightly, the veins stood out at the wrists. "William wants to reconcile with his son. As you can imagine, it's become a matter of urgency to him. I don't think that will be possible. I think Robbie is dead. In fact, I'm almost sure of it."

He sat down heavily. His remark about the rich widow suddenly seemed unbelievably crass. "If he's dead, Frankie, then what do you expect of me?"

"I want to find out what happened to him. I want William to know why his only child disappeared. I can't give him that certainty. I wish I could. You can. You have the gift."

"You have the gift as well."

"No, I have an aptitude, that's all. You have the fire, I don't."

He didn't deny it. What she said was true. Her RV skills had been of a high enough level to get her into Eyestorm. And she had worked hard at sharpening a natural talent. But practice, craft and discipline can pump up the muscle of the mind only so far. Despite Alexander Mullins's insistence that remote viewing was merely a latent sense that could be refined and developed by hard work and application- like honing a reflex action or developing a nose for wine-every RV knew that there came a point where remote viewing moved not only beyond science but also beyond art. Capricious energy. Flashes of fantasized lightning illuminating the dark side of the brain. Some were better at slamming the ride than others.

"I take it you've tried to locate him yourself."

"Of course." She nodded emphatically. "And that's why I don't think he's alive anymore."

"You sensed nothing."

"Total strikeout. No ride. And I knew him well, Gabriel. Before he moved into his own place, we had lived in the same house for almost a year."

Gabriel knew that Frankie's cognitive style relied heavily on personal rapport. She needed to establish some kind of emotional connection with her subject in order to generate any psi-data. The more she knew of her subject's feelings and emotions, the more likely she was to get a reading when she exercised her remote viewing skills. Therefore, if she had actually lived in the same house as her missing stepson, the personal framework she needed to "switch on" would already be in place. If Frankie couldn't sense Robert Whittington at all, that was bad news. Sadly, it would mean she was probably right. He was in all likelihood dead.

She reached down to her ankles and picked up her handbag. Opening the bag, she extracted from it a buff-colored envelope and from the envelope a snapshot.

"That's him. Robbie."

The face in the picture was young and handsome. A thick thatch of hair sprang from a high forehead in a riot of short glossy curls. Gabriel was able to detect a hint of William Whittington's hawkish-ness in the set of the younger Whittington's eyes and nose, but that was where the similarity between father and son ended. Robert's mouth was soft and his chin rounded. And the eyes. God, the expression in the eyes was shockingly vulnerable. Such innocence. Gabriel couldn't recall the last time he had seen such trust and acceptance in the gaze of anyone over the age of three.

"Will you do it…?" She didn't add the words "for me" but they hung in the air as surely as though she had spoken them out loud.

He didn't answer. Carefully he placed the snapshot on the arm of the chair, nudging it away from him.

The corners of her mouth sagged and she closed her eyes briefly. Then, with a swift, graceful motion she got to her feet. Her voice was formal. "May I have my jacket, please?"

In silence he helped her slip back into the jacket.

He opened the door. "Good-bye, Frankie."

She stood half-turned, her body facing the door, her head twisted to one side.

"Damn you." Her voice held no passion.

"Frankie, come on…"

"I love my husband. I would do anything to restore some peace to his world. I'm begging you, Gabriel. For once, just once, think of someone besides yourself. You've never used the ride for anything but selfish purposes."

He was starting to get angry. "You can say that-"

"I can say that because it's true. Alexander was right. The lives you saved, the good you did was incidental. It was all about you and the ride. And because of one bad ride you've decided to discard it like some worn-out shoe, which no longer fits."

She turned around and faced him directly. "Do you know how jealous I was of you at Eyestorm? That shocks you? Sweet little Frankie jealous of the man she loved? Well, guess what. There were times my envy was eating me up. There you were, slamming the ride so sweetly, with such ease, and treating it with such utter disrespect."

He was stung. "I never disrespected it."

"You were arrogant. And as for the rest of us… in your heart of hearts you had contempt for us all. We were just a bunch of dogged second-raters as far as you were concerned."

He stared at her, speechless. The ferocity in her eyes pushed against him with almost physical force.

"Why did you decide to quit, Gabriel?" She leaned forward, standing on tiptoe so that her face was almost level with his. "Did you really quit because of Melissa Cartwright or was it simply because your pride was hurt so badly that you couldn't face the possibility of failure again?"

"Get out." He looked down at his hands. They were actually trembling. He could feel the blood draining from his face. "Get out."

Her eyes suddenly stricken. "Gabriel, I'm sorry-"

"Just leave… please."

She lifted her hand as though to place it on his arm. "If you change your mind…" her voice trailed off uncertainly, "my telephone number is on the back of the photograph."

He didn't answer. After a brief moment she let her hand fall to her side and turned away from him. Her footsteps were heavy. At the bend in the hallway she paused and he thought she was going to look back at him. But then she continued walking and disappeared from sight.

He was suddenly deathly tired. He tried to make his mind a blank, to shut out the scene he had just lived through; the emotions, which had sapped his energy and his mental calm. Melissa Cartwright. Ash blond hair and violet eyes. Very pretty. In life that was.

No. Stop this. It would lead to nothing. What he needed was rest. Sleep. And tomorrow he would wake up and life would continue as before. He liked his life the way it was. He had worked hard at it. There was no room in it for old ghosts.

Just as he was about to turn off the light, his eye fell on the snapshot of Robert Whittington where it perched on the arm of the chair. For a moment he hesitated. But then he flipped the switch sharply, leaving the young face with the absurdly vulnerable eyes to stare gently into the darkness.

Entry Date: 3 June

It is time to stop grieving. R is gone.

Time to take life by the scruff of the neck again. To go to work.

What gives meaning to life? What is passion? These were the questions R was trying to answer.

R was a seeker. We were helping him on his journey. We allowed him to play the game. A sublime game: a divine experiment that would have helped him find the answers he was looking for. But in the end, the light was too strong for him. He could not go the distance.

He left.

M is right: we shouldn't feel guilty. Man is designed to experiment. And if the experiment is a glorious failure, well-rather a glorious failure than a life that ends up being nothing but a dismal accident.

I feel strong again. And if not happy-at least happier. Yes, I miss R. I miss the man who held me by the hand as we watched oceans melt. Rocks burn. But there are bright poppies with glowing eyes growing in my heart again. Even though he did not find what he was looking for, I believe R may be traveling still, his feet still searching for the path that does not wander.

I must meditate upon my name.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Watch out!"

Gabriel slammed on the brakes. A pedestrian-an overweight man carrying a package clutched to his stomach-had stepped out right in front of the car. Gabriel leaned on the horn. Opening the window, he shouted at the man, deriving some satisfaction from the pale, startled face and O-shaped mouth.

"Idiot." He closed the window and put his foot down. The car jerked in a way that was very bad for his temper. The next moment it stalled.

"Shit." He felt like punching something.

From the corner of his eye he could see Isidore watching him.

"What's up, bro?"

Gabriel shrugged. But he knew his irritability threshold these past few days had been low. And there was no way Isidore would not have noticed. Especially as he had been the target of Gabriel's ire more than once.

"I know what it is." Isidore nodded wisely. "You're still thinking about the lady."

Gabriel grimaced. A week before he had told Isidore about Frankie's visit during a sudden and unexpected urge to share. Brought on, it had to be said, by three excellent bottles of Rupert and Rothschild Baroness Nadine. It had all come pouring out. Frankie. Eye-storm. The missing heir. He had become quite maudlin if he remembered correctly-although the haze of alcohol that hung over the events of that evening made his recollections of their conversation not as sharp as they could have been. At the time the emotional purging had felt cathartic, but now he was sorry for it.

He could feel Isidore's curiosity plucking at him, but he didn't want to talk or think about that part of his life again. He didn't need old memories turning his mind soft. And he hadn't told Isidore about the Cartwright case. Not even a dozen bottles of wine could make him talk about that.

Melissa Cartwright. For years he had practiced not to think about her. But she had never gone away, had she? She was always around: an ethereal presence walking through his subliminal self.

Isidore's voice was casual. "I think your problem is that part of you really wants to do it."

"Do what, for God's sake?" Gabriel turned the key in the ignition. The car turned over lazily, finally caught.

"Help her. Help her and her old man find the son."

"You're wrong. I don't have the faintest inclination to get involved. Besides which, I told you. I don't slam the ride anymore. Remote viewing is something I no longer do."

"If that's what the man say." The tone of Isidore's voice made Gabriel glance over at him. Isidore was pursing his lips together in a very irritating fashion.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

Isidore abandoned the street slang. "Oh come on, Gabriel. Be honest. Do you really want to make me believe that your hacking skills aren't sometimes just a wee bit amplified by this second sight thing of yours? In fact, it now explains a lot I've always wondered about."

"You're way off track." Gabriel jerked the steering wheel savagely to the side, and the Jag cleared a demented motorcyclist with an Evel Knievel complex by a few inches. "And let's switch topics, shall we."

But Isidore continued unperturbed. "I surfed the Internet the other night after our talk. Did you know that a group of remote viewers in the United States foresaw 9/11 four years before it happened? They even posted their scribbles of an airplane crashing into one of a pair of skyscrapers on the Net and wrote an open letter to the FBI warning them that something like that was going to happen. No one paid any attention. This is hot shit, man."

Gabriel didn't answer. As a matter of fact, he did know about this incident, and he was aware that many remote viewing companies in the U.S. were now vying with one another to try and pinpoint al-Qaeda operatives. There was even talk that the CIA was consulting with some of these companies on a regular basis. But he had doubts about the effectiveness of many of this new breed of commercial RVs. Too often they were making the kind of far-fetched claims he had been taught to dismiss at Eyestorm. True, Eyestorm had also been a company for hire, but it had stuck religiously to the protocols developed by the American military during the seventies and eighties. And those protocols were exceptionally strict.

Isidore was talking again. "One thing I don't understand, though. This Robert Whittington. Let's say the dude really is dead, how can you zoom in on him or track him or whatever the term is? I mean… he's dead, right?"

"His thoughts at the time of his death may still resonate in the psi-space."

"Resonate in the psi-space. Wicked. I don't know what that means. But it sure sounds cool."

"I'm pleased you're thrilled."

"So how does it work? Will you be able to see through the guy's eyes? You know, right at that moment when someone cut his throat or clubbed him to death or whatever?"

"Bloody hell, Isidore. I never took you for a ghoul."

"OK, sorry. But you know what I mean? Will you be able to read his very last thoughts before he died?"

"If I happen to access those thoughts, yes."

"So you'll be able to see who the perpetrator is."

"Oh, for goodness' sake. The kid may not even be dead. He's probably hanging out in Goa smoking hashish and learning how to be a swami."

"That's not what you said the other night. You said if Frankie wasn't able to sense him anymore then the poor kid had probably copped it. Isn't that what you said?"

Gabriel didn't answer. He brought the Jag to an abrupt standstill. "There's the tube. I'm dropping you off here. Get working on that antenna for Pittypats and we'll talk again tomorrow, OK?"

"OK," Isidore said, unabashed by Gabriel's frown or the curtness of his tone. Opening the door on his side, he hopped out and gave a cheery wave. In his rearview mirror Gabriel watched his lanky figure move away from the car and disappear down the stairs to the Underground. With a sigh, he let out the clutch. Isidore was probably the only person he truly considered a friend. Not that it precluded him from sometimes feeling as though he wanted to strangle him.

It took Gabriel another fifteen minutes to get home. After parking the Jag in the underground garage, he took the elevator up to the penthouse. Usually, he would take the stairs but today he simply could not summon the energy. Actually, everything these past few days seemed to exact an inordinate amount of effort. As if to confirm his fears, he sneezed wetly and at the back of his throat he felt a suspicious itch. Oh, hell. This was just what he needed. A cold.

He opened the front door and threw the keys into the hand-carved Ghanaian fruit bowl he had purchased at a Sotheby's auction only a month before. An impulse buy, that. And he had probably overpaid for it. Moodily he picked up the stack of unopened letters waiting for him on the table. He hadn't looked at his mail for over a week.

He came upon it as he was checking through the envelopes-the photograph of Robert Whittington. He couldn't remember placing it with the mail, but here it was, pushed in between a bill from his dental hygienist and a reminder that his subscription money for Gourmet magazine was due.

Slowly he sat down in the armchair facing the window, the photograph still in his hand. The kid really did have the most defenseless face, as though he was open to whatever came his way. And the expression in his eyes: no hint of self-importance or pretension. He remembered the cool self-assurance of the father, the slightly ironic detachment with which Whittington senior seemed to survey the world. Oh yes, he could well imagine that friction existed between these two.

He yawned and let his hand fall to his lap, the snapshot held loosely between his fingers. He was suddenly sleepy. The sun pouring through the window was warm. He wondered what color Robert Whittington's eyes were; in the photograph it was difficult to tell. Either a dark gray or maybe blue…

The linen curtains flanking the window lifted and billowed. A breeze had sprung up. He was aware of it only vaguely. He was not awake, but not yet asleep.

His mind shifted. The gate to his inner eye opened.

On one level his conscious mind knew he had stepped into a ride, that only his mind was traveling and not his body, but as always when he slammed into a ride with this much precision, he was rapidly losing contact with the man who at this moment was sitting in an armchair, his legs stretched out to catch the sun. One instant he was still aware of being in the chair, head tipped back slightly, limbs completely relaxed, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. The next moment he found himself standing in a small room facing a closed door.

As he placed his hand against the massive frame of the door, he noticed that the hand was narrow and the fingers long and pointed. It was a male hand but it was not his own. He was looking through someone else's eyes.

He had stepped into someone else's mind.

At that moment the last tenuous connection between his own mind and the host mind severed and he crossed over-completely submerging himself in the host mind's thoughts.

The door in front of him was made of heavy timber. The wood was dark with age.

Mounted on the door was a coat of arms. A circle on top of a cross. The design was strangely modern: it almost looked like the sign for female sexuality. Cross and circle were embraced within the petals of an open rose.

The sign was familiar to him. He remembered it well. He had studied this symbol in detail. The Monas. He could feel the excitement rising within him.

No doorknob was visible, but as he leaned against the door, it swung open on silent hinges. He stepped over the raised threshold into a narrow room. The ceiling seemed dizzyingly high. The walls were covered with shelves stacked to the rafters with books. The smell inside that confined space was of old mildewed paper and leather bindings rotting at the spine.

And somehow he knew the exact dimensions of this room. Thirty-eight of his footsteps by sixteen. Strange, how he knew that.

A slight sound made him tilt his head. High above him, perched delicately on top of one of the immensely tall bookcases, was a crow. The bird was big and its feathers shimmered with green-black phosphorescence. For a moment they stared at each other. The crow shifted on its perch, lifting one wing. Behind it, on the wall, its shadow self moved like a restless ghost.

He looked away from the bird and started walking again. He had no time to waste here. Two doors faced him. He knew without even having to think about it that he should exit the room through the door on the right. As he walked toward it he was aware of the crow following him, staying at his shoulder.

A corridor. And even more doors. An entire row of them. He needed to make a choice, but which one was it again? Seven doors down or six?

Think. This was important. Remember. Oh, yes. Seven doors down on the right. His foot fitted perfectly in the hollow of the single stone step leading to the door. The door clicked open.

He was standing inside a ballroom and it was filled with butterflies. Millions and millions of monarch butterflies, their trembling wings dazzling his eyes.

But he was not allowed to stay for long in this place of beauty. He had to continue. He had hundreds of doors to open still. Thousands.

Millions.

Remember, The order of places, the order of things. And there was the next door that would allow him to continue his journey. And without looking, he knew the crow was above and behind him, gliding silently in his wake.

He moved forward cautiously, picking his way carefully through the cloud of amber wings. Without hesitation he opened the middle door facing him.

As he continued to move from room to room, the excitement tightened inside his chest. He was on target. His memory today was flawless, allowing him to pick the correct door every single time. The order of places, the order of things. He knew the formula by heart and his journey was faultless. He looked over his shoulder, searching for the crow, his companion, and there it was staring at him with jet-black eyes. A wordless communion passed between them.

With trembling ringers he opened door after door, traveling from one fantastical space to the next, feeling more and more empowered as each door he picked turned out to be the correct one. This time he would succeed, he had no doubt of it. He was infallible, invincible. An immense feeling of exhilaration gripped him, an excitement so intense, his blood seemed to fizz.

Of course, not every door opened onto a room filled with beautiful butterflies. Some of the rooms held objects and figures, which even after all this time, he still found disturbing. There were tiny rooms with lashless eyes growing from the ceiling. Big echoing spaces filled with giant glass marbles, the sound deafening as the glass spheres rolled from corner to corner. A room filled with hundreds of clocks ticking at random, each producing its own agitated, irregular beat. Behind one door an eyeless monk incessantly polished his empty eye sockets with a piece of bloodied sandpaper. The sight made him queasy and he hurried past, face averted. One room housed a flock of softly cawing fantailed doves. In the dim light they looked like spun sugar, but he waited tensely, anticipating the sound of the shot that was to follow. And there it was-a sharp crack-and the next instant the sugar birds dripped scarlet.

And still his journey continued. He found himself walking down labyrinthine corridors and up staircases delicate as spiders' webs. The corridors stretched into the remotest distance and the staircases seemed endless. A journey without end: a journey filled with millions upon millions of doors waiting for him to access them in exactly the right order…

For a moment he closed his eyes: his mind suddenly shrinking from the magnificence of it all. How was it possible for him to even be here? He wasn't worthy of this place. This vast edifice, with its chambers and galleries, its winding, enigmatic passageways and endless steps, was sacred space. Hidden in its divine depths were the answers to all the problems of the universe, the answers to all the questions of the past and of the future. It held prophecies and spells. The content of every book ever written. The content of every book still waiting to be written. The value of every unimaginable number. The notes of music yet to be composed. Even the story of his own birth and the minute details of the life he could have lived but hadn't…

Something brushed against his arm and he opened his eyes, startled. It was the crow, swooping past him, winging its way to the other side of the room. His eyes followed the bird's passage. The light was dim and the shadows dark in this room, and at times the crow seemed to disappear in the gloom. But then it stopped flying. It settled itself delicately on the shoulder of a woman who was watching him from one of the many sheltering doorways.

His breath caught. What was she doing here? This was supposed to be his own journey. He was meant to fly solo today.

As always she was wearing a cape and her eyes were masked. The cape was deep green in color, the velvet folds richly draped and the hood covering her hair completely. Her fingers were long and white. They were calling him.

Come.

He hesitated. That was not the correct door. He knew he should be exiting through the third door on his immediate left. The order of places, the order of things dictated that.

Again she lifted her hand. The finger beckoning: Follow me…

Hesitantly he walked toward her, and she nodded her head in satisfaction. He opened his mouth to speak but she brought her finger to her lips: an imperative for silence. Turning her back on him, she edged the door behind her open and slipped into the blackness beyond.

He followed quickly even though his heart was beating nervously. This was not right. This was breaking every rule. He should still be on his journey, opening the familiar doors, encountering the familiar places. He had no idea where he was now. He had never been this way before.

But then he chided himself. What was he so concerned about? As long as he stayed with her, he would be safe. Who better to guide him on his journey? But apprehension stirred like swaying seaweed underneath the surface of his calm.

She moved quickly, always staying a few steps ahead of him. He could smell her perfume, a tenuous thread of fragrance. Her cloak swirled around her ankles as she hastened down long, winding corridors opening up this way and that. A labyrinth, but one she was traversing unerringly.

On and on they sped, past darkened rooms with uncurtained windows, past closed doors, past signposts cracked and peeled, the lettering illegible, the arms pointing the way to who knows where. Alien. Unfamiliar. He had lost all reference points; he had lost the order of places, the order of things. He could feel the terror rising inside him. To be lost, to be lost forever…

He tried to clamp down on the panic and kept his eyes desperately on the slim figure hurrying ahead of him. She seemed wraithlike, scarcely more substantial than the flitting shadow following in her footsteps.

Suddenly she stopped and placed her palm against an uneven stone set into a smooth wall. When she pulled her hand back, he saw that the stone she had touched was carved into the symbol of the Monas.

For a moment nothing happened but then-ponderously-the wall started to move, revealing a dimly lit space on the other side. The ground beneath his feet was vibrating and there was a hum in the air.

He found himself in a massive circular room with a high domelike ceiling. It was empty. The dome was filled with blinding light but the room itself was only faintly illuminated. Still, the gauzy light was strong enough for him to see that the walls of the room were not solid. They were constructed of wheels: concentric stone wheels densely covered with symbols. Moons, crosses, candles, pentagrams-symbols as familiar as everyday objects. But there were also other symbols- esoteric and mysterious.

His heartbeat quickened. Could this be? Could this truly be? He suddenly knew what this place was she had brought him. The portal. She had described it to him, and on the basis of this description he had even attempted a drawing, but he had never thought he'd live to see it himself. Exhilarated, his heart bursting with love and gratitude, he turned to find her.

She had disappeared.

His eyes probed the shadows around him but she was gone, as though she had been merely a ghost. Only the crow was still there. It sat on the floor a few paces away from him, squat and unmoving, beady eyes glowing red within its head.

For a moment he felt as alone as he had ever felt in his entire life. But then he took a deep breath. He would make her proud of him.

Slowly he turned on his heel and looked about him. Set within the wall were doors. Thirty to be exact.

Thirty doors. Behind one of them the prize. But which door was the one he was meant to open?

He hesitated. Why couldn't he remember? He had never visited the portal before but he should know the answer. Which door?

The doors stared back at him, relentless in their similarity.

Which door must he choose? Remember… but the certain knowledge, which had guided him throughout the earlier part of his journey, had deserted him. And he knew he would never be able to retrace his steps.

He was lost.

Terror-stricken, he spun around. Which door? Which door? He tried to control the panic, which was taking possession of his mind. No! Stay calm.

But which door? Which door?

He tried to empty his mind of all emotion. To breathe with discipline. To decide. And, like the answer to a prayer, one of the doors opened a crack…

The relief was overwhelming. Stepping forward, he placed his hand on the door, pushing it wide open.

He screamed as a cacophony of sound and movement slammed into his brain with the force of a freight train. The onslaught was so intense, he was unable to process the information, unable to make sense of the images hurtling toward him like a giant fist. It was as though someone was pouring information into his brain at lightning speed, an avalanche of images and emotions filling up his head, only his mind wasn't big enough-not nearly big enough-to contain it all. He stared; unable to blink, eyeballs dry, lips stretched painfully over his teeth in a grotesque smile, feeling his mind collapsing under the stupendous weight of the information dumped into his brain all at once. It was as though he could suddenly see underneath the skin of his body and watch as every individual organ inside him pulsed and labored against the massive attack. He was going insane. And the horror of it was that he knew it.

His mind popped like an overripe fruit. Bright globules of blood ran down the inside of his eyes.

Quiet.

Peace. Like moonlight on water.

Water. He was floating on his back in a swimming pool. His mind was blessedly still.

He heard music. A violin. And looking up at the sky, there was the moon: heavy and swollen, caught in the arms of a tree.

But he was becoming tired. His body felt paralyzed on one side. The water pulled at him. He turned his head to where the house loomed black against a charcoal sky. The only light came from behind the French doors. A woman's figure was silhouetted against the buttered glow.

She stepped into the garden. Thank God. He knew she would never abandon him. His eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

Her face was still masked. Her breasts were ice cream against the green velvet of her dress. A pendant was swinging from her throat: a thin silver chain from which dangled a charm in the shape of the letter M. On her shoulder was perched the crow.

Help me. Rescue me.

Her pale white fingers reached out to him.

And pushed his head under the water.

The crow shrieked. With a wild flap of its wings it swooped to the side, alighting on the overhanging branch of the tree.

Her grasp was soft but her fingers were steel. His nose and mouth filled with water. He was drowning. His chest on fire. She had one hand on his shoulder, the other on his head. He tried to twist away from her, to loosen the hand holding him in a gentle death grip.

She pushed his head down again. Oh God, no. Why? He had followed the rules perfectly… perfectly…

He couldn't fight her. He didn't have the strength. And his body so sluggish, so heavy. He was starting to sink.

She lifted her hand: a gesture of regret. The water was blurring her figure, but as he continued to spiral downward, their eyes locked.

Why? His mouth opened and closed fishlike, the water drowning his words. Why? Why?

CHAPTER SIX

Sunlight. Splinter-sharp in his eyes. His body no longer chilled by water but bathed in sweat. Around him the comforting familiar environment of his loft apartment. For a few moments Gabriel sat without moving. One part of his brain knew that the ride was over, that he was safely inside his home, but another part of him was still reeling from the experience he had just been through.

His mouth was stretched wide, and he had to make a conscious effort to relax his face. He was sitting in his armchair next to the window, the picture of Robert Whittington on his knee. It was quiet in the apartment but the air seemed alive, as though he had just screamed and the sound of his distress was still lingering in the room.

Clumsily he got to his feet, the photograph clutched between his fingers. Frankie. He needed to talk to her. Rather urgently.

As he dialed, he squinted at the numbers she had written on the back of the picture. He seemed to have problems focusing. He dropped the picture on the tabletop and saw that his fingers had left damp smudges on the photograph's glossy surface.

The sound of the ringing reverberated inside his head. A click. A crisp "Whittington residence." The slightly officious voice of a well-trained manservant.

"I'd like to speak to Cecily Franck, please." He found to his surprise that he had trouble speaking.

"I beg your pardon?" The voice sounded pained.

"Cecily Franck. I mean, Whittington. I'd like to speak with her." His tongue was unbelievably sluggish. No wonder the asshole on the other side of the phone sounded so disapproving. He probably thought there was a drunk on the line.

"Tell her it's Gabriel. And that it's urgent."

A doubtful pause. Then, "Please wait. I'll see if Madam is available."

You do that, you twit, he thought. Placing his hand against his forehead, he found it dripping with sweat. In fact, his entire body was drenched. And his brain… his brain felt like mashed potato.

It seemed that Madam was indeed available.

"Hello? Gabriel?"

"Frankie."

"Gabriel? What's up? You sound strange."

"Maybe you should come over."

"Why? What's wrong?"

He started to laugh weakly. "A ride. I've slammed a ride." For some reason it suddenly seemed funny.

An even longer silence this time. When she did speak, her voice sounded tight as though she was trying to rein in her excitement. "Wait for me. Don't go anywhere. Wait for me."

"Believe me. The way I feel now I'm not going anywhere."

Just before she hung up she asked, breathless, "Gabriel… is he alive?"

"I don't know." He remembered the feeling of drowning: the heavy legs, fire in his chest, and then the blessed feeling of letting go as he spiraled downward. It had certainly felt like the end of something. "I'm not sure."

"Well, was it at least a good ride?"

"Good?" He thought of the nightmarish journey, the insane images that had battered his mind. "Again, I don't know. Just get here, OK? We'll talk when you get here."

He replaced the receiver in its cradle, his mind still on the question she had asked him. A good ride?

Well, that depended now, didn't it? If with "good" she meant "detailed," then yes, it had been a spectacular ride. The best ever. But if with "good" she wanted to know if the ride made good sense, then no, afraid not. Of course, remote viewing was not exactly like baking a cake. Images and emotions accessed during a ride were often ambiguous.

But this was beyond weird. He had never slammed a ride this nightmarishly surreal in his entire life. That journey through the house-if such a vast space could be called a house-had been bizarre in the extreme. And was that a murder he had lived through? A death? The scene had a curiously stylized feel about it-a woman with, of all things, a crow on her shoulder and the moon hanging in the sky like something from a Chinese woodblock print. But the physical agony he had endured had certainly felt real enough.

And why had the ride happened at all?

He most definitely had not planned on slamming this one. His subconscious mind must be more engaged with Robert Whitting-ton's disappearance than he had thought.

Shit, he had a screaming headache and his brain felt very, very stupid. Did he always feel this disoriented afterward? Surely he used to snap back a lot faster? He couldn't recall this tremendous bone-draining exhaustion, which now gripped every limb. And lurking at the edges of his consciousness was still the horror he had experienced during the ride, the fear.

He got to his feet, only to find that he was actually incapable of walking in a straight line. With difficulty he steered his way into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he removed a jug of ice water and, without reaching for a glass, started drinking from the jug's mouth. At least this was something he remembered: this raging thirst, which always followed a ride. The water splashed down his chin as he drank greedily and clumsily.

By the time she arrived he was feeling better. Not good, but better. Her first words, however, were not encouraging.

"My God, you look terrible. Are you all right?"

"Actually, no. I feel like crap. Sit down."

Frankie balanced herself on the very edge of the couch, her eyes never leaving his face. "So, what happened?"

"I…" He stopped.

She leaned forward in anticipation, but for a moment he felt at a loss. Where to begin?

"Well?" She was impatient now.

At the door, he supposed. That's where he should start. He would begin at the door with the strange-looking coat of arms…

She hardly blinked throughout the entire time he talked, and she did not interrupt. But now she spoke, her voice tired.

"So he was killed. Someone drowned him. This woman."

"Probably. The feeling of drowning was very real."

"What I don't understand is how she managed to overpower him. Robbie was slender but he was no weakling. Physically, he should have been more than a match for her. And he was strong swimmer. It was his exercise of choice-he used to swim laps at the Queen Mother Sport Centre at least twice a week. He always said water was where he felt most at home. Why didn't he put up more of a fight?"

"His brain was damaged, remember. When I was in the pool one side of my body was heavy-like a stroke victim's. I think Robbie's brain suffered a trauma of some kind and that it affected his motor coordination as well."

"Well, at least you saw a house. That's always promising. That's a firm reference point."

"A house, may I remind you, which has, among other things, rooms housing fields of butterflies and blind monks. And something called a portal."

She frowned. "Could be symbolism."

"Could be insanity." He paused. How to explain to her the incredible sensory overload he had experienced? "That one moment when I opened the door inside the portal, was like nothing I had ever experienced in my entire life. I felt insane. It felt like my brain was on TCP; as though it was frying inside my skull."

"Well, maybe that's what it was. Maybe Robbie tried some kind of hallucinatory drug and he overdosed."

He shook his head. "I thought of that but I don't think so. The weird thing is that during this ride, I was conscious of great discipline. I was walking from room to room in strict order. There was a set sequence, which required enormous mental focus. I didn't just open doors at will. There was a definite pattern. Some doors I left closed… on purpose. And I must have opened hundreds of doors. Thousands."

"Thousands?"

"Hundreds of thousands, maybe. I know: it's madness. And there was this one phrase, which kept going through my mind like a mantra: the order of places, the order of things. As though this was some kind of guiding principle or prime directive, or something. Despite the chaos, there was an incredibly tight discipline to the journey-not like being spaced out at all. At the beginning of the ride I was in control and it felt good, I tell you. It was as though I was being tested, and the fact that I was able to choose the correct door every time was immensely empowering. Except that toward the end of the ride-when I followed this woman-I lost it. And shortly afterward I found my brain going into meltdown and then I woke up inside a swimming pool. Oh, hell." He sighed. "This is crazy stuff. Maybe you're right. Maybe this was some kind of acid trip. It was certainly a rush."

"It sounds like a fantastic ride." There was a hint of wistfulness in Frankie's voice. It reminded him of the surprise confession she had made the last time he saw her. There were times my envy was eating me up. All those years ago when they were together-happily he had thought-she had been resentful of his RV skills. He still couldn't equate such an emotion with the young, unassuming Cecily Franck he had loved. He rather wished she hadn't told him.

She spoke again. "What about the woman?"

He thought for a moment. "She was real," he said slowly. "She was real. I could sense her as a person. Yes, definitely. Which makes it even less likely that we're talking drugs here."

"I don't suppose you made any ideograms?"

He shook his head. She was referring to a method followed by many remote viewers, who, while viewing would allow their hand to engage in a kind of automatic doodling, which captured the images accessed during the ride. He rarely worked this way. Still, drawings were sometimes useful.

He got to his feet and walked over to his work desk. Opening a drawer, he removed a pad of paper and a pencil and started to sketch. A circle on top of a cross, the circle intersected by a smaller half circle. The whole thing set against the background of a rose in bloom. He was not great at drawing, and his rose looked more like a battered daisy, but it would do. After a few seconds he returned to where Frankie was waiting.

"Remember I told you about the coat of arms I saw? On the door and on the wall leading to the portal? Well, this is it. At least that's what I remember from the ride. Maybe it will remind you of something about Robert." Without much hope, he held the pad of paper out at her. "Does it ring a bell?"

"My God." She stared at the drawing.

"What?" His voice sharpened. "You know what it is?"

"Robbie had this tattooed on the inside of his right arm-above the wrist."

"Why? Was he straight? It looks to me like the symbol for female sexuality."

Frankie smiled. "This symbol has nothing to do with sex. It's a combination of several astrological symbols into one. He called it the Monad or the Monas, something like that. Monas, if I remember correctly. But exactly which symbols and what they mean, I don't know. But, Gabriel, that's not important. What is important is that this symbol is based on the coat of arms at Monk House."

"Monk House?"

"The Monk sisters." She looked up at him, excitement in her eyes. "Morrighan and Minnaloushe Monk. Robbie was friends with them. They live in this big old rambling redbrick house in Chelsea. I've only been inside a couple of times but I remember the coat of arms. It's everywhere. I asked Robbie about it, and he told me that it dates back to the sixteenth century, and was something to do with the Monk family."

Gabriel looked at the drawing again. Sixteenth century. The design looked remarkably modern for the 1500s. "It still doesn't make sense."

"Believe me, very little of what Robbie did made sense. But the letter on the chain around the woman's neck in your ride was an M, which means it could belong to Minnaloushe or Morrighan. And the Monas coat of arms points to Monk House."

"Surely the house doesn't have a swimming pool?"

Frankie's eyes were stricken. "As a matter of fact, it does. One of the very few outdoor pools in Chelsea. It's not big, but it's deep. We had a pool party there last summer. That was the first time I met the sisters."

For a moment there was silence between them as they considered the possible implications.

"The house itself is quite fascinating, really, in a rather gloomy way." Frankie grimaced slightly. "There's a very impressive library, but I certainly don't recall seeing butterflies or fantailed doves flying around. And I rather doubt there were self-mutilating monks hiding behind the doors."

"And no pet crow, I take it."

"Sorry."

"You said they were friends with Robbie."

"Actually, for the last year he was constantly in their company. And after he met them, he moved out of our house into an apartment of his own. I always thought they had something to do with that decision."

"Daddy probably didn't like it, did he?"

"Quite the opposite. William approved of the friendship. About the only thing he did approve of where Robbie was concerned. He thought the sisters had a stabilizing influence on Robbie."

"Did they?"

She shrugged. "I guess so. Robbie seemed content for the first time I knew him."

Something in her voice was not right.

Gabriel leaned forward. "Why don't you like them?"

"I never said I didn't like them." Her tone was defensive. She was actually scowling. Gabriel suppressed a smile. Women, Time to change tack.

"Morrighan and Minnaloushe Monk. It sounds like something from a riddle. Their parents liked unusual. Why not Mary and Mabel, I wonder."

Frankie lifted her eyebrows. "Believe me, these two women don't look like a Mary and a Mabel. They're rather… exotic creatures. Robbie was smitten with them. Especially one."

"Which one?"

"You know what, I really don't know. Somehow I always think of them as a pair. And to tell the truth, I didn't pay that much attention. Robbie had these on-off crushes all the time." She smiled a little sadly. "He even had a little crush on me once."

"Well, I can't blame him for that."

"Well, thank you."

"No, really, I mean it." And he did. He glanced at her appraisingly. You would not call her beautiful, but Frankie's face was immensely appealing. She was sitting in profile, and his gaze took in the sweep of her cheekbone, the nose just slightly turned up at the end and the curve of the upper lip, which always made it seem as though she was just about to smile. Today she was wearing a flowery dress and looked young and fresh. He hadn't noticed how pretty she looked until now, which was very unlike him. Still, when she first arrived he had felt so rough he wouldn't have reacted if Monica Bellucci had walked through the door. Frankie's dress had a wide scoop neck, and he could see the delicate sprinkle of tiny coppery freckles on her collarbone. Sun kisses, he used to call them way back, when they were still together. Not very original, in hindsight. But what he remembered was how he had liked to try to count them. Usually after they had made love. A small private ritual.

She turned her head and caught him looking. He saw in her eyes that she had sensed what he was thinking. A faint blush stained her cheekbones and she brought her hand involuntarily to her neck.

So Mrs. Whittington wasn't quite as impervious as she liked to pretend. He smiled and touched her hand, allowing his ringers to linger. "I like this dress on you."

"Thanks. It's William's favorite as well. He bought it for me in Milan."

Right. That was pointed enough. He should have remembered that despite an innate sweetness, Frankie was no pushover. And she had always been able to put him in his place. He removed his hand.

"I take it the police interviewed the sisters?" He kept his voice cool.

"In depth." He could see she was relieved by his businesslike tone. "They found nothing suspicious at all."

"You said he had a crush on one of the women. Was it reciprocated?"

"Oh, no." Frankie's voice was emphatic. "They're quite a few years older than Robbie. And there is absolutely no way either one of them would be interested in him as a partner. I think they saw him as a little puppy dog following them around and were rather amused by his devotion."

She paused, tapped her finger against her lips. "I could get you inside that house. Pay them a visit and take you along."

He shook his head, wincing as he did so. The headache was still there. "What I need is unrestricted access. If you take me along as a guest, we'll be served tea in the parlor and that would be that. I need to be able to snoop around undisturbed. Also, I want to see the house first before meeting the owners. It would be easier to get a clean impression that way."

Frankie looked at him suspiciously. "You're not thinking of breaking and entering, are you?"

"With your help, yes."

"Gabriel… wait a minute. This is taking it too far."

"Well, it's up to you. I can walk away at any time."

Which wasn't quite true. The discovery that he still had the ability to view so clearly had come as something of a surprise. Whether this was going to turn out to be a pleasant surprise was the question. But he was hooked.

And her next words showed he hadn't fooled her. "You're lying. The ride got to you. I can see it in your eyes. Was this your first ride since…" She paused delicately, then must have read the answer on his face. "Wow. You must be pumped then."

He shrugged. He was exhausted but excited. And still amazed that it had happened at all. Admittedly, the circumstances had been favorable. Remote viewing ideally required the viewer to manage brain waves, which have a frequency range of four to seven cycles per second. These theta waves were present during deep meditation and created the optimal mental state for crossing over. When he had slotted into the ride, his body had been completely relaxed. And this was when it usually happened for him: when he was drifting, but not out.

"So let's make a plan."

"What did you have in mind exactly?" Her voice was wary.

"I need you to invite them to your house for dinner one night so that I can be sure the house is empty."

She chewed her lip, her face uncertain.

"Come on, Frankie. Take a walk on the wild side."

"Well, your repertoire has certainly changed. I can't recall burglary as being one of your talents."

"It's not burglary. It's looking without touching."

She frowned, but he could see she was starting to make peace with the idea.

"All right," she said. "All right. But I'm not saying anything to William yet. He admires those two women a lot."

Maybe a little bit too much, Gabriel thought, and maybe Mrs. Whittington doesn't like it?

Frankie glanced at her watch, picked up her handbag. "I should go. I have a lunch appointment. But I'll call the sisters when I get home. Set a date."

"OK."

At the door she stopped and looked at him. "You said that in your ride you were able to sense this woman as a person. What was it you sensed? Malevolence?"

"No. Not malevolence. Greed."

"Greed?"

"It's hard to explain. Not greed as in money lust but greed as in wanting to know. Curiosity, is the word I'm looking for, I suppose. Except that it's not strong enough. I'm talking intense curiosity. Curiosity to the square, you might say."

"Curiosity about what?"

He shrugged. "Beats me."

But as he closed the door behind Frankie, he realized that his description hadn't been quite accurate. Yes, he had picked up overwhelming curiosity from the masked figure who had looked into his eyes so searchingly. But there had been another emotion radiating from her as well. Something much more basic and unambiguous. This was a woman whose expectations had not been met. The overriding emotion he had sensed from her could be summed up in one word.

Disappointment.

Entry Date: 11 June

Disappointment is the saddest of all emotions. M agrees, but she says regret is the one that will eat away at your soul.

We finished the chamber of Toth last night. I am satisfied with it but I also feel emptiness. Like M, I long to find someone new to play with. And I have no doubt that there will be someone new. It is just a matter of time.

I wonder who he'll be. R was a seeker and an innocent. But maybe M is right. Maybe we need a man who carries more fire in his veins.

Someone who is not only a dreamer but also a warrior.

I wonder where he is now-our future playmate. What is he thinking of right this minute?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Monk House was the only Victorian house on an entire street of elegant Georgian facades. It sat bulkily on the corner; square, brooding and defiant in its otherness. The brickwork was deep orange and there was more than a hint of Gothic in the pointed gable and the oriel bulging from the house's flank. It was late afternoon, and the sun glinted redly off the tiny leaded panes, creating an impression that inside a fire was burning.

The front of the house was flush with its neighbor, and the front door was overlooked by houses on the opposite side of the street. The door had two locks and Gabriel had already ascertained that one of them was a Bramah. This would not be his point of access. It would be far easier to negotiate the back garden and enter through the French doors leading to the living room. He had Frankie to thank for this piece of information, as the back of the house was hidden from view. A wall that was all of sixty feet long and at least twelve feet in height ensured not only complete privacy but also good security. It would be difficult to scale.

But there was an alley round the back, and set into the wall was an access door. Gabriel suspected that this was used when the garbage cans were put out for collection. He had already traversed the alley earlier this week, checking out the small timber door. As he expected, the lock was a standard one. He did not foresee any problems.

He tapped his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel of the Jaguar. He wanted out of the car. Even though the sun was losing much of its sting, it was still hellishly hot. His shirt was sticking to his back where it pressed against the leather upholstery. He was parked about half a block away and had a good side view of the house. Nothing stirred.

He glanced at his watch. They were cutting it close. It was already ten minutes to the hour, and Frankie had told him the sisters had agreed to drinks at seven followed by dinner after. That should give him more than enough time to look around. He was also carrying his mobile phone. Frankie promised to call him as soon as the sisters had finished dinner and were leaving for home. He didn't want to be caught in the act-although he expected to be finished long before then.

A black taxicab came to a halt in front of the house. Gabriel watched as the cabdriver walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell. After a few seconds, the cabbie turned his head and spoke into the intercom unit set into the wall. He listened for a moment or two before walking back to the cab and settling himself behind the steering wheel. He kept the car idling.

Gabriel waited. The front door remained shut.

Earlier today he had stopped off at Robert Whittington's flat. Frankie had given him the key. He spent almost an hour opening cupboards, rifling through drawers and boxes. A sad little exercise. Not only did the flat have the forlorn feel of an unoccupied place, but Gabriel had the feeling that everything in that apartment belonged to someone who was searching.

Books on self-improvement rubbed shoulders with tomes on Buddhism, astrology and tarot card reading. Against the wall were two framed posters: an X-Files poster with its slogan "I want to believe" and the iconic features of Che Guevara, improbably handsome and debonair. Candles, crystals and a number of different Buddhas-some of them jolly and potbellied, others intimidatingly ascetic-lined the shelves.

Above the bed hung a wooden mask. It looked to be African in origin, thick eyelids surrounding hollow eye sockets and the mouth pulled back into a stylized grimace. The furniture was modest, the apartment small. It was difficult to believe the heir to a vast fortune had lived there.

On the bedside table was a framed picture. It showed Robert Whittington as a teenager, all outsized nose and feet, with his arm around the waist of a thickset blond woman. There was a definite family resemblance-the mother, at a guess. Frankie had told him she had died in a skiing accident when the boy was only fourteen. The first Mrs. Whittington was no beauty, but she had soft eyes. As he looked at the two faces, Gabriel felt a sudden pang of sympathy. The loss of his mother must have been a tremendous blow, especially if relations with the father had been strained since childhood.

The only thing of real interest in the apartment was a pencil sketch pinned to a discolored bulletin board. The sketch was extraordinarily well executed and almost architectural in detail. It showed a circular space with a domed ceiling and walls composed of wheels densely covered with symbols. Some were easy to identify: a star, a candle, a book. Others were more obscure: squiggles and doodlelike icons impossible to interpret. At the bottom of the sketch, written in a slanted hand, was Portal, and underneath it a simple signature: Robert, followed by a date. Robert Whittington, it seemed, had a real talent for drawing.

But it wasn't the skill of the artist that made him pause and that caused his heart to beat faster. It was the fact that the penciled lines on the paper replicated a place he had visited only a few days before. A fantastical space he had entered shortly before being sucked into a nightmarish whirlwind of images and sounds that had sent his mind crashing into insanity. This vast chamber with its turning, symbol-clad wheels had been the gateway to madness and death. Just thinking back on it gave him a chill.

Portal.

As he looked at the drawing so finely rendered, he found himself shivering. Thought given substance. Proof that he had indeed managed to cross the slippery borders of Robert Whittington's mind.

The door to Monk House opened. Gabriel blinked, brought back to the present. The occupants of the house were finally about to leave. A woman with red hair reaching to her shoulders stepped out.

She turned sideways, and he was able to see the tip of a delicate nose and chin behind a gleaming veil of hair. She was obviously talking to someone who was still inside the house.

Red hair. So this will be Minnaloushe. Frankie had told him Mor-righan was the brunette. Someone, another woman who was not yet in his line of vision, was pointing toward the taxi: a slim bare arm was reaching out from behind the front door. The redhead nodded and walked down the steps, adjusting a long, floaty scarf around her neck. Before he had time to have a proper look at her face, she had ducked into the interior of the cab.

A second woman walked through the front door, pulling it shut behind her. He saw a flash of keys. She was slightly taller than the redhead. Her hair was black as coal and pulled back in a sophisticated chignon. After locking the door, she looked up and down the street. For a moment he had a full view of her face: heart-shaped with cheekbones that could cut glass. V-e-e-ry nice indeed. Then she too stepped inside the cab. The taxi pulled away and accelerated down the street.

He waited for a few minutes after the taxi had disappeared around the corner. No harm in making sure they were really gone. Then he got out of the Jaguar and headed for the alley, taking care to walk briskly and confidently. The alley was overlooked by the back windows of a number of storied houses, but he wasn't too fussed. If one walked with enough assurance, people usually didn't pay attention. Furtive skulking, on the other hand, would get you noticed every time. The only glitch might be the lock on. the garden door. He would have to work quickly.

He didn't have to worry. He was just about to take out his tools when his shoulder pushed against the door and it clicked open under his weight. It had been left unlocked. Quickly he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He was standing at the foot-end of a long, narrow garden, which had a wonderful feel of manicured wildness to it. A cascade of mauves, purples and pinks-lavender, lilac, love-in-a-mist-grew among the silken tassels and feathery plumes of softly swaying grasses. Rambling roses with pale petals covered the walls of the garden. But even though the overall feel of the garden was one of delightful randomness, if one looked closely, it was obvious that some real thought had gone into the planning of all this luxurious herbage. This might be botanical anarchy, but it was a controlled disorder. The mind that had created this floral fantasy was a meticulous one.

To his right was the swimming pool, shaded by a humpbacked tree with bright red flowers. He walked over and knelt down on the brick apron, trailing his hand through the sun-warm water. As Frankie had said, the pool wasn't big, but it seemed quite deep. The surface of the water was flecked with stray petals. He could see the delicate bodies of dead insects bobbing near the edges of the filter.

He wiped his mind clean of emotion and waited. Concentrated. He kept his hand submerged in the water.

Nothing. If Robert Whittington had died here, the echo of his passing had already disappeared. Gabriel could sense nothing at all.

He got to his feet and wiped his hand against his shirtfront. Maybe he'd have better luck inside the house.

The windows on the ground floor were shut, as was a pair of tall French doors. But as he started to walk toward the doors, he experienced a flash of recognition. The stained-glass panels set into the doors showed the coat of arms he had seen during his ride. The Monas. Astrological symbols, according to Frankie.

They didn't look like any astrology symbols he'd ever seen, but to be fair, he wasn't exactly au fait with the wonderful world of the zodiac. Isidore, on the other hand, was meticulous about checking his horoscope every day, and a negative forecast could make him fall into depression faster than you could say "Saturn in retrograde." Come to think of it, it might not be a bad idea to have Isidore check out the Monas. It had to be important if Robert Whittington had the design tattooed onto his arm.

He stopped and tried the doors. They were locked, but the lock itself was basic. There was also no indication of an alarm. Except for the higher than normal garden wall, the sisters did not seem to worry unduly about security. Which might mean they had nothing to hide.

Or not. It could also be a sign of arrogance.

If he had been a real burglar, he would have tapped out one of the glass insets in the door and simply put his hand through and let himself in that way. As it was, he did not want to leave behind traces of his visit, so a little more effort was required. From the inside pocket of his jacket he extracted the chamois pouch with his picks and removed one of the pronged instruments. As he started to work on the lock, he smiled. This was going to be easy. And indeed, after only a few seconds, he felt the lock give. He eased himself in and closed the door behind him.

For a few moments he stood without moving, giving his eyes a chance to become accustomed to the inside gloom. The windows were shuttered, allowing only filtered shafts of sunlight to shine through the slats. The air was heavy, the shutters not so much screening the house from the heat as trapping it and keeping it prisoner. A ceiling fan whirled lazily above his head. It hardly stirred the air, and the whisper of the slowly turning blades only accentuated the quietness of the room.

Every house has its own peculiar smell. Whenever he visited a house, this was always the first thing he noticed. Not the decor, the smell. It may vary from day to day. Cooking, cleaning, working-all these activities left their olfactory imprint, but the underlying essence of a house stayed the same. The scent of this house was powerfully feminine. And surprisingly old-fashioned. Talcum. Roses of the old, fragrant variety. Spices such as cinnamon and cloves. Tangerines? Also something else. Something he couldn't quite place but which bit into his palate, slightly bitter and acrid. And then, of course, the olfactory ingredient, which made the smell of any house as unique as a fingerprint. The occupants. The sisters themselves. He could smell them as well.

The room itself had a plantation-like feel to it. The cream-colored walls, dark oiled floorboards and shutters, rattan furniture and ghostly ceiling fan were reminiscent of an interior more likely to be found in some colonial outpost than a house in central London.

A peacock chair with a very deep seat was flanked by a rickety-looking wicker screen. One wall held a large number of carved African masks. They reminded him of the mask he had seen in Robert Whittington's apartment. It wouldn't surprise him if it had originated from this room.

Two dark green wingback chairs, the leather split and creased, faced each other on either side of a zebra skin going bald. A rattan coffee table and several rattan chests covered with magazines flanked an enormous sofa covered in velvet. On the far side of the room were two metal workbenches covered with a variety of objects.

There were roses everywhere. On top of the chest, on side tables, on the windowsills. Silky bloodred roses, deep apricot-hued ones and waxy, pink-veined blooms drooping over the rims of alabaster bowls. But no photographs, which was interesting. In his experience women living alone always surrounded themselves with images of their own likeness and those of loved ones. But except for a crucifixion print of Salvador Dali's-a beautiful long-limbed Christ hanging eerily suspended in space-there were no other pictures in the room.

It was an exceptionally large room and obviously used not only as a living room but also as a library and workroom. One wall was completely covered in shelves filled to capacity with books, the shelves dipping dangerously in the middle from the weight of so many volumes. There were even books stacked up higgledy-piggledy behind the books in the front rows.

He turned his head sideways to read some of the titles: De Imag-inum, De umbris idearum, Ars notoria, De occulta philosophia, Book of Dzyan, The Hermetic Secret. Not exactly the kind of reading material with which to relax in the bathtub, you might say. Not that all the books were arcana. There were also many volumes bearing the imprimatur of university presses, written by luminaries in the more austere halls of academia. Stephen Jay Gould. David Gelernter. Daniel Dennet. Freeman Dyson. Roger Penrose. Eclectic didn't even begin to describe this collection.

But the sisters had obviously kept pace with the electronic age. The bottom two shelves were taken up by stacks of DVDs. He made a quick calculation: ten DVDs to a stack, twenty stacks-there were more than two hundred DVDs all told. He pulled out one of the disks. The sticker on the front held a neat inscription: Human Genome Project. The second disk said Encyclopaedia Britannica. 1.2 gigs.

He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. If all these DVDs were full, then they contained a massive amount of information. It looked as though the sisters had the contents of the entire British Library stored in their living room.

He turned away from the shelves. He wanted to take a closer look at those two metal workbenches. They were home to some delightfully weird and wonderful things. There were gleaming brass compasses. An astrolabe. The skeletons of birds bleached white, startlingly ethereal, as if the slightest touch would cause the bones to crumble to dust. Bell jars. Dried herbs. Sheets of handmade marbled paper. Real ink pots and fussy nibbed pens.

What a strange collection. In another house some of these items might have been displayed as whimsical objets d'art-that astrolabe must be worth a pretty penny, for one, and the beads on the abacus appeared to be real ivory-but in this room they looked startlingly utilitarian, as though they were in constant use.

There were also computers. An IBM and a Macintosh lined up next to each other. Both were booted up and running. Both shared the same screen saver: a woman with long flowing hair and a swirling cloak holding in her hands a brightly glowing sun, which would grow bigger and bigger before slowly shrinking again, the pulsing red mass becoming ever smaller until only a pinpoint of light was left between her palms. The effect of two suns waxing and waning in tandem was oddly mesmerizing.

He sat down on an old-fashioned typist's chair and tapped a key on the keyboard of the IBM. No password necessary. Actually, the computer was already open on an Internet Web page.

Great. He'd be able to get into the sisters' e-mail. Maybe access some old correspondence with Robert Whittington. There had been no computer at Whittington's apartment, but according to Frankie, he used to be the owner of a pretty decent machine until he had decided, shortly before his disappearance, to donate the thing to charity. To Gabriel this was a completely off-the-wall thing to do, but Frankie didn't seem to find the idea of her stepson giving away a six-thousand-dollar notebook all that unusual. "Robbie did all kinds of inexplicable things when the spirit moved him." She shrugged. "So today he's all excited about being a Luddite. Tomorrow it's something else again."

The machine was used by both sisters, but when he checked the e-mail in their in- and out-boxes and personal filing cabinets, he was disappointed. The messages were innocuous-friends, business colleagues-and as far as he could determine not one message sent to, or received from, Robert Whittington.

Perhaps there might be something of more value among their documents. He started accessing files at random. The contents seemed fairly mundane. A file named Accounts was just that, a neat synopsis of household expenses, although the figure at the bottom made him purse his lips in a soundless whistle. Frugality was not an issue in this house.

He continued scrolling down the list of entries and paused. Diary. Jackpot.

He centered the mouse on the file name and clicked. But here the easy part ended. The screen cleared and he was asked for a password. Gate barred.

Passwords, of course, were not necessarily foolproof. If you knew the person you were snooping on, it was sometimes not that difficult to guess a password. Most home users used words related to their everyday life and interests. But he did not know Minnaloushe and Mor-righan Monk and had no idea what they were into. So after tapping in the names of the sisters-although how the heck does one spell "Minnaloushe"-and receiving no joy, he accepted defeat.

He leaned back in the chair, his hands cradled behind his head. So that was that. He was stymied. At least for the moment. But the mere fact that this was the only password-protected file in the list must be significant. He would have to consult with Isidore and make a plan. They would probably be able to gain access through a Trojan horse virus sent via an e-mail message. Not that this course of action would be plain sailing. Embedded in the taskbar of the machine in front of him was the icon for Kaspersky Anti-Virus software. KAV was the best there was: its ability to sniff out viruses and Trojans was excellent. Isidore was going to have to get creative.

He swiveled the chair around and faced the Mac. Maybe he'd have better luck with this machine. He tapped the enter key and the screen saver dissolved.

He paused. This was odd. First, the computer was not connected to the Internet. Second, the computer seemed to be dedicated to the maintenance of one document only. The document was named The Promethean Key.

This sounded interesting. At Oxford he had done a course in Classical Culture and History, and there was a time he had fancied himself a bit of a classics buff. Prometheus, if memory served him, stole a spark of fire from the gods to give to mankind to open their minds to knowledge. He was punished by Zeus and spent his days chained to a rock with a giant eagle feeding on his liver. Pretty tough stuff. Those Greek gods did not mess around.

He clicked on the file without much hope. As he expected, this file was password-protected as well.

Two password-protected files. They would certainly warrant a closer look somewhere along the way. Except that where the Mac was concerned, he was faced with a significant added complication. Since the computer was not connected to the Internet, he and Isidore would not be able to access the machine from outside via a convenient broadband connection. In order to crack this thing, he was going to have to return in person. Not exactly a prospect he was looking forward to. He very much preferred surveillance from a distance.

But for the present there was no use wasting any more time on the computers. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to see that he had already spent a full forty minutes inside the house.

But as he got up from his seat, he froze. On the shelf right in front of him, at eye level, was a glass box. Inside the box were stone pebbles, sand, and pieces of rock illuminated by a weak violet light. An eerie little desert landscape. Hovering ghostlike on one of the rocks, its hairy legs delicately poised, was one of the biggest spiders he had ever seen.

He blinked. The creature seemed not quite real-a phantasm, a monster from a dream. He realized that his body was flooded with adrenaline-the sight of the spider had bypassed the analytical side of his brain, had elicited an impulse that came straight from the amygdalae.

Hesitantly, he brought his head up close to the box. The lavender light made the color of the spider difficult to fathom and contributed to the thing looking like something from a particularly bad acid trip. The spider's body alone must have been all of four inches long. The legs seemed to be floating. Massive fangs. He was no expert, but he was almost certain he was looking at a tarantula. Which should have reassured him. Tarantulas were harmless to humans- that much he knew. He had read somewhere that people even kept them as pets.

Pets? He stared at the spider in its glass box. It was moving its front legs almost imperceptibly. Feeling slightly queasy, Gabriel recognized the dark splodge lying to one side of the box. A half-eaten cricket.

Oh, man. This was too much. He had to force himself to step back. He couldn't spend all his time on this freakish thing. But what the hell else was waiting for him inside this house?

The next room was the dining room, dark with mahogany, followed by a guest bathroom designed for pygmies and a rather workmanlike kitchen. He opened the fridge and peeked inside. A bottle of Krug champagne shared shelf space with several delectable-looking cartons and trays sporting Harrods Food Halls stickers. He lifted the corner on one of the white boxes. Duck confit. Their taste in literature and decor, not to mention pets, might be odd, but the ladies showed real class when it came to food.

On the one wall on the far side of the room were some rather interesting-looking prints. They were not exactly the still-life pictures you'd expect to find in a kitchen: no jolly tomatoes or ears of corn. The prints were watercolors and pretty damn weird to say the least. Lots of naked hermaphroditic figures in rural settings, dancing next to roaring furnaces. A creepy proliferation of snakes, suns and moons.

Pushed against the wall was a rustic pine table at least ten feet long. It held an array of copper bowls and, more intriguingly, big-bottomed flasks of the kind you'd find in a chemistry lab. Rounded Florence flasks were clamped to chrome support stands, and long-necked filtering flasks shared the space with Bunsen burners and stand-alone hot plates. Neatly lined up on the shallow shelves against the wall was a large variety of brown paper bags labeled in a flowing hand: juniperus virginiana, dwarf sumac (stem), trifolium protense, viscum album, rosa canina…

The shelf below was filled with small plastic tubs. He picked one up and lifted the lid. It was labeled alkaline ash and he had expected the tub to be filled with dust. Instead it was brimful with a white gooey substance. He took a sniff. Not a bad smell exactly, but he now knew the origin of that acrid scent he had picked up on first entering the house.

Fascinating as all of this was, though, it did not provide any clues as to what might have happened to Robert Whittington. And so far during his exploration of the house, he hadn't recognized any of the rooms. They hadn't figured in his ride. The only thing he recognized was the Monas. The coat of arms was everywhere; it even sat on top of the kitchen door. The sisters must like it a lot. He made another mental note to ask Isidore to check it out.

The kitchen opened directly into the front hallway, which sported high walls and skirting boards at least a foot tall. The hall was packed with plants in pots: ferns, velvety African violets, a large number of milky orchids sitting ghostlike next to one another on a low windowsill. And even more roses. These women had a thing for roses. He liked plants himself, but this was like hacking your way through a freaking jungle.

Against the wall, hanging from highly polished hooks, were a number of light raincoats and jackets. As he walked past them, he noticed a silky fuchsia scarf, which had escaped the grasp of one of the hooks and was lying on the dark timber floor like a pool of melted jewelry. He stooped to pick it up. The scarf was fragrant with perfume. He could smell it even as he carefully draped the oblong of silk over the shoulders of a glittery evening jacket. It stirred a memory inside of him. The masked woman in his ride, hadn't she been wearing the same perfume? For a moment he concentrated hard, but then he gave up. The problem was that although smell was evocative, it made for a very tenuous memory byte. He couldn't be sure.

He placed his foot on the first step of the staircase, looking upward to where it unfurled itself in a graceful elliptical spiral. The lacy wrought iron banisters were quite beautiful. But as he started to climb, he grimaced. They were wooden steps and they creaked. Loudly. A real problem should he have to visit the house again when the occupants were present.

The first floor didn't yield anything much: a blandly decorated room in blue and white, which had guest room written all over it, and an adjoining bathroom. The only other room on that floor had been converted into an extremely generous-sized walk-in closet, which was obviously used by both sisters. The differing shoe sizes alone made that clear.

The walls were lined with rails from which hung dresses draped over padded hangers and shelves holding hatboxes, printed blouses and piles of sweaters. The sisters did not lack for clothes. And they certainly did not buy at H &M. He looked at the label stitched into the neck of a taupe dress suit: Gucci. The shoes to match were Christian Louboutin. He wondered where they got the money from. Frankie had been vague. She hadn't known what the sisters did for a living. It was probably a case of old money, he thought, running his hand down a silky backless evening dress with diamond trim. Some people were born under a lucky star. The rest had to make their own luck.

Under normal circumstances he would have been delighted to find himself surrounded by fragrant silk and lace, but at that moment, as he looked at all those shelves of female lingerie and other accoutrements, he couldn't help feeling like some sleazy Peeping Tom. Actually, to be honest, the house was getting to him. On the one hand he was fascinated by the place-it was certainly not your usual chintz palace-but there was just something about it that made him feel uncomfortable. He would have been hard put to articulate his unease except to say that it felt as though the house was holding its breath, causing him to hold his breath as well. Which sounded pretty damn ridiculous, he had to admit.

Anyway, he doubted he was going to find any traces of Robert Whittington here among the Jimmy Choos and Birkin Bags. Maybe he'd have better luck upstairs. He turned to the staircase once again.

When he reached the top landing, he stopped, slightly out of breath. To his right was an arch-shaped window. The landing itself was dominated by a high and very beautiful walnut tallboy. On either side of the chest was a closed door. They would probably lead to the bedrooms.

As he stretched out his hand to turn the knob of the door on his left, something made him pause. Why did he have this feeling of being watched, all of a sudden?

He turned and looked over his shoulder. The staircase stretched down empty behind him. The sun was setting in earnest now and the arch-shaped window framed a burnt orange sky hazy with pollution. The window ensured that there was still light up here, but when he stepped away from the closed door to look over the edge of the banister, the hallway down below was almost completely dark. The spidery ferns on the console table and the coats hanging from the hooks threw hardly any shadows.

Slowly, he straightened. He was being ridiculous. There was no one here. He approached the door once more and turned the knob.

A streak of black exploded past his ear with a vicious snarl. Something had jumped off the top of the tallboy behind him and was now disappearing through the half-open door. It was so unexpected, he found himself staring at the door stupefied. His mind told him it was only a cat, but his pulse was racing off the charts and the hairs on his neck were standing up.

Cautiously he pushed the door wider. It creaked on its hinges, setting his teeth on edge. A foot away a coal black cat was watching him malevolently, tail swishing, one paw lifted expectantly. The cat spat at him and made a harrowing noise at the back of its throat. It sounded like a baby being tortured.

"Here, kitty, kitty…" He held out his hand placatingly. Anything to stop that unearthly sound.

The cat moved at lightning speed, and the next moment he was looking at four deep scratch marks on his wrist. The amount of blood welling up from the gouges was quite extraordinary.

Holy shit. He felt suddenly queasy and a little light-headed, which was stupid-it wasn't as though he was mortally wounded. Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he tied it into a clumsy bandage around his hand. If he wasn't careful, he'd be dripping blood all over the place.

He flipped the light switch at the door to help him see better: no use giving this spawn from hell an added advantage. The cat's pupils narrowed. It was still screaming, and the noise was excruciating. He moved threateningly toward the animal, which must have sensed what he had in mind, because it scrambled up the side of the curtain and onto the top of a wardrobe where it crouched into a tense ball of fur, staring down at him with an evil expression. But at least it had stopped its caterwauling.

OK. Time to regroup. He took a deep breath. When he got home, he would disinfect the wounds. But for now, ignore the cat. Focus on the task at hand. He just needed to remember to kick the damn thing out of here before he left. The door had probably been closed on purpose especially to keep the dratted animal out of the room.

And a charming room it was too. Now that his heart had stopped racing, he could give it his full attention. The color scheme was peach and pink, but whereas such a color palette could easily be cloying, this room was anything but twee. The giant whale skull sitting on top of a dresser, one eye socket stuffed with daisies, was already a sign that the person who slept in this room had a taste for whimsy. Not to mention humor. The bed lamp was purple and plastic and in the shape of Michelangelo's David. David minus his head, that is.

On the bed was an open box of chocolates, and a tissue with an imprint of bright red lipstick. He couldn't help smiling. It was all delightfully feminine. A book with a fraying spine was lying open but facedown on the counterpane next to the box of chocolates. He glanced at the title: Mind to Hermes. Obviously a page-turner.

As he picked it up, he took care to keep it open at the original page. The book looked as though it had been read and reread from cover to cover several times. The coated paper was soft from use; the print was smudged. A passage, heavily underlined in pencil, drew his attention: "If you embrace in thought all things at once, time, place, substance… you will comprehend God." In the margin someone had written in a cramped, but looping feminine hand: The divine has been banished from the universe we live in. We are creating the ultimate mind machine but we have lost the alchemical impulse and the desire to transform ourselves into divine man. Instead of allowing us to embrace

the riches of the universe, the mind machine has left our brains empty as a paper cup, a thing of no value, a lump of tissue only able to reflect the knowledge of the universe, not absorb it!!!

He grimaced. Mind machine… a computer? And what alchemical impulse? The words themselves were pretty obscure, but the passionate conviction behind the words was hard to miss. The liberal use of exclamation marks was proof enough.

Well, whatever rubs your Buddha, as Isidore would say. Transforming himself into divine man was not exactly high on his own list of priorities. He subscribed to the motto: "Living well is the best revenge."

He was just about to replace the book, when the cell phone clipped to his belt went off. The sudden noise made him jerk.

"Hello?"

"Gabriel." One word only, but Frankie sounded tired.

"Frankie, hi. What's up?" He glanced at his watch as he spoke. He had been inside the house for sixty minutes. Over at Casa Whit-tington they probably hadn't started on the caviar appetizer yet.

"They're on their way back. Actually they left just over a quarter of an hour ago."

"What? Why didn't you call me?" Fifteen minutes. Hell. They were probably about to walk through the front door.

"I'm sorry. But William took ill. That's why the party broke up." A deep breath. Her voice tight. "As you can imagine, calling you was not exactly my first priority."

"OK. I must get out of here." A thought occurred to him. "Your husband. How is he?"

"He'll be fine. This happens quite often these days. But thank you for asking. Now go!"

He clipped the phone onto his belt again. Time to split. He turned to look at the cat, which was still giving him the evil eye from the top of the wardrobe. He was going to have to forget about shooing the animal out of the room and just hope the sisters would think they had neglected to close the door themselves. The book was back on the bed where he had found it, so that was taken care of. What else? The light. He should switch off the light.

As he walked out onto the landing, his eye fell on the door on the other side of the tallboy, which was still closed. Maybe he had time for a quick peek? Cautiously he opened the door and poked his head inside. Another bedroom, this one in shades of lilac and yellow. He was able to see without trouble because a lamp had been left on. Shell pink opera gloves were draped over a tilted mirror, which reflected a four-poster bed with a swath of gauze netting. But what drew his attention was the wall on the far side of the room. He had been looking for photographs and here they were, a veritable gallery. Snapshots, studio photographs, black-and-white, color. Dozens of pictures: many tacked up casually against a bulletin board, the edges overlapping; others elegantly framed.

Frankie had told him the sisters were attractive, and the glimpse he'd had of them when they left the house earlier this evening had seemed to confirm her judgment. But as he looked at these faces, encapsulated in silence, he realized "attractive" was far too anemic a word. These women were not merely conventionally pretty. They were startlingly-throat-catchingly-beautiful.

Minnaloushe-the redhead-was the softer of the two. Her cheekbones were as high as her sister's, but the planes of her face were more rounded, less sharp. Her mouth was full and blurred, her eyes pale green, their expression unfocused as though she had just tumbled out of bed and was looking at the world with dreamy eyes. Her figure bordered on the voluptuous: tiny waist, but quite heavy breasts.

Morrighan, in contrast, had the muscle definition of an athlete. Her arms were slim and corded; her long legs elegant but strong. She had blue eyes, the color so intense it looked almost fake. In one picture she was riding a horse, looking Andalusian in a severe black riding jacket and Spanish hat, at her throat a swirl of lace. It was an arresting picture, taken in profile. You could see the head of the horse, the black arch of its neck and one mad staring eye. The gloved hands of the rider held the reins in a steely grip. The overriding impression was of strength, concentration, grace.

There was very little family likeness between the two women, he thought, except that both had heart-shaped faces. As children, however, they had looked almost like twins. There were several pictures of them as little girls-gaps in their teeth, hair scraped back into tight little pigtails-and their mother had preferred to dress them in identical clothes, all sashed dresses, frilly socks and round-toed baby doll shoes. Rather old-fashioned, actually. No pictures of them in jeans and sneakers and baseball caps. As he looked at the photographs, he was reminded of a line by John Galsworthy: "One's eyes are what one is, one's mouth what one becomes." The faces of the little girls bore scant resemblance to their grown-up selves, but even at that early age, there was a surprisingly mature humor and intelligence in their gaze.

As his eyes continued to travel over the pictures on the wall in front of him, his heart skipped a beat. He had been searching for Robert Whittington tonight and suddenly, without warning, he had found him. There he was: thin, ascetic face, vulnerable eyes, a smile brimming over with delight. He was standing side by side with the sisters, and the picture had been taken against the backdrop of what looked like a public park. Hampstead Heath? In the background was green grass, flower beds and a number of colorful kites flying against a washed-out sky.

Whittington looked happy. He was staring straight at the camera. On his right side was Minnaloushe, one hand trying to keep her hair from blowing in the wind. Standing to his left and slightly behind him was Morrighan. Her slender fingers rested on his shoulder; her gaze was focused on a spot somewhere behind the photographer.

There were other pictures as well. In most of them Whittington was alone. In one he was in the garden, lying in a hammock, one long leg dangling over the side. In another he was sitting with his back propped against a tree trunk. It was the tree that grew next to the swimming pool-no mistaking those flame red flowers. There was a photograph of him pulling a funny face, eyes crossed comically, wearing a T-shirt stamped with the words Hugs not Drugs. Gabriel recognized the room. It was the living room at Monk House: those African masks on the wall were unmistakable. And peeping from behind Whittington's shoulder, the distinct design of the Monas.

There was also a framed eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph that for some reason he found disturbing. It showed Robert Whittington and the two sisters at what looked like the opening of an exhibition in some trendy art gallery. Whittington was peering earnestly at an oil painting. In the background were the sisters, each with a champagne flute in her hand. They were not looking at the painting, but at Whittington. And it was the expression on their faces that made him pause. Alert, eager, curious. There it was again: curiosity. Just like the woman at the swimming pool. They were watching Robert Whittington with a curiosity bordering on greediness. They seemed excited, fascinated, turned on. As though all their senses were quivering. Why?

He would have liked to take the picture with him, but it was framed and might be missed. He hesitated. Then he reached out and removed the snapshot of Robert and the two women on Hampstead Heath. There were so many pictures jostling for space here, it was probably safe to take this one.

Time to go. Time to go. Slipping the picture into the inner pocket of his jacket, he left the room, closing the door behind him. Quickly he descended the staircase, now black with shadows. As he reached the bottom stair, a sound made him pause. It was the sound of a key in a lock and it came from the front door-a door which, even as he glanced over at it, was already starting to open.

He made a beeline for the living room door, but the entrance hall with its army of potted plants was a bloody minefield. For one heart-stopping moment he almost kicked over a drooping aspidistra. But then he was in the living room and there, on the other side of the room, were the French doors. His route to escape.

Behind him in the entrance hall a light was switched on, the yellow stain stretching all the way from the hall to the living room door and spilling onto his feet. The sound of a woman's voice, the words indistinct, but the voice itself low-pitched and pleasant. Another female voice, this one light and breathy, saying, "You have to admit, though, he's pretty cute!"

Swiftly he traversed the room, making sure to give the wobbly wicker screen a wide berth. The French door opened under his hand, and he was in the garden. The sultry air and the sound of traffic was a shock after the hermetically sealed atmosphere of the house. He pushed the door softly shut and ran down the length of the darkened garden. When he reached the back door, which would give him access to the alley, he stopped to look back.

The French doors were brightly lit, the stained-glass insets glowing with color, and as he watched, someone pulled the shutters away from one of the windows and opened it wide. He could hear music playing. The garden was redolent with the scent of roses, the night air soaked with perfume.

Two figures were silhouetted against the bright light within. They were facing each other, their heads close together. There was something surreptitious in their posture, secretive even. Gabriel shivered though the night air was blood warm. The scent of roses seemed sickly all of a sudden, making him feel drugged and passive.

As he watched the two women, he felt as though the moment were frozen. A house with two figures in furtive conversation, an intruder looking in from the darkness, a garden awash in fragrance- this was an enchanted world with its own rules, remote from the city of London, which stretched around them in all directions like a pulsing organism. Time in here had stopped-even as it still flowed evenly outside the perimeters of these garden walls.

A car honked loudly, shaking him out of his stupor. What was he still doing here? He felt tired and his hand throbbed where the cat had scratched him. He suddenly had one overriding desire-to get away from this house. He looked back at the lighted window. The figures were gone.

He sighed, relieved now, eager to be on his way. But as he turned to leave, he thought he heard-faintly-the sound of a woman's laughter.

Entry date: 23 June

We still haven't found someone to play with. M thought she had a candidate but what a disappointment he turned out to be. He has no curiosity. No sense of adventure. He is definitely not a candidate for the game.

So M will now use him as a lover only. But I rather doubt he'll satisfy her. Very handsome but he knows it and no woman wants to feel that the man she's with thinks he's prettier than she is. He won't be around for long.

Thinking of which: the ideal lover, who would he be?

A man who is passionate. A man with a militant mind. A man with skilled fingers, who knows how to touch. He will seduce me with gentleness and know me in roughness.

Subtlety. Mastery. Danger.

Where to find such a man? What will be his name?

CHAPTER EIGHT

"So who did you say he was, exactly?" Frankie turned her head toward him and squinted against the sun. She had insisted on an outside table even though Gabriel hated sitting outside. In the country, dining al fresco had a certain bucolic charm, but in the city you were far too close to pedestrians spitting and sneezing all over your food. Not to mention the belching exhaust fumes.

"Isidore? He's an associate of mine. A computer specialist and very good at tracking things down. I asked him to look into Min-naloushe and Morrighan Monk and see if he can come up with anything interesting." Gabriel glanced at his watch. "Punctuality is not his strong suit, I'm afraid. But he'll be here." He lifted his arm and beckoned to the waitress. "More coffee?"

Frankie crumbled the croissant on her plate. "No, thanks. I had enough coffee last night to last me a lifetime."

"How's William doing?"

"Better," she said briefly.

He nodded. She obviously did not feel like talking. And she looked tired. The red dress she was wearing merely accentuated her fatigue, the joyous color at odds with the pallor of her skin, the dry-ness of her lips. There was a great sadness in her eyes.

So she really did care for the guy. He felt a sudden-and unwelcome-pang of jealousy. Frankie belonged to the past. Why did he care about the relationship she had with her husband?

"You really love him, don't you?"

"There's no need to sound quite so surprised."

"But I mean, honest now, Frankie. When you first met him. are we talking head-over-heels?"

She leaned forward. "We're talking butterflies in the stomach, clammy hands, and midnight fantasizing. I have never been more in love with any other man."

"Oh."

She smiled sardonically. "You think that after having you in my life, no other man would measure up, don't you?"

"Of course, not." But come on, he thought silently, what did Whittington have that he didn't? Only a few hundred million dollars.

She shook her head, gave a short laugh. "You're amazing. You've always thought you were 'the cutest thing in shoe leather.' That obviously hasn't changed."

He looked at her coldly.

"Oh, Gabriel. Stop sulking. Tell me about your visit to Monk House. You said apart from the photographs, there were no other signs of Robert?"

He sighed. "No. And I couldn't sense his presence in the house. No imprint."

"What about the woman in your ride, the masked one with the crow? Were you able to pick up an imprint from her?"

"Afraid not."

"Nothing at all?"

He shrugged. "Nothing definite, although I still think we're on the right track. The question is, of course, who was the woman in my ride? Minnaldushe or Morrighan? I've now seen pictures of both of them, but as the woman was masked and her hair covered with a hood, I still don't know which one it was."

She frowned. "Those two are very close. Who's to say it wasn't both of them? "

He shook his head. "I sensed only one woman in my ride. Not two. If a murder had taken place, only one woman was responsible. Only one woman physically placed her hands on Robert Whittington's head and pushed him down into the water. The other sister may be aware of what happened and she may even be an accessory after the fact, but only one of them actually committed the deed."

"The deed. God." She shivered. "It sounds so cold. You do realize you'll have to slam another ride? Try to go back; see if you can make more sense of it this time?"

"Yes, I know. I've been thinking about it."

"So when?"

"Soon." But he was starting to feel ambivalent about the whole thing. On the one hand, he was deeply intrigued-how could he not be-by what he had accessed during his ride. It had been a killer surge. So the urge to explore, which had always fueled his RV adventures, was very much present.

On the other hand, he had not exactly enjoyed the experience of going insane. And if he could give the drowning bit a miss as well, that would be fine with him too. Even more to the point: after this particular ride, when he finally got back to reality, his brain had continued to feel mauled-like a rugby ball after a hard season. This had never happened to him before and it was scary. He couldn't help feeling that if he slammed the ride again, he would be like a mad scientist injecting himself with his own untested and possibly lethal formula in order to see if it works.

"By the way, I've been meaning to ask you." Frankie was gesturing at his bandaged wrist. "What happened there?"

"I had a run-in with a rabid cat, last night. At Monk House."

"Oh, I remember that cat. Black, was it?"

"Nice pet. It almost took my hand off."

She smiled. "I'm sure you must have teased it."

"Teased it?"

"Well, when I visited the house it was purring and rubbing itself against my legs. A real sweetie."

He opened his mouth to reply but at that moment a shadow fell across the table. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry I'm late." Isidore, dressed in a pink tank top, his hairy, thin, white legs sticking out from a pair of lavishly printed swimming trunks, was grinning down at him. In his hand he held a sleek tan-colored briefcase. Brief-case and swimming trunks made for a rather interesting sartorial statement.

"You're very late."

"Traffic was a bitch, what can I say? And I used the Pringle can at Pittypats before I came. Guess what; the idiots are still using their WEP default settings." Isidore winked at him.

"Pringle can?" Frankie looked mystified.

Gabriel shook his head in warning at Isidore. Of course he knew that Frankie was aware what his chosen field of profession was these days, but no need to remind her of its more nefarious aspects. "Pringle can" was their code name for the very sophisticated directional antenna they used for targeting wireless systems.

Isidore flopped into the chair opposite. Holding out his hand, he said, "Mrs. Whittington. A real pleasure."

Frankie, looking a little startled, took the hand. "Thanks. But please call me Frankie."

"Frankie. That's a cool name."

She smiled, clearly charmed. "Thank you for helping me."

"No problem." He reached for the briefcase and threw a glance at Gabriel. "I managed to get quite a lot of stuff about the Monk sisters from the Internet. I'm not sure how helpful it will be, but for what it's worth, here it is." From the briefcase he extracted an orange folder. Placing it on the table in front of him, he opened it and blinked owlishly at the contents.

"Anything on that coat of arms, the Monas?"

"Not a coat of arms. A sigil."

"A what?"

"A sigil: a seal, or a device that supposedly has occult power in astrology or magic." Isidore spoke in the deliberately patient voice of someone having to explain something to a not-so-bright student.

"You don't say. So what are we talking about here, witchcraft?"

Isidore pursed his lips. "Well, witchcraft is such an emotive word, don't you think?"

"Oh for goodness' sake, Isidore. Get on with it. What the hell is it?"

"OK, OK." Isidore made a placating gesture with his hand. "First of all, the full name of this sigil is the Monas Hieroglyphica: the hieroglyphic monad. In 1564 it was used by one Dr. John Dee as the frontispiece for a book he wrote on mysticism, which includes all kinds of obscure references to numerology, the Kabala, astrology, cosmology and mathematics. Heavy stuff. By all accounts it is a work of mind-boggling complexity and Dee managed to write it in a mad frenzy over a period of only twelve days. This guy was a Jedi, I tell you."

"But what does it represent?"

"The Monas is several astrological symbols all bundled into one. Dee believed it to represent the unity of the cosmos."

"I still don't get what it is."

"Well, this is not just a symbol, understand. It is a seal infused with actual astral power. It not only talks the talk, it walks the walk. So not only does it reflect the unity of the universe, it is an actual tool with which to unify the psyche itself. And it's a symbol of initiation. Anyone who carries this mark on him is signaling that he is transformed."

"Alchemy." Frankie's voice was quiet. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Personal transformation."

Isidore looked at her, his gaze keen. "Yes. You know about this stuff, then."

"Alchemy was one of Robbie's great passions. He read tons of literature about it. I've always wondered why he had that thing tattooed on him."

Gabriel looked from Isidore to Frankie and back again. He felt left behind, as though they were speaking some foreign language, deliberately keeping him in the dark. "But alchemy is turning lead into gold, isn't it?"

Isidore shook his head. "That's only part of it. Alchemists were really involved in transforming the soul. Even the body. There are reports of alchemists becoming immensely old. Those who didn't get poisoned by the chemicals they were handling, that is."

"So who was John Dee?"

"Ah, now this is where it gets interesting. John Dee was your poster boy Renaissance man. He was a mathematical genius-his work anticipated Newton's by almost a hundred years-and without his mapmaking skills the most important naval explorations of the Elizabethan age could not have taken place. Furthermore, he was an adviser and a secret agent to Queen Elizabeth I. His spy name was 007. Neat, huh?" Isidore grinned, enjoying himself.

"Fascinating. So what?"

"Patience, my son. All will be revealed." Isidore nodded sagely and Gabriel bit his tongue.

"Among his many interests," Isidore continued serenely, "Dee had a deep and abiding fascination with the occult, which, in those days, was pretty risky, believe me. It could get you burnt at the stake before you could say abracadabra. Dee sailed very close to the wind indeed. The Monas Hieroglyphica is really a book on magic. Furthermore, Dee was an information freak, an absolute addict. He was not a wealthy man, but at one stage he had gathered in his house the most impressive library in the whole of Britain. Knowledge was his potion… or his poison, depending on how you look at it. He may have overdosed a bit. Turned gaga. He ended up thinking he could communicate with angels and became a laughingstock among his peers. Very sad, because he was seriously brilliant."

"All of this still does not explain why the Monk sisters have the Monas plastered up all over their house. You can hardly turn around without tripping over that emblem."

"Sigil."

"All right, then. Sigil."

"I think what we may have here is an example of ancestral pride."

"You mean…?" Frankie leaned forward, eyebrows raised.

Isidore nodded with the smugness of a magician pulling an especially plump rabbit out of his hat. "Minnaloushe and Morrighan Monk are direct descendants of Dr. John Dee, the greatest mind of the Elizabethan era."

Frankie leaned back slowly. "Impressive."

"I'll say. I wouldn't mind an ancestor like Dee myself. That kind of genius in the gene pool is robust enough to survive the ages."

"No, I mean it's impressive that you managed to dig all of this up."

Isidore tried his best to look modest. "I have a small talent for-"

"Snooping," Gabriel interrupted. "Being nosy."

"No, it's healthy curiosity. Being aware. I'm sort of a Renaissance man myself."

Gabriel looked at Frankie. "Modesty is one of Isidore's more endearing qualities. You do realize that when he enters a room he has to walk sideways?" Frankie frowned in incomprehension. "Otherwise his swollen head will get stuck between the posts." Looking back at Isidore, he said, "OK, you. Good work. So the Monas is a magical seal created by a sixteenth-century madman."

"Inspired madman."

"OK. Inspired madman. Now what about his great-great-great-great-granddaughters?"

"I think you missed a few 'greats' there. But let's see. Well, to begin with, the sisters practice alchemy themselves. But of the less esoteric kind. They make perfumes, beverages and bath products based on spagyric principles."

"Spa-whatsisname?"

"Spagyric. To separate and reassemble. Breaking down the raw plant material into its active components and then remixing it along with the mineral residue-the alkaline ash-to become a whole balanced entity again."

Gabriel remembered the table with the chemistry equipment in the Monk House kitchen. "I think I saw their laboratory. So they sell this stuff?"

"Yes, on the Internet."

Gabriel grimaced. "This sounds very kooky. Did you happen to stumble onto any personal information about the sisters?"

"Of course. And fascinating it is too. The sisters Monk. Min-naloushe Monk is thirty-six years of age. Morrighan is a year older. Their mother passed away when they were in their teens-"

"Just like Robbie," Frankie interrupted.

"I suppose so." Isidore shrugged. "Anyway, Gabriel was right in thinking there's money in that family. By all accounts they do not want for anything and like the lilies of the field they need not toil or weave. Their commercial enterprises on the Internet are just pocket money for them."

"So let me guess," Gabriel said. "They also keep themselves occupied with charity. And they do the season. Glyndebourne, Wimbledon, Henley, the Cartier Polo Day? Late-night dinners at Gordon Ramsay's or Sketch? The south of France for summer, Aspen for winter?"

"Actually, no. Charity is high on their list but they also follow pursuits that are not exactly common among the ladies-who-lunch crowd. In Minnaloushe's case Great-Grandpapa Dee's genes are hard at work. She holds a doctorate from Imperial College and did her thesis on the topic of memory."

"She's a neurologist?"

"No, she's an academic. Her fields are mathematics and philosophy. She seems to be a perpetual student, though. No record of her ever teaching anywhere. But she has published several papers. I've downloaded a few and printed them out for you." Isidore slid a slim folder over to Gabriel. "Here you go. Bedtime reading for the brave."

Gabriel touched the folder listlessly. "Thanks. I can't wait."

"As far as I can make out, the response to her theories has been mixed. There are some who think she's the next Einstein, but most of her peers think she's a total flake. Part of the problem is that she seems to link religion-or at least spirituality-to what most scientists regard as simple brain function."

"Echoes of Papa Dee again."

"As you say. Anyway, she hasn't published anything for five years."

"So what does she do with herself these days?"

"Well, apart from mixing bubble bath, she also runs another business from home selling African masks."

Gabriel remembered the wall lined with masks in the living room at Monk House. At the time he had wondered why anyone would want to live under the glare of all those empty eye sockets.

"The business is small but extremely lucrative," Isidore continued. "I've accessed her auction site, and some of those masks sell for several thousands of dollars. Not that she needs the money. This is just extra icing for the lady."

"And Morrighan? What gets her out of bed?"

"Well, she's an environmentalist. Very passionate about the welfare of mother earth."

Gabriel groaned. "Just what I need: another tree hugger. Remember Danielle?" For a period of six months he had dated a woman who, among other things, had persuaded him to tie himself to a tree trunk for five days in deepest midwinter to protest the building of an overpass. Very embarrassing and not his style at all. He had a vivid recollection of feeling wet and miserable and messing up one knee that still hurt in cold weather. And he also remembered that her friends were dauntingly well meaning and quite without any sense of humor. Thinking back, it was amazing he managed to stick it out with Danielle for so long. The sex must have been really good.

Isidore cocked an eye at him. "Of course I remember Danielle. But I don't think you get my drift here. You're thinking of the foot-fungus-and-Birkenstock brigade. Morrighan is on another level altogether. She's a genuine eco warrior. She'll eat Danielle for breakfast. Morrighan belongs to an all-female group that is very militant indeed. These women run with the wolves, man. They take no prisoners. She also has a record. She has been arrested three times and the last time she broke the jaw of a police officer. It landed her in a ton of trouble." Out of the folder Isidore slid a page with a grainy color picture on it. "I printed this from the Internet. The one with the red cap is Morrighan."

"Good grief." Gabriel stared at the image. It showed two women in combat gear rappelling down the side of a multistoried glass skyscraper like a pair of kamikaze trapeze artists. They were unfurling a monstrously big banner between them. The banner was still limp and Gabriel was only able to make out the first word of the slogan: "BOYCOTT."

"Boycott what?"

"Borgesse. They own and finance enterprises directly involved in genetically engineered food products."

Gabriel looked back at the picture again. "So the lady has a taste for danger. And violence. Interesting."

"I thought you'd like her. For the past two years, however, she's been quiet. I don't know what she's been up to during this time. Nothing which made headlines, that's all I can tell you."

Frankie touched the printout with one finger. "Does Minnaloushe share her sister's activism?"

"Well, actually…" Isidore paused and started to smile. "Minnaloushe isn't quite as physically oriented as Morrighan, you might say. Although, no-her interests are very physical indeed." The smile was now a grin.

"What are you talking about?"

"I think you should find out for yourself. Seeing is believing. You'll find her at this address in, oh…" Isidore peered at his watch. "An hour from now."

Gabriel glanced at the piece of paper. "The Wine of Life Society?"

"Yes. I've already made a reservation for you to sit in."

"Sit in on what?"

"Never mind. You just make sure you get there in time. Sorry, Frankie," Isidore said apologetically. "The reservation is only for one."

"That's all right. I need to get back home to William." Frankie stood up. "By the way," she said, as she gathered up her handbag, "what about partners? Do the sisters have significant others?"

"They certainly have 'others' but I doubt you can call them significant. These two girls believe in playing the field. From what I can gather from the society pages, there seems to be a steady stream of men in their lives. But their boredom threshold must be very low. All the guys they get involved with seem to have a very short shelf life."

"I'm on my way." Frankie held out her hand to Isidore, but then changed her mind and leaned over to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for going to all this trouble for me. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

Isidore ducked his head. "No problem. Happy to be of service."

She turned to Gabriel. "Call me?"

"Sure."

Another smile for Isidore and she was off, heels clicking, back straight. There was something gallant about Frankie, Gabriel thought. He had forgotten that quality of quiet courage, which had so attracted him when they were together at Oxford.

"Nice girl." Isidore touched his cheek. "Really nice. Why didn't the two of you make it? If it were me, I would have held on for dear life. She's the kind you want to get old with, man. How come you let her get away?"

Good question. Why did he let her get away? Because he hadn't been able to look her in the eyes any longer. Because a woman called Melissa Cartwright had crashed into their lives with the impact of a meteorite.

He shook his head. "Ancient history." Looking down again at the piece of paper in his hand, he said, "Three Lisson Street. This place is in Chelsea?"

"Yup. Only a few blocks away from Monk House itself."

"The Wine of Life Society. Why don't you just tell me what that is?"

"Oh, no." Isidore shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of ruining the surprise." He grinned widely. "But prepare to be wowed!"

CHAPTER NINE

"Although art is indeed not the bread but the wine of life." Jean Paul Richter 1763-1825. The words were painted in flowing script high up against one wall. And below it:

"Art isn't something you marry, it is something you rape." Edgar Degas 1834-1917.

Not exactly politically correct, Gabriel thought, but then Degas lived in an age when sensibilities were less easily bruised. His eyes traveled around the occupants of the room. Not that this lot would be easily offended. They were all men, and there was a decided air of bonhomie and a sort of faded rakishness about the group. Half-filled wine bottles-each tagged with the owner's name-shared space with easels, desks stacked with huge sheets of paper, pencils, paintbrushes, rags and boxes filled with stubby bits of chalk. It had already been explained to him that once you became a member, you were not only encouraged to bring along your own booze but were also allowed to leave it at the club for the next time-hence the identifying name tags. The air smelled pungently of turpentine, which surely must have deadened any palate to the more subtle nuances of a wine's bouquet, but he had the distinct impression it wouldn't trouble this crowd. And judging from what he could see, it would be no problem for most of the men present to polish off a bottle or two in one sitting. He glanced at his watch. It was only eleven o'clock in the morning but the cork was out of most of the bottles already.

A slightly built man with white hair and a straggly beard walked up to him. "Poetry or Life?"

"Pardon?" For a moment he thought the guy was trying to engage him in a philosophical discussion.

The man tapped the clipboard he was holding in his arm. "Are you signed up for the two-hour class on Chaucer or for the one-hour life class?"

Good question. After a moment's hesitation Gabriel said, "Life." Even Isidore wouldn't make him sit through a hundred and twenty minutes of The Canterbury Tales. Shit, he hoped not. With Isidore you never knew.

"Name?"

"Gabriel Blackstone."

The man studied the clipboard, one finger-green with pastel dust-traveling down a short list of names. "Blackstone. Yes." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Easel three back there has been reserved for you. Make yourself at home. We'll start in another five minutes."

This was worse than Chaucer. He couldn't draw on the left side or the right side of his brain. Isidore was going to burn in hell for this. Approaching easel three with trepidation, he noticed a small leaflet tacked up against the crossbar.

A haven for professional and semiprofessional visual artists, writers and poets, the Wine of Life Society was first established in 1843 and has survived two world wars, a depression and several attempts to have it change its strict policy of gentlemen only. The club does, however, open its doors to ladies on the first Saturday of every month. Guest visits to gentlemen interested in joining the club can be arranged for a nominal fee.

No ladies. And this was not the first Saturday of the month. Isidore had told him Minnaloushe Monk would be present. If no women were allowed, what the hell was he doing here?

The door on the far side of the room opened. A woman, swaddled in a white toweling robe, walked toward the raised dais in the middle of the room. She was barefoot and had long hair reaching to her shoulders. Long red hair.

He stared. He could actually feel his jaw dropping. She turned around, her back to the class, and let the robe fall to the floor. She was naked. Quite wide shoulders, a lovely long back and, at the base of her spine, a delicate tattoo. It was with a sense of inevitability that he recognized the design. What looked like the sign for female sexuality superimposed on a rose. The Monas. Of course, what else?

Facing the class once more, she gracefully lowered herself and settled among the clutch of pillows piled up on the dais, her long limbs sprawling. There was no attempt at modesty. One leg was slightly raised, the other in a flat triangle, the foot resting on the inner thigh. The pose left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Heavy breasts with dusky pink aureoles. Rounded hips and arms. She was far from being overweight, but there was a softness, a lus-ciousness, about her that was almost old-fashioned in this age in which a more angular kind of beauty was prized. She had long, deeply elegant legs and thin ankles. What struck him was how relaxed she was. There wasn't a hint of tension in her body. Her face was serene, and she had that unfocused look in her eyes he recognized from the photographs he had studied in Monk House. As though she was just waking up from a particularly potent dream. And to think that behind those limpid eyes lay a Ph.D. mind.

But her mind was not exactly what he was most interested in right this minute. Prepare to be wowed, Isidore had said. Well, he was certainly wowed all right. He could hardly swallow; his mouth was that dry.

But he couldn't just sit here stunned. Clutching the charcoal in one sweaty fist, he hesitantly drew a few whisper-thin lines. But how to reproduce glorious flesh and blood on the flat emptiness of an unforgiving piece of paper, that was the question. More to the point, how to ignore such glorious flesh and blood and concentrate solely on technique. He sneaked a surreptitious look around him. The other men in the class didn't seem to have a problem shoving their baser instincts back into the cave. There was no leering or lip smacking, that's for sure. They were sketching with vigor and, he couldn't help but notice, surprising skill. At the easel to the left of him was a man who was a dead ringer for Vin Diesel-checked shirt, bulging biceps, shaved skull. He was holding the stick of charcoal with great delicacy, drawing with enviable confidence. And what at first had looked like random strokes were starting to take on the form of something beautiful. And recognizable. Gabriel's own attempt-if not quite in the stick figure category-looked like a rather pathetic attempt at primitive art.

All those eyes on her but she seemed hardly aware of their presence. She was looking at a spot somewhere in middle distance, but there was nothing studied about her detached attitude. Every now and then she would blink-almost in slow motion-and her eyes would make a leisurely sweep of the room. They met his twice. The sensation was strange. The first eye contact lasted only a second, but he felt a tiny shock run through him. The second time her eyes lingered on him for longer, and the touch of her gaze stayed with him even after she had looked away.

He was surprised when she stood up and slid the robe back on. He looked at his watch. Difficult to believe, but a full hour had passed since she had walked into the room. Around him the men were stretching and packing up their equipment. The atmosphere of studious calm that had prevailed was disappearing. Someone said something under his breath, and it was met with a few loud guffaws.

He was bent over, rummaging inside his backpack for the keys to his car, when he became aware of two bare feet standing next to him. The toes were small with the nails painted a soft pink. He had just been staring at them for an hour. They really were quite lovely.

"So my bum looks that big?"

He straightened. Minnaloushe Monk was smiling quizzically, amused.

"Uh…" He stared at the canvas and his miserable attempt at artistry. This was truly embarrassing. Thank goodness she had a sense of humor.

He turned back to her, ruefully. "Please don't be offended. It is the skill of the artist, not the beauty of the sitter, which is at fault."

She smiled again. Her eyes were pale green with fugitive yellow flecks, and they tilted just slightly at the corners, conveying an impression of quite delicious catlike femininity. "Very gallant." Her voice was just the tiniest bit breathy. She lifted an eyebrow. "I may be wrong, but I get the impression that you are… new to drawing?"

"I think it's a question of enthusiasm outstripping talent. But let me introduce myself. Gabriel Blackstone, artist manque."

"Hmm." After a few moments she held out her hand. "I'm Min-naloushe Monk." Her grip was soft but far from flaccid.

"So what is it you do, Gabriel Blackstone? When you're not in pursuit of the muse, that is."

She was still smiling, but he had the impression that her attention was not quite with him any longer, that for some reason she was losing interest in the conversation. She had turned slightly sideways, as though about to move away.

He took a deep breath. "I'm a thief."

"A jewel thief, no doubt." She was playing along, but she was humoring him. She probably thought this was a rather lame pickup line.

"Oh, no. Nothing as romantic as that. I steal information."

For the first time she looked at him fully. Her pupils swelled. He got the feeling that only now was she truly focusing on him, seeing him as a person.

"Information?"

"Data."

"How?"

"Mostly off the computers of big companies."

If she was shocked she certainly did not show it. She was staring at him avidly and her voice was tinged with excitement. "It must be an amazing sensation: having all that information at your fingertips."

He grinned. "You could say that."

"Do you make the information your own?"

He paused. He wasn't sure what she meant. "I sell it. Like thieves do."

"Of course." She continued staring at him. Her gaze had changed from soft focus to laser-sharp intensity. He was starting to feel uncomfortable.

"And you? Is this a well-paid gig? Modeling?"

She laughed. "Hardly. This is just something I do on the side. I sell masks. Mostly African. Some Polynesian."

"It sounds fascinating. I'd love to see your shop."

"I work from home." She was still staring at him. "If you're interested, why don't you come with me and take a look? Maybe you'll see something that strikes your fancy."

"You mean now?"

"No time like the present. I just need a minute to get dressed." She looked at the keys in his hand. "You have your car here? Good. I live close by but you can give me a lift."

He couldn't believe it was going to be as easy as this. He had meant to pique her interest by confessing to being a thief, but he had somehow managed to say the magic word and the door to Monk House was to be opened to him. If only he knew what the magic word was. Maybe she was simply turned on by the fact that he was breaking the law. Bored little rich girl looking for a vicarious thrill.

When she reappeared, she was wearing a long summery dress with thin spaghetti straps. She looked younger, less sophisticated. But what made him feel suddenly short of breath was the thin silver chain around her neck. A chain from which dangled a charm in the shape of the letter M.

"Are you OK?" She was looking at him inquiringly.

"Sure." He dragged his eyes away from her neck. If he kept staring at her throat, he was sure to creep her out. Furthermore, it was not yet the time to jump to any conclusions, pendant or no pendant. But it was difficult to keep his excitement in check. There was no doubt in his mind. The chain around her neck was the same as the one worn by the woman at the pool.

They had stopped next to the Jag. As he unlocked the door for her, he moved closer. If he could get a whiff of her perfume, and if it matched the scent worn by the masked woman… But in this he was disappointed. She smelled of soap and shampoo. Clean, fresh.

He closed the door and got in on the driver's side. As he turned the key in the ignition, she ran her forefinger along the dashboard. "Walnut?"

"Yes. Nonstandard, though. I was lucky to get it."

"The XK150 is my favorite model. It has the best bones. And great torque."

He took his eyes off the road for a second and glanced over at her. "You're into cars?"

"I like cars. But the petrol head is my sister. She could get a job as a mechanic. So where did you find this lady?" She patted the dashboard again.

"I found her on the Internet, actually. I was smitten and bought her before I even saw her in the flesh. Admittedly she wasn't in good shape when I finally got my hands on her. It took a lot of work and she's high-maintenance. But then, one has to remember she's all of forty-seven years old."

"A man who can appreciate a mature woman is rare. And anything worthwhile is high-maintenance, anyway."

"Amen to that." He suddenly realized he was involuntarily pointing the car in the direction of Monk House. As he wasn't supposed to know where she lived, it was a rather dumb move.

"Where to?" he asked quickly. "Am I going the right way?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, actually. Just another two blocks. Then turn right. It's the house on the corner."

There was a nonresidential parking space right in front of the house. While she was busy unlocking the front door, Gabriel fed some pound coins into the meter. Sixty minutes. He doubted he would be asked to stay that long, but you never knew.

As he stepped into the entrance hall, he again registered the strange potpourri of fragrances he had noticed the night before. An unusual combination of scents. That acrid, bitter smell of alkaline ash overlaid by the sweeter smell of roses and tangerines. But no one could ever doubt that there were women living in this house.

"Morrighan?" Minnaloushe stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. "Are you here?"

There was no answer. After a moment or two, she turned away. "I was hoping my sister was in. I'd like you to meet her."

Flattering. And baffling. He was not an unduly modest guy, but he still couldn't figure out why this woman had not only brought him to her house, but now wanted to introduce him to the relatives as well. He doubted it was because she was bowled over by his sex appeal. She was watching him with that speculative look he had noticed earlier. As though she were an entomologist and he was some kind of interesting lepidopteran. It made him feel slightly embarrassed. She, on the other hand, was completely relaxed. It still amazed him that it didn't bother her in the slightest to be in the presence of a man she didn't know who had been staring at her in the altogether for a good part of the morning.

He looked around him. "This is a lovely staircase."

"Isn't it?" She nodded emphatically, the red hair swinging silkily against one bare shoulder. "It's my favorite thing in the house. I love staircases. I won't be able to live in a place without one. I believe they're essential to anyone wanting to live an interesting life. There are so many wonderful stories of houses with staircases: Gone with the Wind, War and Peace…."

"Bluebeard?"

"Of course. I had forgotten that one." She smiled. "Through here." She gestured to the door leading to the living room.

The room looked even larger than it had the night before. He noticed that the computers were switched off, the screen savers of the woman holding an exploding sun replaced by blackness. It reminded him of another problem. The diary. And the other password-protected file: The Promethean Key. How to access those files?

The tarantula was still inside its glass box. Hairy, mean-looking, at least in daylight it seemed real and less like something from an insane hallucination.

Minnaloushe saw him looking at it and smiled. "Why do I get the impression you don't really care for spiders?"

"I can't say that I do."

"This one is from South America. He's quite harmless, you know."

"He's still ugly."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Without warning, she pushed the lid off the glass case and reached inside. When she extracted her hand, the spider was sitting on the inside of her hand, the hairy body almost filling her palm, the long legs balanced on her splayed fingers.

He took an involuntary step backward. "What makes you keep it? Is it a pet?"

"Let's just say I'm fascinated by it. As I am by all things magical."

"Magical? "

"Well, think of it this way. Goliath here moves so delicately, he leaves no prints. Can you imagine that? A creature leaving no trace of its passing. Like a ghost. As my sister always says, if that's not magical, what is?"

She brought her other hand close to the first. He noticed that the insides of her palms were pale pink and the lines ran deep and true. With a lifeline like that she was going to live to be a hundred. After a moment's hesitation, the tarantula stepped gingerly from one hand to the other.

"But you're not interested in Goliath." She inserted her hand back inside the glass box and deposited the spider gently onto the granite pebbles. "You want to look at my masks. Let me show you." Turning toward him, she touched his arm lightly and pointed at the wall. "Here they are. You like?"

Not really, he thought. They were rather sinister-looking.

"Where do you find them?"

"I have a number of scouts I buy from. And once a year I travel to Africa myself."

He let his eyes travel over the rows of stylized faces. Enigmatic. Brooding. Unknowable.

"How did you become interested in masks?"

"I'm interested in identity. And transformation."

Transformation. OK, this rang a bell. Isidore saying, Alchemists

were really involved in transforming the soul. And there was that passage in the book in the bedroom. He wasn't able to remember the exact words but something about transforming yourself into divine man, or something equally kooky.

She spoke again. "Most African masking has to do with representing spirits, especially ancestral spirits. In some cultures-for example, the Mende of Sierra Leone-a mask is a tool for moving onto a higher plane. By donning the mask the masker actually becomes the spirit. So the process is not representation but transformation."

"I've always thought masks had to do with concealment."

"Concealment is a vital part, of course. Hiding your identity. Or adopting a false one." She looked at him quizzically. "You should understand that."

His heart missed a beat. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you live in cyberspace. And in cyberspace one can so easily adopt an alias. That's when pinpointing someone's true identity becomes the real prize, don't you think? One's true name is the ultimate secret."

"I suppose so." His heart was still racing. In order to hide his confusion, he pointed to a sloe-eyed mask with a wide nose and fastidious sneer. It also had teeth.

"I rather like this one."

"You have a good eye. That is a very rare mask indeed. It is from Central Africa-one of the Makishi masks. They are used during the male circumcision ceremony. Usually, after the ceremony, the masks are burned. So I'm very lucky that this one got rescued before it was destroyed."

He reached out his hand, but before he could touch the mask, she said: "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

He stopped, hand arrested in midair. "Why not?"

"It is believed that Makishi masks like this one are so powerful and potent that uninitiates touching the mask will become diseased."

"Diseased?"

"The body may contract a horrible illness. Or the mind could break down."

He slowly lowered his arm. "Nice. Do you believe in this stuff?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "If you play safe, you don't get hurt."

"If you play safe, you don't have fun."

"How true." She gave him that appraising look once again, the green eyes considering. As though she were weighing him up, he thought. Wondering if he would make the grade.

"This may be more your style." She lifted a roughly hewn, heart-shaped mask from the wall. "From the Kwele tribe, Gabon."

He took it from her rather gingerly. "What is its purpose?"

"To fight witchcraft."

He glanced over at her, surprised. She was smiling gently, the expression in her eyes hard to read.

He looked back at the face in his hands. The features were quite delicate, unlike the Makishi mask with its aggressive teeth.

"Well, that could come in handy, I suppose. How much for this one?"

"Why don't you live with it first? See if you like it? I encourage all my clients to try out their masks first. Find out if they can share a room with it."

"That's very generous of you. Thanks." And it would give him a pretext to come back. A reason to contact her again.

"Are you thirsty?" she asked suddenly. "Would you like some tea? I usually make a pot of my own home-brewed ginkgo and alfalfa leaf tea at this time."

Alfalfa leaf tea didn't sound appetizing but he nodded. "Thank you, yes."

"Let's go through to the kitchen."

As they entered the kitchen, he stiffened. On top of one of the chairs was his nemesis of the night before. The devil cat. And the animosity was still mutual. He had hardly spotted the cat, when it got to its feet, tail swishing, eyes fixed on him with unwavering intensity.

"Hey, Bruno." Minnaloushe stooped and picked it up. "What's wrong?"

Gabriel eyed the cat with trepidation. It was tense as a coil and seemed ready to jump out of her arms and launch itself at him.

"I don't think it likes me."

She looked down at the cat and scratched it behind the ears. "That's strange. Bruno is very affectionate normally. Ah, well." She smiled. "He's male. You're male. This is his turf so maybe it's just a question of protecting his territory."

Great, Gabriel thought. A pissing contest. With a cat. Bruno's eyes gleamed. He opened his mouth and closed it again without making a sound. The effect was weird.

Gabriel cleared his throat. "Bruno. I've always thought that to be quite a macho name. You know, the kind given to stevedores. Or bouncers. Or opera singers."

"Or martyrs." She kneeled and allowed the cat to jump out of her arms. It immediately moved away, back slightly arched, tail straight, and again it opened its mouth in that unnerving silent grimace. "Bruno is named after Giordano Bruno."

Her tone of voice made it clear that he was supposed to know who that was. He made a kind of noncommittal sound.

Her lips curved. "He was an Italian magician who was tortured in the chambers of the Inquisition. And then burned at the stake."

How charming. He was trying to think of a suitable response, when he heard the front door banging shut and the unmistakable sound of a bag dropped to the floor.

"That will be my sister." Minnaloushe glanced at him. "Excuse me, will you? I'll be right back."

"Sure." He watched as she left the room, leaving him and Bruno alone to stare warily at each other.

He waited. The ticking of the old-fashioned, kitchen clock sounded inordinately loud. He could just hear the murmur of voices coming from the hall, the tones low and hushed. He recognized Minnaloushe's breathy voice. Morrighan's was lower. Although he couldn't make out the words, he knew as certain as though he was standing right next to them that he was the subject of the conversation.

And then they were suddenly both in the kitchen. They stopped inside the door, blocking it, and for one brief moment he had the extraordinary feeling of being boxed in and taken prisoner. But then Minnaloushe moved forward, smiling. "Gabriel, this is Morrighan. My big sister."

The first thing he noticed about Morrighan Monk was her eyes. It would be the first thing anyone noticed. The photographs he had looked at the night before had given him an indication of how startling they were, but actually seeing her face-to-face was something else altogether. Her eyes were amazing. The iris was the bluest blue he had ever seen and her eyeballs were white as snow. But the effect was quite chilly. It wasn't that her eyes were expressionless, far from it. It was more a case of the brilliance and depth of eye color making their expression difficult to gauge. Minnaloushe's eyes made one think of the ocean. Morrighan's eyes made one think of space.

The second thing he noticed was the pendant around her neck. A thin silver chain with the letter M dangling from it. Oh, hell. Just when he thought he had it all figured out. So he still didn't know which of the two sisters was the woman he saw in his ride.

Morrighan was dressed in shorts, a light blue T-shirt and sneakers. She had, he couldn't help but notice, fabulous legs. Her long black hair was scraped back in a ponytail and fell down her back like a gleaming snake. She smelled faintly of sunbaked sweat. There was a sheen on her cheekbones and where the hair sprang from her forehead.

"So how was the jump?" Minnaloushe had put the kettle to boil and was now arranging some cups and saucers.

"Great. I'm going back on Saturday." Morrighan glanced at Gabriel. "Bungee jumping," she explained. "It's a passion of mine."

Bungee jumping. To Gabriel it evoked uncomfortable images of canyons and bridges and deep ravines. He wondered where one would go to bungee jump in London.

"Chelsea Bridge," she said as though he had asked aloud. "There's a crane there, which is just perfect. By the way," she turned her head toward Minnaloushe, "the locksmith will be coming by later this afternoon."

"Good." Minnaloushe pushed a cup toward him. It was filled with a rather oily-looking green liquid. She looked at Gabriel briefly. "We're having the locks replaced. We think we may have had an intruder on the premises last night."

He tried to keep his voice normal. "A burglar? Was anything stolen?"

"Not exactly. And no breaking upon entering."

"Oh?"

"But we noticed a number of small things that were not quite right, you know." Morrighan pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down. "For example, my scarf had been lying on the floor when we went out last night and when we got back someone had picked it up. Also, Bruno was in a room where he shouldn't have been."

"Yes," Minnaloushe added. "And someone also went through the food in our fridge. Rather disgusting that. We just threw out everything we had in there."

What the hell was this? He had hardly touched the stuff in the fridge. He thought back. If he remembered correctly he had lifted the corner on a carton filled with duck confit. And he had turned the champagne bottle around to see the label. And the scarf on the floor? How could they have noticed? In the dictionary the names of these women should be next to the entry for "anal-retentive."

"And the bastard was in the bedrooms as well. He took something. Not anything valuable. But something of sentimental value to both of us."

So they knew about the photograph. A small chill touched the back of his neck.

"That must be distressing for you." He took a sip of the green liquid. The tea was quite vile but it gave him a second or two to collect himself. "Maybe you should let the police know."

Morrighan smiled a faintly contemptuous smile. "It's not worth the hassle. We'll deal with it ourselves." She stretched, lithe as a cat. "I need a hot shower." She stretched again. "It was a good jump. Nothing like pushing the edge to make you feel alive, don't you think?"

He made another noncommittal sound.

"From the expression on your face, I take it you don't agree?"

"Fortune cookie philosophy is not my thing."

"Meaning?" A slight frown.

"The whole idea that pushing the edge of the envelope will make you feel more alive… it seems pointless, to me. And a bit of a cliche, quite frankly."

He had gone too far. Her eyes were steel.

"What are you doing on Saturday morning?"

"Saturday? "

"Yes. Why don't you join me for a jump? Try out my fortune cookie philosophy for yourself."

For a moment he stared at her, his brain on pause. He had hoped to engage her in a little playful sparring. He certainly hadn't bargained on the possibility that she would challenge him to a duel. He didn't have the slightest wish to go tumbling through space with a rope fixed to his ankle. Surely even Frankie would agree that this would be going above and beyond the call of duty.

The women were watching him steadily. Under the unblinking gaze of the two pairs of eyes-one green, one blue-he felt like an insect pinned to a board. Something told him the correct answer to her question would be crucial if he wanted a return invitation.

He took a deep breath. "Sounds like a plan."

"Good." Morrighan looked at Minnaloushe, and for a moment he fancied that something passed between the two women. A kind of mental nod.

"OK. That's settled then." Morrighan got to her feet. "I'll meet you at the Chelsea Bridge on Saturday morning at 9:00 a.m. Yes?"

He nodded. "Fine."

At the doorway she paused and looked back at him over her shoulder. "And don't worry," she said, eyes crinkling. "I'll take good care of you."

That evening he made himself bangers and mash for dinner. Comfort food. Rather than try and pair this fare with a suitable wine, he settled for lager even though it was not his favorite drink. While eating, he paged through Minnaloushe Monk's research papers, which Isidore had given him that morning. They were dauntingly esoteric. The language was often so dense and the math so incomprehensible, that he shook his head in disgust.

But her central hypothesis, as far as he could make out, was curiously simple and unscientific. Memory, she maintained, was what set man apart from his animal relatives. Man's soul is inextricably bound to his power of recollection.

And along with this hypothesis came a warning:

Our brains have become lazy. We are losing the skill of remembrance. Our long-term memories are eroding. Instead of exercising our natural ability to remember, the way our ancestors had to do, we rely on modern technology-the Internet, TV, photocopiers- to prop up our weakening ability to recollect facts and events. We are experts at skimming. We are failures at remembering

We walk along this path at our peril. Without a highly robust memory, we lack the ability to get a handle on the turbulent universe we live in. Without a flexible memory, we cannot draw connections between widely differing concepts.

More than that: we are in danger of losing our very souls. Memory is divine. It is what gives man his celestial spark.

No wonder she had picked up flak from her colleagues, Gabriel thought as he closed the folder. Any hypothesis involving souls and psyches-not to mention celestial sparks-would sit ill in the halls of institutional science. She was treading on some powerful taboos.

But enough of this. There was a kind of quirky charm to her the-ories, but they were hardly likely to have anything to do with Robert Whittington and his unfortunate demise. He pushed the folder away from him.

After stacking the dishwasher, he made himself a cappuccino and carried the cup over to his work desk. From here he was still able to see the lights on the other side of the river.

It was time he started making notes, organizing his thoughts. He sat down in his swivel chair and opened his laptop.

Robert Whittington had been an accomplished artist. Earlier today Gabriel had tried to check with the Wine of Life Society to find out if Whittington had been a member, but the club was nothing if not discreet about its membership and would not confirm whether this was the case. That hadn't stopped him, of course. It had been child's play to hack into the club's database and confirm his suspicions. Robert Whittington had indeed been a member these past three years.

He placed his fingers on the keyboard of his computer and typed:

Wine of Life Club. Robert meets Minnaloushe? Minnaloushe= Mathematician and philosopher. Sells masks. Nude model.

Morrighan=environmentalist. Thrill seeker. Both sisters=alchemists.

Descendants of John Dee. Elizabethan alchemist and creator of the Monas Hieroglyphica. Primary goal of Dee's studies: personal transformation. Robbie also fascinated by alchemy and personal transformation. Another link between Robbie and sisters?

He paused. He was now almost sure that the woman in his ride was one of the Monk sisters. But which one?

Woman wore a pendant with the initial M. Minnaloushe or Mor-righan?

Woman wore a mask. Mask = Minnaloushe?

What else? The woman in his ride had carried a black crow on her shoulder. The same crow that had followed him as he had walked through the house of many doors. Not that this detail made any sense. But for what it was worth he added another entry.

Crow.

As he typed, the bandage on his wrist hampered the movement of his hand at the keyboard. He wished he could get rid of it, but those scratches made by Bruno were still raw and inflamed-looking, and instead of itching, which would signal healing, they were burning like the dickens. Thinking of Bruno, he frowned.

Cat. Named after Giordano Bruno. Scientist and martyr. Died at the stake.

Two computer files. Password protected.

IBM computer=Diary.

Mac=The Promethean Key.

Work out access plan for both computers.

He sat back in his chair and read through what he had written. Hardly impressive. He wasn't any nearer to knowing how and why Robert Whittington was murdered or to answering the one question that mattered most.

Murderess = Minnaloushe or Morrighan?

He held the question mark key down for a few moments too long and a row of question marks followed like an insistent call to arms.

Murderess = Minnaloushe or Morrighan?????

For a few seconds he stared at the screen absentmindedly. At some level his mind took in the noise of a faraway car alarm, the sudden burst of laughter coming from the pavement down below, the presence of eyes focused upon him.

Eyes.

He whipped around in his chair-heart pounding-and looked straight into the round eyes of the mask given to him by Minnaloushe.

Shit. He touched his forehead. He had hung that mask himself only a few hours ago. He had been quite pleased with it, actually. It went well with the Shoowa wall hanging he had bought during a holiday in Kenya.

After a moment's hesitation he got up from his chair and walked toward the wall. As masks go, this one really wasn't too grim-looking. The only thing that bothered him slightly was the slitted mouth. It was pulled back in the semblance of a thin smile, making it appear as though the mask were having a small joke at his expense.

Well, nix to you too, he thought and cuffed the wooden face lightly with his knuckles.

Now that his heart had stopped tripping, he was suddenly tired. Enough of this for one night. But tomorrow he should talk to Isidore on the progress he'd made on the Pittypats case. It wouldn't do to neglect the bread and butter in favor of playing Sherlock.

At the door he stopped and switched off the light. The room turned dark. The screen of his computer was a bright oblong of light in the gloom, the words dark against the white background.

Murderess = Minnaloushe or Morrighan?????

Entry Date: 29 June

Success! We may have found someone new to play with. He is the complete opposite of R. But M is right. R wasn't strong enough. He was not up to the challenge. One thing's for sure: G will be a different proposition altogether. We'll be playing with a sophisticate this time, not an innocent.

He is undeniably hot. He has the look of an adventurer-a modern-day buccaneer. I can quite imagine him standing on the bow of a tall ship with a knife between his teeth, ready to plunder and burn!

There is undoubtedly a strong streaky of narcissism there. And with G it is more than just personal vanity; it is also a vanity of the mind. A deep belief in his own ability. A conviction that he can take on anyone, on any terms.

Let's hope a pedestrian mind doesn't hide behind that too handsome face.

But the indications are good. He is a risk taker and a thief. And not just any thief: an information thief. As M said, we could hardly ask for a more tailor-made description of the perfect playmate. A man who immerses himself in data every day but for whom knowledge is just currency.

We can change this. M and I can take him on a journey all the way to the stars.

Will he be up to it? Will he be strong enough? Maybe we'll have a better idea by Saturday.

CHAPTER TEN

Saturday. A beautiful morning. Blue skies, light breeze. When Gabriel stopped for his take-out coffee at Starbucks, everyone in the shop was slurping lattes and nibbling pastries. Not a frown in sight. Only shiny, happy people.

Except for him. He felt sluggish and his disposition was sour. He was also pretty much freaked out of his mind. Today was D-day. The day he was scheduled to experience the joy of the bungee jump. He wondered where the word "bungee" came from. It sounded so benign-like Tumbler Tots-some or other mildly strenuous activity meant for children. Except that in another thirty minutes or so, he would be shouting "Geronimo" and diving headfirst from a great height toward the Thames.

As he turned the Jaguar in the direction of Chelsea Bridge, he decided he must have been delirious when he agreed to partake in this insanity. He was going to die today, Morrighan Monk's promise to "take good care" of him notwithstanding. Besides which, it had just occurred to him that the woman who was going to supervise his attempt at playing Icarus might also be the person who had killed poor Robert Whittington. A great thought, that. Why didn't he think of it before?

The lady was waiting for him dressed in tight-fitting Lycra and a snow white T-shirt with a low scoop neck. On one breast was a small tattoo, a replica of the one on her sister's lower back. Very sexy, even though this preoccupation with the Monas was getting on his nerves a bit. Her black hair was once more pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were even bluer than he remembered.

"Hi." She nodded at him. "So you came."

"Of course. Didn't I say I would?"

"So you did." She shrugged, smiled slightly. "Great car, by the way."

"Thanks." He looked past her and up into the sky to where a light blue crane reached upward to what seemed an obscene altitude.

She followed his gaze. "Pretty high. Three hundred feet. You'll be able to dine out on this for a long time."

"Uh-huh." He tried to think of something witty to say but his powers of repartee seemed to have deserted him.

"OK, well. Let's get this show on the road. I need to talk to Wayne to find out when we're scheduled." She pointed to where a short line of people were waiting with expressions that ranged from the extremely apprehensive to the "Look-at-me-I'm-such-a-tough-mother" smugness. At the front of the line was a painfully skinny man wearing a very tiny red swimsuit. He was talking to a man with blond hair who was dressed in overalls with the word "JUMPMASTER" emblazoned on the back.

Gabriel looked at Morrighan as a fresh wave of apprehension hit him. "Why is that guy wearing a swimsuit? Am I actually going to hit the water?"

"No, no." Her voice was soothing but there was a gleam in her eyes. "This is not a dunk jump. You won't get wet, don't worry. I don't know why that guy feels the need to show off his Speedo. People come here dressed in all kinds of weird outfits. I've been here when someone took the jump dressed in a bridal gown. Another guy arrived wrapped in a straitjacket."

"Well, he may have had the right idea."

"Oh, come on." The gleam in her eye was more pronounced now. "You're going to have fun, you'll see."

The man with the jumpmaster overalls came up to them and smiled winsomely. His accent was Australian and his intonation was decidedly odd. It sounded as though every sentence ended on an exclamation mark. "Morrighan! I'm going to let you guys go up first! Is this the lucky victim?!" A crushing handshake and another dazzling, minty fresh smile. "Cool! You're in for a treat! Sweetheart! There's no one up there right now! Can I leave it to you to get the ropes on this guy?!" It made Gabriel tired just listening to him.

"Of course." Morrighan gave the jumpmaster a smile that was pretty dazzling in itself. "I'll take care of it." She turned toward Gabriel. "Wayne and I are old friends. We used to go BASE jumping Down Under."

BASE jumping. She said it so matter-of-factly. No wonder bungee jumping wouldn't faze her. Gabriel had a friend who used to BASE jump as well. Not anymore. His friend's parachute had failed and he had gone into the wall of the dam from which he had thrown himself. With BASE jumping there was no reaching for a reserve chute in case of a crisis. There was no time. His friend had died within seconds of the moment his parachute malfunctioned. If this woman did BASE, she was looking for a kinky way to commit suicide.

He took a deep breath, trying to put thoughts of smashed bodies hurtling through space from his mind.

"So, what's next?"

Morrighan lifted an eyebrow. "Last chance to go to the loo."

He swallowed, trying to hold on to his dignity. "I'm fine."

"Good. What do you weigh?"

"What?"

"Your weight," she said impatiently. "How much do you weigh? We need to know so that we can get the right ropes on you."

"Oh. Eighty-six kilos." Which she might think was just a tad on the heavy side for his frame, but he was not going to give in to vanity and lie when his continued well-being depended on being given a rope that could handle his bulk.

"Right. Green for you. Orange for me." She caught his look. "Different-colored ropes relate to different weights."

"You're doing a jump as well?"

"Well, actually," she smiled slowly, "I thought it might be fun if we jumped in tandem. You know, this being your first time. It might be best if I held your hand, so to speak."

Jumping in tandem. How exactly did that work, Gabriel wondered. Somehow he had created a picture in his mind of plunging to earth with arms stretched out wide like a bird in flight. Slipping the surly bonds of earth and all that. The image of himself with arms clamped for dear life around his female companion was not quite as heroic.

The cage was really a basket, which, it turned out, was to be their mode of transportation up the crane. He stepped inside gingerly. It did not feel particularly secure, although probably nothing except terra firma would have felt secure to him right now.

As the cage started its ascent, Morrighan spoke briskly. "OK. I know you're probably feeling quite concerned, but bungee jumping is far from lethal. This is what you can expect. The first part of the jump is the most intense. You'll be falling from zero to fifty miles per hour in only a couple of seconds. After that your speed decreases until you reach the full extent of the jump, after which you slowly accelerate again. A few more oscillations and the crane will deposit you back on land."

"That's the part that sounds pretty good to me, right now."

"Truly, there's nothing to worry about. They do numerous safety checks. And I'll be right at your side." That tiny smile again. "It'll be a blast, I promise. For the last guy I took up with me, it was a life-changing experience."

"In what way?"

"It changed his entire outlook on the way he wanted to live his life. He realized that if you don't take risks, you may never know your limit. And if you don't know your limit, you don't know who you are as a human being. As the poet said: one should never be a butterfly collector. Rather be the butterfly itself."

"Very profound. So is this guy still jumping?"

Something flickered behind her eyes. "No."

"Who was he?"

"Robbie? Just a friend." She turned away abruptly.

It was just as well she had her back to him because he knew he would not have been able to keep his face expressionless. Robbie. Robert Whittington. It was a shock hearing his name on Morrighan Monk's lips. When he had studied those photographs of the boy in the bedroom in Monk House, he had the feeling that he was looking at a memorial. A shrine. Of course, all photographs are preserved in the aspic of past memories, but when he was looking at those pictures, there had been no doubt in his mind that Robert Whittington was dead. Now, hearing his name spoken by Morrighan Monk, it sounded fresh, immediate. As though he might turn around to find the kid standing behind him, looking at him with that ready smile, those vulnerable eyes.

The cage juddered to a halt. He glanced at his watch: 9:02 a.m. Morrighan stepped out nimbly onto the open platform. After a moment's hesitation, he followed.

It was windy up here. That was his first impression. The second was that it was a clear day and he could see forever. The view would not end. Rooftops. Spires. Green oases. Even where sky and earth met, the horizon seemed transparent.

Right underneath and to the side of him was Chelsea Bridge. The cars inching down the two lanes of traffic were toylike. The bridge itself so small, he could pick it up between forefinger and thumb. And flowing silently underneath the bridge was the Thames, the water crinkled and gray like the hide of an elephant.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Morrighan was on her knees, once more checking the green ropes around his ankles. She glanced up at him.

"Yes." He was feeling light-headed. His heart was hammering. He looked at his watch: 9:11 a.m. Where had the time gone? In a daze he saw Morrighan stepping forward, coming so close her breath was warm on his cheek. She had a tiny scar at the corner of one eyebrow-he had only just noticed it.

"I have to bind us together," she said. "And then we hug. And we keep hugging all the way down, OK?"

He managed to nod. His throat was dry. His palms were dripping sweat. Her body was now touching his in a disconcertingly intimate way, but she seemed oblivious. Her eyes unreadable and dark as space.

She placed her lips close to his ear. "Time to be a butterfly."

Stepping into a void. The act that most goes against every instinct of self-preservation.

Falling. Falling. The speed of it ecstatic: propelling his mind and his body into a belly-clenching, delirious place. The sky a fierce rush of blue against his cheek. The wind in his ears like a hurricane.

Morrighan's body was pressed against his: legs and stomachs touching, hips close. Her face blotted out the sky directly in front of him. He saw on her face a look almost of pain: forehead creased, eyes half-closed, lavender veins appearing ghostlike through the delicate skin underneath the black lashes of her lower lids. Her jaw clenched. With a light shock he realized that what he saw reflected in her face was, in fact, the image of his own. He touched his tongue to his lips and so did she. He blinked and opened his eyes to their widest extent, and immediately she stared back at him with eyes rimmed with white. When she opened her mouth slightly as though in protest, he knew his own jaw had slackened. It was as though she was experiencing the sensation of the jump not through her own emotions, but vicariously through his. Even tumbling through the air at fifty miles per hour, the feeling that she was feeding off his sensations was disconcerting.

They were slowing down. The noise of the rope as they reached the full extent of the jump sounded like the ricochet crack of the sail on a tall ship. And now they were accelerating again, up, up and suddenly they were hanging suspended: weightless in space. No up or down. The feeling of disorientation absolute.

His chest was tight. He was holding his breath. As he gulped for air, the oxygen hit his blood like an additional shot of adrenaline. They plunged down again and he heard a shout explode from his chest: a cry of victory, a howl of defiance.

He saw her smile widely, her teeth a white slash in her face. She opened her arms wide, letting go of him and leaned back so that her throat formed an arc, the ponytail a rope of black swinging clear of her shoulders. All tension gone. And then they were both yelling and whooping, shouting their heads off; drunk with elation.

He went up a second time. Solo, this time Morrighan seemed content to wait for him, waving him on when he apologized for keeping her.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" he asked her when he fell in line behind the jumpmaster once again. A new line of jumpers had formed, but none of the other souls who had jumped that morning, he was interested to see, had followed his suit. He was the only repeat customer.

He looked back at Morrighan. "Please don't feel you have to stick around to keep an eye on me. I'll be fine." He was smiling, the same stupid smile of idiotic delight that had been plastered on his face ever since they finished the first jump together. All his senses were still on high alert.

She shook her head. "I like hanging around here. So go ahead."

"Well, after this one, I'll call it a day."

"Good. And then I'll buy you lunch. You'll be surprised to find how hungry you are."

She was right there. After he finished the second jump-the experience just as intense as the first-he was not just on a high, he was ravenous. The restaurant she had picked was a small, unpretentious place with very good food.

When he finally sat back, sated, she put her head to one side. "Are you sure I can't get you anything else?" she asked solicitously. "Another creme brulee, perhaps?"

"Sorry." He colored slightly. "I've made a pig of myself. But you're right. This morning gave me a heck of an appetite."

"Flirting with danger tends to have that effect."

"Well, you should know. You seem to have a real predilection for it. BASE, bungee, what else? Is it fun being an adrenaline junkie?"

"Dopamine junkie. Like craving chocolate."

"Strong chocolate."

She pulled a face. "Don't try to fool me. You felt it yourself, this morning: the rush. The mere fact that you went back for another go is proof. Most people when they do the jump, don't do it again, you know. Only about fifteen percent of people repeat."

The approving tone of her voice made him pause. As though he had passed some test he wasn't even aware of taking.

He frowned, and moved his shoulders as if to push the idea away from him.

"So your quest in life is to find the ultimate thrill?"

"I suppose so." She looked pensive for a moment. "Of course, the chance that you'll ever find the ultimate thrill is slim. Surfers know the best waves remain unsurfed. They're breaking on unpeopled shores, traveling across uncharted oceans."

"Seriously, Morrighan. Why do you do it? Don't just give me that line about feeling more alive. It goes deeper than that."

For a moment she hesitated. "Don't you sometimes wonder how strong, how fast, how brave you are?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I can't say I do."

"Well, I suppose it's about taking yourself to a new level. And I'm not just talking about jumping off a tower. It could be a mental thing as well. Whether it's a challenge to the body or the mind, it doesn't matter. The common denominator is turning your back on safety and embracing the void."

Like slamming a ride, he suddenly thought. Like leaving the relatively secure environment of your own emotions for the alien landscape of someone else's thoughts. That feeling of losing yourself, of not being able to turn back. It was every remote viewer's fear. Of getting hopelessly, irrevocably lost in the labyrinth of someone else's mind.

"Gabriel?"

"Sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. About embracing the void. Some people may call it a latent death wish." He smiled, mockingly. "Freud probably had something to say about it."

"Oh, he did. Apparently thrill seeking has to do with repressed feelings of guilt."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, wondering if he should chance it. "Guilt, huh? So, anything you feel guilty about?"

"Guilt? Let's say a few regrets, maybe. And some disappointments." She turned those amazing eyes on him. "What about you, Gabriel Blackstone? What keeps you awake at night?"

He stared at her, suddenly at a loss for words. In his mind, unbidden, came the image of a woman with a perfectly oval face and long blond hair. Although when they had found her in that outhouse, her blond hair had been black with sweat and dirt. Melissa Cartwright. He had heard later that she had won a beauty pageant in her youth while growing up in the United States.

He looked up. Morrighan Monk was watching him with unwavering intensity.

"I sleep like a log. And guilt is a wasted emotion." He tried for flippant but he knew his voice sounded harsh.

For a moment it was quiet between them. Tense. Then she smiled and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Leaning forward in her chair, she placed both her arms on the table. "Look. You had a very special experience this morning. For a brief moment you took to the sky and flew. But let's not get too serious. You know what G. K. Chesterton said about angels and flying."

"What?"

She smiled again and it lit her entire face. " 'They fly because they take themselves lightly'"

The afterglow of his experience stayed with him throughout the day. Even now, several hours later, he was still pumped.

He was back in his apartment, sitting in a deck chair on his balcony, a book on his lap, a cup of coffee cooling in his hand, watching the city being swallowed by the night. The smell of the river was strong. Seemingly floating in the gloom, Tower Bridge was a fairytale structure of inspired light. Closer by, on the street below, the lit sign above an optician's shop was sputtering, the giant pair of green neon spectacles flashing intermittently.

For the umpteenth time he found himself reliving the jump. The fear. The ecstatic sense of liberation. It might not have been a life-changing experience for him, but it had certainly been a mind-bending one. Thanks to the enigmatic Ms. Morrighan Monk. She was a fascinating woman. She and her sister both.

He was surprised, and a little amused, by how much he was looking forward to seeing them again. And he couldn't fool himself, it was because of his interest in the weird ride he had slammed, or because of his promise to Frankie. He was intrigued by the two women themselves.

Minnaloushe was the more openly sensual of the two. Morrighan was a tad icier. But both women exhibited a self-awareness that was undeniably erotic even if-or maybe because-it was eroticism tinged with danger. When Minnaloushe looked at you, you sensed a powerful undertow hiding behind those soft-focus green eyes. Touch her and you might drown. Morrighan was diamond sharp. Touch her and you might bleed.

Before they went their separate ways earlier today, Morrighan had invited him to dinner at Monk House over the weekend. He still couldn't understand why the sisters were interested in him. He had a healthy self-image-Isidore would use the word "conceited" no doubt-and he knew he could pull, but he was smart enough not to flatter himself into believing it was his charm they found irresistible.

Well, no use worrying over it. They might have an agenda, but he had one too. Not only would he have the opportunity to spend time in the company of two highly attractive, intelligent women, but with a little bit of luck he might discover what had happened to poor Robert Whittington.

Thinking of the boy made Gabriel frown and look down at the open book on his lap. He had selected it from among the numerous volumes in Robert's apartment. It was old and the pages had a parchmentlike feel to them. Titled The Alchemical Student, it was a history of alchemy and its principles. He was finding it tough going, although there was some information in the book that was good entertainment value:

The German philosopher Agrippa, author of the alchemical treatise De occulta philosophia, was said to have paid his creditors with gold coins that shone with remarkable brilliance, but which invariably turned into slate or stone within 24 hours.

Hah! He knew it was too good to be true. All that stuff about lead magically turning into gold. These alchemists were just a bunch of tricksters. And it seemed to him as though they pretty much made a point of writing as unintelligibly as they possibly could. If no one was able to understand what they said, no one could expose them for the fraudsters they were.

Gabriel took a sip of his coffee and replaced the mug on the small side table next to the chair. Leaning his head against the back of the chair, he yawned. His eye fell on the mask Minnaloushe had given him, hanging on his living room wall. On the other side of the glass door, which separated them, the wooden face smiled at him patiently. He gazed into the hollow eye sockets…

His mind shifted. The gate to his inner eye opened.

In a way he had been expecting it. He had known that in order to determine what had happened to Robert Whittington, he would have to slam the ride again. He could have forced it before now, and the idea had entered his mind more than once. He was still attracted to the thought of giving it another go-it had been a monster RV ride; detailed, immensely intriguing. But drowning in that pool had been a bloody awful experience. Whoever said drowning was a peaceful way to die had it flat-out wrong. He would very much prefer not to have to go through the whole chest-burning, eye-popping horror again.

But greater than his aversion to choking to death in cold water was his fear of having to relive that awful jaw-clenching moment when he had stepped into the portal and a torrent of visual information had rushed at him with unimaginable force. He still hadn't the faintest clue as to what it was he had encountered. All he knew was he had quite literally gone insane.

At Eyestorm he had slammed rides far more gruesome in the traditional sense of the word. He had even been inside the mind of a killer and a rapist. But those rides, disturbing though they were, did not measure up to the peculiar horror he had experienced during his ride through Robert Whittington's thoughts. It had felt as though the structure of his mind were disintegrating a strand at a time, as though the grooves of his nervous system were melting together like overheated wires before the final spectacular blowout.

Therefore, when he felt himself easing into the ride once more, losing contact with his immediate environment-his apartment, the balcony, the red striped deck chair on which he was sitting, Minnaloushe's mask smiling on the other side of the glass door-his conscious mind hesitated for one split second. At this point of the ride he would still be able to clamp down on the impulse.

But then he let go, sliding into Robert Whittington's mind as easily, as effortlessly, as walking through an open door. A door made of dark heavy timber, the sigil of the Monas mounted on the outside…

He was retracing his steps: walking through the library with its mildewed books, the hall with butterflies, the endless rooms with their enigmatic occupants and mysterious objects.

The monk was still there, still sandpapering his eyes. The clocks were still ticking with restless asynchronicity. The fantailed doves still died in a bloodied frenzy. The order of places, the order of things. The ride was a carbon copy of the first one. Identical. He was walking through the house of a million doors, opening and closing the doors with great discipline. And above and behind him the crow, gliding on silent wings.

Staircases, corridors, dizzying perspectives. He started to navigate a narrow suspension bridge, placing one foot gingerly in front of the other. He remembered this vertiginous walk from the previous ride as well. On the other side of the bridge was the hall in which he had first encountered the masked woman. He wondered if she was there already, waiting for him…

He traversed the bridge carefully, felt it sway. Careful, he told himself. Keep your balance-

And then it happened.

The bridge underneath his feet fell away soundlessly. Black space rushing up to meet him.

Even as adrenaline flooded his body, his mind registered with absolute clarity that he was no longer inside the house of a million doors. He did not know where he was, except that he was somewhere outside-free-floating like an eye in the sky.

The transition was totally unexpected. The ride had changed completely. The entire feel of it was different. It took him no more than a second to register why.

He was no longer looking through Robert Whittington's eyes.

He had entered a different mind.

Even as his own mind registered this fact with surprise, he was already experiencing his environment through the template of another consciousness.

Where was he? Whose eyes had become his own?

He was obviously close to the river; he could smell its dankness. Lights floating on the embankment. Tower Bridge. A giant pair of neon glasses flickering on and off, the neon a sputtering green against the black sky.

He was looking down on a figure who was sitting in a deck chair on a balcony. The deck chair had red stripes. The balcony was in shadow but there was light spilling through the sliding glass door. On the wall inside hung a wooden mask.

The figure in the deck chair had the boneless look of someone asleep, but his eyes were open. On his lap was a book, the breeze riffling the pages. The book seemed old, the pages had a yellowy, parchment-like look to them. He was curious to know what the book was about. If he moved in closer, he might be able to read the type on the page.

Ever closer he came, ever closer to the figure in the chair. And now he was looking directly into the face of the man in front of him. He was staring deeply, searchingly into his own wide-open eyes.

He screamed. The scream unraveled shrilly inside his head: wave upon wave of terrified echoes. With an almost physical jolt, he closed his inner eye, terminating the ride. Cutting the link between virtual and physical reality was painful; it felt as though his head were tearing to pieces. He shuddered with nausea.

Leaning forward, he gripped his knees, willing the sickness away.

OK. Calm down. You're safe. You're in your apartment. The ride is finished. You're safe. Now get a grip. You're safe. But his skin was clammy, cold with sweat. He was spooked out of his skull. He shuddered again.

What had happened? One moment he was still slamming the ride, looking through the eyes of the boy. The next moment the perspective had shifted and all of a sudden he was looking through a different pair of eyes. Whose?

What was more, the ride had jumped from past to immediate present. Robert Whittington was dead. During the first part of the ride, he had relived an experience that had already taken place in the past. The person whose eyes he had appropriated toward the end of the ride was very much alive. And what shocked him was the fact that the new pair of eyes had been focused on him: Gabriel Black-stone. Someone was trying to spy on him. The shock of the realization made his blood run cold.

With whose mind had he interfaced?

But he knew the answer to that question, didn't he? No mistaking the arrogance, the cold calculation, the all-consuming curiosity. He had sensed those qualities once before, when he was drowning in a pool, looking into the eyes of a woman with murder in her heart.

So how had he ended up inside her mind tonight?

Only one answer to this particular question.

And it scared the crap out of him.

Bloody hell, he thought. Bloody hell.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Frankie was looking harassed. An open suitcase was on the bed in front of her and the bed was covered with clothes. Blouses, jackets, underwear. She kept glancing at the clock on the bedside table. When Gabriel called her at the crack of dawn, she had at first told him that she wouldn't be able to see him.

"I'm sorry but I'm running late," she said, sounding frazzled. "Why can't you just tell me on the phone?"

"No, I'd like to discuss it with you face-to-face. Dammit, Frankie. I slammed another ride last night. Aren't you at least curious?"

"Of course I am. But I'm meeting William in Switzerland and I still have to pack…" He heard her sigh. "OK. Why don't you come over now. But, Gabriel, keep in mind I have to be at the airport by ten."

"Where are you flying from? Heathrow?"

"Stansted. Private plane," she explained briefly.

Private plane. Of course. He wondered what it must be like to travel the world in your own private jet.

"So get them to hold it for you. I thought that was one of the perks."

"I can't. I have to be in Bern at noon. The thing is…" he could hear cautious excitement in her voice, "the reason I'm going is because William is seeing this specialist at a medical clinic who might be able to help. Apparently, the man is a genius. He's going to suggest a new course of treatments. I want to be there for the consultation and I can't be late. So get here quick, all right?"

He had arrived at her Holland Park house-all white-and-cream stucco pillars and black lace fencing-in record time, but he was beginning to think he shouldn't have bothered. It was impossible to get her to concentrate on what he was saying. They kept being interrupted by phone calls and the sour-faced butler, who was clearly unhappy about a strange man joining the lady of the house in her bedroom. Especially, Gabriel supposed, as the lady wasn't dressed yet and was only wearing a nightgown. A very becoming nightgown, it had to be said. Blue had always been Frankie's color.

"Hand me that belt over there, will you?" She pointed at a tan belt with an intricately shaped buckle. "Thanks. Dammit, what did I do with my loafers? I had them right here. Do you remember? I had them in my hand just a moment ago, didn't I?"

He sighed. "Frankie, I need you to focus. Just listen, OK?"

"I've been listening." She opened the drawer to her dressing table and started gathering up lipsticks, powder brushes, toiletries. The dressing table's mirrors were enormous, reflecting the opulent splendor of the room more than adequately. It was a far cry from the dusty little apartment they had shared in Oxford, he thought.

Frankie picked up an eyebrow pencil and dropped it into her toiletry bag. "I have been listening," she repeated. "You're saying that last night you managed to jump from Robbie's thoughts to his killer's. That's great. That's progress. What's the problem? You've managed to switch from victim to perpetrator before. Remember the Rushkoff case?"

Of course he remembered the Rushkoff case. It had been one of his earliest successes at Eyestorm. He had managed to scan not only the thoughts of Oliver Rushkoff-a wealthy stockbroker-but also the mind of his kidnapper. For days he had been frustrated in his search. All he got from Rushkoff when he scanned him was darkness and a feeling of claustrophobia: the man had been blindfolded throughout his captivity, which meant there were no visual clues for him to access. But he had managed to make the jump from Rushkoff's thoughts to his kidnapper's and that had cracked the case wide open.

"Frankie, you don't understand. It's not that I switched perspectives."

She shook her head with annoyance, the shiny hair bobbing. "But you just said-"

"No. Stop. Listen."

Something in his voice got through to her. She stopped, then turned to face him.

"OK. I'm listening."

"Don't you get it? It wasn't merely a case of switching perspectives. I was not the one scanning the killer. The killer was the one scanning we."

She made a startled movement with her hand. "That's not possible."

"I tell you that's what happened."

"You're saying Robbie's killer is a remote viewer."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"One of those women can slam a ride."

"Yes."

For a long, long moment it was quiet between them. He saw in her face the shock he had felt the night before.

"Why was she scanning you?"

"Well, that is the million-dollar question, isn't it?"

Frankie sat down heavily on the dressing table stool. "She must know you've been trying to find out what happened to Robbie."

He shook his head slowly. "It's possible, I suppose, but somehow I don't think so. She probably doesn't know that she accessed me while I was in the process of slamming a ride myself. When she started to scan me, I dropped out of Robbie's psi-space immediately. She was never in that house with me. No, I don't think her scanning of me has anything to do with the boy. I'm the one she's interested in. I don't know how to explain this to you without sounding incredibly conceited, but both those women find me fascinating."

Frankie lifted an eyebrow.

"I know, I know. But you should have seen the way Minnaloushe zoomed in on me when I met her at the drawing class. And Morrighan invited me back to the house again. As a matter of fact, I'm having dinner there tomorrow evening. The sisters aim to get to know me better, I tell you. Much better. Don't ask me why."

Frankie smiled suddenly. "Well, you're pretty cute."

"Not that cute."

"I agree. And quite frankly, those sisters can have any guy they want." She frowned and ran her fingers through her short hair, making it stand up like a halo around her face. It made her look like a bewildered pixie and it was a mannerism he remembered well. When they were still together, he would always reach over and smooth her hair back into order. But it probably wouldn't go down well if he tried it now.

Frankie was still looking shocked. "I can't get over the fact that one of them is an RV. What are the chances?"

"I know. It's bloody surreal."

"Oh." She put her hand to her mouth. "You know what this means. She probably now realizes that you're an RV as well. Just the fact that you managed to block her scan would have told her that."

"I know. But remember, she thinks she's incognito. She'll simply assume I sensed a scan and blocked it instinctively."

"Strictly speaking you don't know who it was. Minnaloushe or Morrighan?"

"Well, at least I know it was one of them. What I did sense was curiosity. And… arrogance."

"Meeting of minds, then."

"What do you mean?" Gabriel frowned.

"Well, let's face it: you're not the most modest guy on the block. You always assumed that no one can beat you at the game. You were Mr. Super Remote Viewer, who considered himself too good to be part of the team. I don't know if you were even aware of it, but some of the other members at Eyestorm did not take kindly to that kind of swaggering."

"Then I'm sure they were cheered considerably when I crashed and burned."

The silence between them this time was tense.

Frankie made a dismissive gesture. "All right, let's not go there. It serves no purpose." Her eye fell on the ormolu clock once more. "Oh, damn. I need to shower and get out of here. I'm sorry."

He stood up. "How long are you going to be away for?"

"Four days. William and I are going on to Paris after his appointment. Business. I could come home but I don't want to leave him right now, you'll understand."

"Of course."

"But keep in touch, you hear? You have my mobile number. Let me know what happens at that dinner tomorrow night."

"I will."

She turned to walk away but he placed his hand on her arm, holding her back. "Have you told your husband that I've decided to try and solve Robbie's disappearance after all?"

She hesitated. "Not yet."

"Why not? That's what he wanted."

"I know. But I didn't want to tell him you've agreed to investigate until I was sure you were committed. No use getting his hopes up just to disappoint him again. You weren't that keen at first, and I was worried that after a bit you might decide to walk away from it all."

"You think I'm that unreliable?" Gabriel couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

She sighed. "I'll tell him today."

"Good. You do that."

"And you? What are you going to do now?"

"I'm off to see Isidore. I think the key to what happened to the boy might be locked up inside those two computers in their house. Remember the two password-protected files I told you about?"

She nodded. "The diary and The Promethean Key."

"Right. We need to find out what's inside them. The fact that they're the only protected files must be significant. Isidore has been writing a virus to get into their system. We'll set it loose today."

"Good luck."

"Yes, you too."

She smiled, but it was such a sad smile, he felt it tug at his heart. What must it be like to live with someone who is dying, he wondered. Not to be able to plan for a future? Frankie was handling it with grace. But then, he wouldn't have expected anything else of her.

She spoke wearily. "Even if this new doctor comes through, it won't mean William will be cured. He'll just have more time."

"More time is good." He placed his arm around her. "Hang in there, Frankie."

For a moment she relaxed against him. The feeling of her head against his shoulder was startlingly familiar. He used to hold her exactly like this. They had always been a good fit. She was short enough that her head only came up to his chin.

His arm tightened around her waist, and for just a second he thought he could feel her respond, pressing closer against him.

She stepped back abruptly. "Thanks. I'm OK."

"Frankie…"

"You have to go now." Her face was rigid. A pulse was beating visibly in the hollow of her throat.

He felt suddenly depressed. What the hell was he thinking? Was he actually trying to hit on the wife of a dying man? Very classy, Blackstone. But he couldn't help it. She had felt so warm and soft in his arm. And over the past few days he had caught himself thinking about her far more than he wanted to. He had even found himself doodling on a piece of paper, not really concentrating, but when he finally focused on the page, he discovered he had covered it with hearts and arrows and intertwined initials. Pathetic.

"Gabriel…"

He looked at her warily. But her next words surprised him.

"Be careful. Please promise me you'll be careful."

She was worried about him? He grinned, suddenly immensely cheered. "I'll be fine. Remember I'm Mr. Super Remote Viewer."

"And don't get too complacent. And please don't get seduced by the sisters. They're dangerous. Be on your guard. Promise?"

He blew her a kiss. "Promise."

Isidore was watching a back episode of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation when Gabriel turned up at his house.

"Man, that Catherine Willows is hot." Isidore bobbed his head at the television set. "I love a strong, sexy, mature woman."

"I'm sure strong, sexy, mature women everywhere are rejoicing."

Isidore threw up his hands in dismay. "Oh no-we're feeling frisky today."

"Not to worry. I'll be back to my dour self in no time." Gabriel looked around him. Several empty Chinese food cartons had joined the anarchy of Isidore's desk since his last visit, the greasy little boxes stained red and orange. A dog-eared copy of Philip K. Dick's slim-volumed Tractates Cryptica Scriptura served as a coaster for a mug half-filled with cold black coffee and a stale swirl of yellow cream. How Isidore managed to function in an environment like this defied understanding. Gabriel looked at the man himself, who was still staring at the TV screen with an infatuated expression.

"I hope you've been doing more than watching reruns. I'm not paying you to wallow in sexual fantasies. I need to get into those computers at Monk House. Pronto."

Isidore sighed gustily and hit the off button on the remote control. Swinging his long legs down from where he had them propped up on the coffee table, he swept Gabriel a mock bow. "Fear not, oh great one. Your trusty servant has delivered. Lookee here. I think this might do it."

Isidore started tapping away at the keyboard, and as always Gabriel was captivated for a moment by the speed and skill with which Isidore engaged with the machine in front of him. Truly great hackers were like magicians. They could penetrate so deeply into the brain of a computer, they seemed to will it to respond to their thoughts, turning the relationship between man and machine into something telepathic-not mechanical.

Isidore leaned back in his chair. "OK. I banged together a nifty Trojan virus. But you told me the sisters have Kaspersky Anti-Virus on their machine, which is a real pain. KAV is a good product, man. It'll sniff out most Trojan viruses without even trying."

"Tell me this has a happy ending."

"Of course it does. My genius goes unbowed in the face of challenge. I have devised one son-of-a-bitch KAV buster. It'll knock it out completely. I'm calling it DAVID."

"As in David versus Goliath? How original."

Isidore smiled pityingly. "You're just jealous."

"Well, what are we going to do if they discover their KAV is no longer running? They'll be immediately suspicious. I don't want them to even suspect we're in there."

"Ah. Again you underestimate me. I have added a brilliant feature to DAVID. As soon as it kills the KAV, it will add a fake icon to the task bar to give the illusion that the KAV is still alive and breathing fire. Now, how cool is that?"

Pretty cool, Gabriel had to admit.

"So," Isidore continued, "I've done my part. Now it's up to you. How were you planning on sending it? If these women are sophisticated enough to have KAV on their machine, methinks they're not naively going to open an attachment from someone they don't know."

"Well, maybe they can be tempted. I've drawn up a fake letter pretending to be someone looking to sell a very rare Congolese Makishi mask and asking Minnaloushe if she's interested. Along with the message, she'll have to download a photograph of the mask. She'll bite, believe me."

"And then? When she wants to buy and finds out there's no mask?"

"Simple. We'll just send her a message saying she's too late and someone else has already bought it. That must happen all the time. Why would she be suspicious?"

"Where did you get a photograph of the mask?" Isidore asked curiously.

Gabriel grinned. "Lifted it from an old V &A catalog."

"Devious." Isidore nodded solemnly. "I'm proud of you. Well, that takes care of the diary. You'll be reading those pages in no time. The other one is of course the real problem."

"The Promethean Key."

"Yip. As the host computer in this instance is not connected to the Internet, you're personally going to have to install a hardware key-logger to get inside, old son. Sorry."

Gabriel sighed. Hardware keyloggers were a nuisance. The only way to install them was to have physical access to the computer itself. Which meant that tomorrow, when he had dinner with the women at Monk House, he was just going to have to hope that they left him alone in the room long enough to install the damn thing.

"Don't despair," Isidore said brightly. "At least you won't have to struggle with a clunky inline logger. I've managed to find you a smashing little custom-made keyboard spy. Cutting edge, man. You won't be able to buy this baby off the shelf. I got lucky: the guy I borrowed this from is a fellow wizard at Dreadshine and he owes me a favor." He handed Gabriel a small rectangular box. "Here you go. Take good care of it. Unless you want my friend Aaron to pay you a visit."

"Thanks." Gabriel slipped the little box carefully into the pocket of his jacket. "I'll put it to good use tomorrow night."

"So what's happened so far?" Isidore asked eagerly. "Any leads on our boy?"

Gabriel looked at Isidore's enthusiastic face. Should he tell him about the ride he had slammed the day before? Usually he was pretty reluctant to discuss the topic of remote viewing with anyone who was not an RV himself-the incredulity, the ignorance was wearying. But Isidore, despite the flakiness, was no idiot.

As Gabriel described the ride, Isidore listened with commendable solemnity. But when he stopped talking, Isidore let out a massive whoop. "Man, oh man. This is…" He searched for an appropriate word, finally gave up. "You know, I still can't get over the fact that you've been scanning the thoughts of a dead man. How creepy is that?"

"They're not the thoughts of a dead man, Isidore. Robert Whittington experienced these thoughts just before he died-he was still very much alive at the time. And as these thoughts are still part of the psi-space-the consciousness field-I can slam the ride."

Isidore nodded knowingly. "I know all about psi-space now. Did I tell you I hacked into some military files at a site in College Park, Maryland? Those guys wrote a lot about psi-space during the time the U.S. government sponsored the STARGATE project. Really wicked stuff."

Gabriel looked at him daringly. "You're playing with fire. If they catch you, they're going to bury you with the U.S. Patriot Act."

"Oh, please. Catch me? I'm a ghost. They'll never catch me. Besides, what's so dangerous about knowing about psi-space? The way I understand it, it's like an information storage medium. Like mind data stored in some quantum consciousness computer, which RVs can access because they have knowledge of the password."

Gabriel couldn't help but smile. Trust Isidore to come up with an information-based analogy.

"What I do want to know, though, is whether you ever blank out on the password. I mean, do you always manage to interface?"

Gabriel thought of Frankie. Mr. Super Remote Viewer. But even Mr. Super Remote Viewer struck out at times. And the results could be devastating.

He looked up to find Isidore watching him curiously. He shrugged. "With varying degrees of success. It's not what you would call an exact science. The impressions I get are more often than not very vague. Sometimes they're so scattered, they're unusable."

"But when you slammed the ride through Robbie's mind the details weren't vague at all, right?"

"No, but it was nuts. What this kid saw just before he drowned is simply not possible. I mean, he was walking through a house with millions of doors? How likely is that? Usually in a ride, you see things partially. You know, bits and pieces-blurred impressions. This ride is as detailed as a film reel. But it makes no bloody sense whatsoever."

"Maybe Whittington was doing drugs."

"Frankie suggested that as well. I still don't think so."

"OK, what about the second ride? When you climbed into the mind of the lady with the crow? Or rather she climbed into yours." Isidore smiled. "Lady with the crow. This is straight from Dungeons and Dragons, man. I can't get over how cool all of this is."

Gabriel hunched his shoulders in irritation. "I don't find it cool that Robert's killer is also a remote viewer herself."

"Yeah. Sort of takes away your advantage, doesn't it?" Isidore struck a gladiatorial pose. "The battle of the RVs. Mind versus Mind!"

"This is not a computer game." Gabriel looked at Isidore with exasperation. So much for an inspired exchange of ideas. He should have remembered that in Isidore's life the boundaries between reality and virtual reality were pretty iffy. What happened inside the virtual space of Dreadshine was just as relevant to Isidore as the events he encountered daily in the brick-and-mortar world. More so, probably.

"Anyway, I can't sit around here all day." Gabriel got to his feet. "I'll e-mail you the letter and photograph for Minnaloushe later today. Get DAVID in there and send her the message. Let me know as soon as she opens the attachment, OK? I'm very curious to know what's inside that diary."

"Sure thing. I can't wait for a peek myself. A diary written by one of those two women is sure to be hot stuff. Not," Isidore added virtuously, "that I'm motivated by anything else than a desire to find out what really happened to poor Robert."

But as he let Gabriel out the front door, Isidore suddenly turned solemn. "Will you watch your back, man?"

Gabriel glanced at him, amused. "You too? Frankie got all mushy as well. But I wouldn't have expected this of you. You're actually worried for me? How touching."

"Seriously, Gabe. The woman is a killer. And she'll want to get inside your head again. You'd better be prepared. Will you be able to pick up when she tries to scan you?"

"Definitely. I'll recognize her immediately." Gabriel smiled a little grimly.

When he was still at Eyestorm he had received more than sufficient training in this regard because Alexander Mullins had insisted that the RVs at Eyestorm scan one another as a matter of course. It was fair to say that he had always disliked that part of the training intensely. To allow someone to walk through your inner eye was a hard thing to do. As soon as another RV entered his mind, his skin would crawl and the sweat would break out hot on his skin. The impulse to clamp down was always irresistible.

But the one thing the scanning exercises had taught him was that every RV had a different "signature." He could always tell who was trying to probe his mind. The imprint an RV left on the host mind was unique: formless, colorless, but unmistakable. Oddly enough, he had always associated it with smell. Frankie's fragrance, he remembered, was like pine needles. Like a breeze. Whenever she entered his mind, it felt fresh. The woman who had entered his mind the night before had a different signature altogether. Musk, frangipani. Very powerful.

He looked into Isidore's anxious eyes. "Don't worry. If she tries to scan me again, I'll recognize her and I'll block her."

"You're sure you'll be able to do that?"

Gabriel nodded emphatically. "Absolutely." He snapped his ringers. "No sweat."

Entry Date: 8 July

Great excitement!

G is a remote viewer. M and I have hardly talked about anything else since we made the discovery.

On the one hand, it was like opening a package and finding afer-de-lance inside. On the other, the challenge ahead stirs me like an erotic dream. A snake can be charmed. It is only a question of choosing the right music…

Admittedly, the shock was overwhelming at first. But now that we've had a chance to think it through, we realize this is the sign we've been waiting for.

G is a viewer. I wonder if he knows how amazing he is. He represents the next step in evolution. Multi-sensory man.

Think of the possibilities.

Think of speed. Lightning. Ekstasis.

And danger. This could be dangerous.

Which is why we must allow some time to pass before attempting another scan. G will be on his guard now. We need to get him to relax. Lower his defenses. And the next time, the scan will be as delicate as Goliath moving on silk- No imprint. A phantom ghosting through his thoughts.

G is coming to the house tomorrow night. We both can't wait to see him again. The three of us are about to embark on a wonderful journey, our true names forever linked.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gabriel climbed the steps to the front door of Monk House and placed his ringer on the bell. The bell pealed long and melodiously.

As he waited, he shifted from one foot to the other. The bunch of flowers in his hands felt awkward. He was sweating gently-as much from the heat as from nerves.

He suddenly wondered if he was dressed correctly. He had decided on jeans, a white shirt and a jacket. The jacket was Armani but maybe he should have dressed more formally? For all he knew this was a dinner party and the other guests would be all dolled up in their glad rags.

Why was he so nervous? Timidity was not exactly a quality he associated with himself, but where these women were concerned, he felt as clumsy as a teenager. It probably didn't help that he was also overly conscious of the keyboard spy in the inside pocket of his jacket. Every time he moved, he could feel the little tin box where it rested on top of his heart.

Nothing stirred inside the house. The porch light was not on and the front windows were dark. The house seemed deserted. For a moment he wondered if he had got the day wrong.

But then the fanlight above the door lit up and light steps approached the front door. The next moment it swung open and Minnaldushe Monk, dressed in a frothy black skirt and a gossamer-thin blouse, smiled at him. She looked gorgeous: all peaches and cream and wanton hair.

"Gabriel." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft. "For us? Thank you, they're lovely." She brought the flowers up to her nose. "I love freesias."

Despite her professed delight, it suddenly occurred to him that another gift might have been more appropriate. Wine, maybe. Or chocolate. Bringing flowers to this house was like bringing ice to Antarctica. Following her into the entrance hall with its tightly packed potted plants, he was reminded that there was already more than enough foliage to go around. And he had forgotten about the roses. He stepped into the living room and the scent of roses was everywhere. It came from the alabaster bowls with their overblown blooms and also drifted in-thick and sultry-through the French doors that were open to the garden. The fragrance hovered in the air; settled on the furniture like an invisible shawl.

Morrighan got up from the large peacock wicker chair where she had been sitting. She was wearing a simple white linen shift. Bare feet. Her black hair for once not in the long ponytail to which he had become accustomed but falling freely onto her shoulders. She looked younger and more approachable. Still beautiful. This family had some bang-up genes.

"Welcome." And from her too, a kiss-lips barely brushing his cheek. "Make yourself comfortable." She gestured at one of the wingbacked chairs. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Gin and tonic, if you have it."

"Of course." She moved over to a heavy oak chest and opened the doors. Inside were glasses and an array of liquor bottles.

"Red wine for me," Minnaloushe said. She looked at Gabriel. "Excuse me for a minute. I just want to put your flowers in water."

"And check on the lamb, will you?" Morrighan glanced over her shoulder. "Turn it down a little." Handing Gabriel his glass, she said, "It's just the three of us tonight, but Minnaloushe and I felt like pulling out the stops. So we're having lamb with pesto sauce for our main. Lobster ravioli for starters. I hope you brought along an appetite."

"It sounds wonderful."

Morrighan nodded. "Setting modesty aside: we're pretty good cooks." She walked back to the deep-seated chair and sat down again, slender feet tucked in underneath her. "Anyway, cheers."

"Cheers." He took a sip of his drink. Perfect. Not too heavy on the gin. Just the way he liked it.

He looked around him. The room tonight looked inviting. It was lit by a large number of candles, the tiny flickering flames winking from shelves, side tables, even the floor. The objects in the room seemed to shimmer. The compasses and the astrolabe were burnished brass. The bell jars gleamed. In that dimly lit room, the pale bird skeletons seemed no longer startling, but had acquired a fragile beauty. Even the masks on the wall had lost their aura of menace and appeared whimsical rather than weird. The only discordant note was still Goliath, still looking decidedly unfriendly inside his glass box.

Minnaloushe came back into the room. She flopped onto the velvet sofa and reached for her wineglass. "Things are under control in the kitchen. We'll be able to eat in another half an hour or so." Turning to Gabriel, she smiled. "We should really have champagne tonight to celebrate your jump the other day. Morrighan tells me you took to it like a fish to water."

She had a way of looking at one with such attentiveness. It could lead you to believe she truly was enthralled by your presence, Gabriel thought. An impression intensified by that breathy, whispery voice. He wondered how many guys had fallen for it. No doubt, they enjoyed the fall.

"It was fun." He turned to Morrighan. "But I had a good coach."

"Thank you, kind sir." Morrighan smiled and lifted her glass in an abbreviated salute.

He returned their smiles, wondering all the while who had visited him earlier that week. He had shared a very intimate experience with one of these two women only two nights before. One of them had entered his mind. You couldn't get any closer than that.

But if he had hoped to pick up an echo from one of them, he was disappointed. The conversation flitted aimlessly and harmlessly from one topic to another. Books, movies, the situation in the Middle East. The kind of conversation you could find at any dinner party. The women were charming, stunningly well read, wittily opinionated and nicely appreciative of his company. And for once he didn't get that creepy sense that they had some kind of hidden agenda.

They were even remarkably forthcoming about themselves, talking easily about their childhood.

"When we were girls, we hated each other," Minnaloushe said cheerfully. "Everything was a contest between us. Boys, school, everything. Morrighan was a brat. Impossible to live with. Quite a violent little girl, actually. I can show you the mark where she threw her hairbrush at me once. It left a scar."

"Oh, yes?" Morrighan elevated an eyebrow. "And you? Spoilt little princess. You were Daddy's girl. Mummy's too. And so manipulative. What Minnaloushe wanted, Minnaloushe got."

Gabriel looked at them with astonishment. "This is unexpected. Somehow I pictured you as almost twins. Best friends since birth. Inventing a secret childhood language just for the two of you. That kind of thing."

Minnaloushe laughed. "Not at all. Things got so bad between us that my parents decided to send us to different boarding schools. Throughout most of our childhood we only spent holidays together. And those were pretty tempestuous, believe me."

"So what changed?"

"Difficult to say. Things started changing in our late teens."

"Do you keep secrets from each other?" Like seducing an impressionable boy, he thought silently. Like murder?

"Of course. Sisters always keep secrets from each other, no matter how close they are. Sisters are genetically predisposed that way." Minnaloushe wrinkled her nose. "We still have wildly divergent interests and ideas, you know. And we still like nothing better than to argue with each other. But we now tend to look on each other's idiosyncrasies with tolerance and"-she threw a laughing glance at her sister-"pity. But seriously: we're watching out for each other now. We worry for each other. I certainly worry for Morrighan when she's out on one of her environmental crusades."

Gabriel turned to Morrighan. "What was the toughest assignment you've ever had?"

She put her head to one side, considering. "Probably the time I spent two months in a tent on Egg Island in the Arctic. The weather was atrocious and it was just me and one other girl and our laptop and digital camera."

"What were you doing out there?"

"Recording violations by companies drilling for oil."

"Were you successful?"

"Absolutely. Based on the evidence we gathered, one of the companies was fined very substantially. But it was a tough gig."

"It was a foolish gig." Minnaloushe's voice was low. "Morrighan almost died. She was rigging something on a platform and fell and broke her spine. She was paralyzed for weeks. It took months of physio work before she was back on her feet again. She practically lived in the swimming pool."

Gabriel glanced out the window, his eyes drifting to the far end of the garden. The light streaming from inside the house was strong enough to illuminate the brick apron of the pool and the black water. Next to it the humpbacked tree, its fiery flowers colorless against the night sky.

He felt a chill touch his heart. The water seemed murky in the near darkness. For a fleeting moment he thought back on the ride and remembered how cold the water had felt against his skin. How exhausted and sluggish his limbs. And then his head being pushed under the surface and his lungs exploding in pain…

He looked back at Morrighan. "The therapy obviously worked."

"I was lucky."

Minnaloushe said fondly, "It was more than luck. It was willpower. Morrighan is nothing if not tenacious. She never gives up."

He could believe that, Gabriel thought. Morrighan's femininity was unmistakable but there was steel underneath the loveliness. For a moment he remembered the jump they had made together. The feel of her body against his. That look of almost pained ecstasy on her face. The utter fearlessness with which she had tumbled out into space.

He looked up and straight into those remarkable blue eyes. Their impact was like a small electric current running through his body. Can she tell what I'm thinking?

Morrighan blinked. Turning her head deliberately in the direction of her sister, she said, "Don't be fooled by Minnaloushe, Gabriel. She's far tougher than I am. Her way of approaching things is different from mine, of course. I tend to go straight for the jugular whereas Minnaloushe is more circumspect. But she can be relentless, believe me."

Gabriel glanced at Minnaloushe, who was listening with a quizzical expression.

"Oh?"

"Definitely. And she has more courage than I have. Just think about her modeling at the Wine of Life club. If that's not heroic I don't know what is."

Minnaloushe's lips twitched. "The men are very professional. The leering is kept to a minimum."

Gabriel looked at her directly. "Why do it? Not for the money, you said."

"And not because I'm a narcissist either, if that's what you're thinking." She twisted a strand of silky red hair around one finger. "It's an exercise in concentration. If I manage to keep my concentration with all those eyes on me, it strengthens my mind. Toughens the brain. To regain inner stillness when you find yourself in such a vulnerable position, requires discipline, believe me."

He did believe her, although it still sounded to him like a damned weird way to sharpen up one's concentration skills. Hadn't she heard of chess? Crossword puzzles? Buddhist Zazen?

"So what do you think of when you're sitting there? Do you make grocery lists in your head? Count sheep?"

She smiled again. And for the first time that evening there was something in her smile he didn't understand. Something secretive. "No. I can safely say I'm not counting sheep."

She glanced at her watch and her voice became practical. "That lamb should be just about ready."

"OK, let's get started." Morrighan got to her feet. "Gabriel, why don't you come through to the dining room? We'll join you in a minute."

She looked at him expectantly, waiting to usher him through. He followed reluctantly. He had hoped they would leave him alone in the living room while they dished up. It might have given him just enough time to install the keylogger inside the keyboard of the Mac.

The idea that one of the sisters could be a killer was beginning to seem more far-fetched by the minute, though. Sure, they were not predictable women. And they led rather unconventional lives. But these could hardly be considered indications of a murderous mind. Did one of them really kill Robert Whittington? Drown him? He could almost convince himself it was all a mistake. That he had misinterpreted that first ride. That it was not a death he had lived through. Almost… He glanced out the window once more at the pool of water gleaming darkly in the far corner of the garden.

Entering the dining room, he sat down on one of the high-backed chairs. The last time he had visited, he had thought the dining room gloomy and stolid with its heavy pieces of mahogany, but tonight the room was transformed. The crisp white linen on the refectory table, the gleaming cutlery and the graceful candelabra were formal but festive.

And Morrighan had not been exaggerating when she said they were good cooks. The food was excellent. Against his better judgment he was starting to relax. He was enjoying himself. This was turning out to be a very pleasant evening indeed. And it was as though time had slowed down inside that room, making everything seem dreamlike. Or maybe it was just that he was drinking a little too much. Morrighan kept refilling his wineglass, and the atmosphere was so convivial he had difficulty refusing.

"How long have you lived in this house?" he asked her as she set down his dessert plate in front of him: lemon tart with what looked like pistachio ice cream.

"It's been in our family for many years. We grew up here. I was even born in this house. Of course, in many ways a modern flat would be much more practical." She sighed. "The upkeep of this place is horrendous. The plumbing is vintage. When it rains, the roof always leaks when the wind blows south. Still, I wouldn't want to live anywhere else."

"Nor me." Minnaloushe nodded her head emphatically. "This is home." She brushed a stray tendril back from her face and for a moment Gabriel was distracted. What amazing hair. In certain light it looked like gold, then she'd move her head and the color changed to rose madder.

Morrighan placed her elbow on the table and looked at Gabriel chin in hand. "What about you, Gabriel? Where's home for you?"

"I grew up in Bristol, if that's what you mean. But I haven't been back in many years. So, I suppose the answer to your question is London." He took a bite of his lemon tart.

"And London is probably better stomping ground for a thief, I would think."

He looked up quickly. But there was no disapproval in her voice.

"Tell us about it." She fixed her extraordinary eyes on him. "What's it like to be a thief?"

He hesitated.

"We won't judge." She held up one slender hand as if taking an oath. "So don't be shy."

He decided to be flippant. "Let's just say stealing beats working."

"Why information?" Minnaloushe's voice was equally light.

"Information is what makes the world go round."

"I thought it was love."

"Sadly, no." He shrugged. "Bits and bytes and data is where it's at."

"How romantic."

"For some people it can be. Not to mention addictive. Information is the cocaine of the twenty-first century. More seductive than money, more addictive than sex."

"Are you? Addicted?"

"Probably. But I'm never sentimental about information. Not like my friend Isidore who thinks information should be like oxygen. Free-out there-belonging to no one and everyone. Uncorrupted by issues such as profit and ownership."

"Your friend sounds interesting. I think I'd like to meet him." This was Morrighan.

Gabriel grinned inwardly. Isidore had trouble keeping his cool around women. Gabriel had been surprised by how much at ease his friend was when he was introduced to Frankie for the first time, but then Frankie had that effect on people. They always felt as though they had known her for years, and would open up to her in the most amazing fashion. It had stood her in good stead during her time at Eyestorm. These two, on the other hand, would have poor Isidore reduced to tongue-tied incoherence in the time it took to say "Linux."

"Well…" For just a second Minnaloushe's eyes met Morrighan's, and that wordless communication he had noticed the last time he had seen the sisters together passed between them. But it was over so quickly, he might have imagined it. She looked back at him. "Time for coffee, I think. And what about a brandy, Gabriel?"

"A brandy would be great, thanks."

"Good. Let's go back to the drawing room. Sis, will you take care of the coffee?"

"Of course."

Gabriel pushed his chair back. "Let me help you clear the table."

"Absolutely not." Morrighan was firm. "But thanks for offering. Maybe next time."

So there was to be a next time. Way to go, Blackstone.

But as he followed Minnaloushe into the living room, his eyes fell on the two computers and he experienced a light shock. He had almost forgotten what he came here for. He still needed to install the keylogger. But how?

Unexpectedly, he was given the opportunity. Minnaloushe was just handing him his brandy when the phone rang in the hallway.

"Excuse me." She glanced over her shoulder. "I need to get that."

He waited until she had disappeared into the hallway and then moved quickly over to the computers. He ignored the IBM, which was connected to a modem. Isidore's virus would take care of that one. He turned his attention to the Macintosh, which was not connected to the Internet. It was switched off, the screen black. But that did not concern him. He was interested in the keyboard only. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to eleven o'clock.

Turning the keyboard over, he examined the three tiny screws that held it together. As he would not be able to simply plug the logger into a porthole, he would have to open up the keyboard in order to slip in his little spy. Some keyboards were held together by plastic plugs that could be popped out, but from his first visit to the house, he knew this one was not so accommodating. He had come prepared. Before setting out for Monk House, he had slipped a small power screwdriver into his jacket pocket. And he had practiced this afternoon as well, opening and closing keyboards and timing himself.

He started work on the first screw, forcing himself to keep his eyes on his hands, even though the compulsive urge to glance at the door leading to the hallway and the one giving access to the dining room was strong. But he could hear Minnaloushe's voice as she talked on the phone, and from the direction of the kitchen came the clatter of crockery.

The first screw was out. He placed it carefully to one side and inserted the point of the screwdriver into the head of the second tiny screw. His hands were sweaty and the screwdriver slipped slightly in his palm, causing his heart to miss a beat.

Calm down. Concentrate. In the hallway, Minnaloushe was laughing.

He cursed the candles. They made for great atmosphere but lousy light to work by. He deliberately slowed his movements. If one of these screws fell to the ground, it would be impossible to find it in the shadows. The image of himself on hands and knees, wildly searching for a screw only millimeters big crossed his mind and he swallowed hard.

Before coming here tonight, he had considered simply substituting the old keyboard with a completely new one: the keylogger gadgetry already installed. It would have saved him having to mess around with fiddly little screws and it was a trick he had used before. He had a variety of used, deliberately dirtied keyboards of all different makes and sizes at home, and usually the targets never even noticed that their keyboard had been replaced by another. But he had decided against it. The sisters were too observant. The feel of the keyboard- the resistance of the keys and their texture-might be just slightly different. They would pick up on it.

Two down. One to go. It was quiet in the hallway. He glanced nervously at the door. Was she on her way? But then the wispy voice started talking again.

A breeze stirred gently in the garden, lifting the curtain at the window. The third screw was already slightly loose and he was able to remove it at speed. Great. He carefully separated the two leaves of the keyboard before taking out the small oblong tin from his inside pocket. He opened it.

The logger looked like a shiny steel button. As he placed it inside his palm, it flashed silver in the gloom. A tiny spy with an electronic heart. This keylogger was the most sophisticated he had ever worked with. No files to install. No giveaway signs of log files or processes running at operating-system level. Undetectable by software. And no clumsy cables either. It would be totally invisible. In a few days' time, he'd come back to retrieve it, and the keystrokes it recorded should allow him to crack the password of The Promethean Key.

As he expected, installing the logger was the quickest part of the operation. And replacing the screws was easier than removing them. He sneaked a look at his watch: 11:00 exactly. It had taken him three minutes flat. So far, so good.

But as he was tightening the third screw, he thought he detected from the corner of his eye movement in the near corner of the room.

He turned his head and squinted. Nothing. Only the shadowy flicker of the candles against the wall.

He turned away, but there it was again and this time he caught it. It was his old nemesis: Bruno, the demon cat. As if in sympathetic reaction, the scratch on his wrist, which had scabbed over, started to itch.

The cat stared at him, back arched. Then it jumped with feline grace onto the seat of the wingbacked leather chair, the chair he had sat in earlier that evening, as though daring him to claim it again.

The sound of cups rattling in their saucers shocked him into awareness. Shit. Morrighan had left the kitchen and was inside the dining room. Her shadow was already at the door. He dropped the screwdriver into his pocket and pushed the keyboard back into place. Somehow he managed to place six feet between himself and the computer by the time Morrighan entered the room, in her hands a tray with a cafetiere, cups and a plate of biscotti.

"Let me help you with that."

"Thanks." She relinquished the tray. "I see Bruno has taken over your chair."

"Well, he looked so comfortable, I did not want to disturb him." In fact the cat did not look comfortable at all. It was still standing on tiptoes on the seat of the chair like a nervous ballerina, narrow eyes fixed on Gabriel with chilling intensity.

Morrighan leaned down and scooped the cat into her arms. "Hey, you," she said and buried her face into its fur. "Where are your manners?" Bruno meekly placed his chin on her shoulder, but his tail was swishing.

Minnaloushe walked hastily into the room. "Sorry, you two. That was Katrina," she said to Morrighan by way of explanation. "You know what she's like. You simply can't get her off the phone."

Morrighan set Bruno gently on the ground. Kneeling down in front of the coffee table, she started pouring coffee into one of the cups. "Gabriel, biscotti? And you haven't had any of your brandy yet."

He sat down in his chair again, Bruno having mercifully disappeared behind the sofa, and picked up the big-bottomed glass. The adrenaline that had poured through his body while he was working on the keyboard was starting to subside, and in its place was that heady mixture of relief and satisfaction he always experienced after pulling off a job without being caught. Face it: he liked the rush. He looked past Morrighan to where the Macintosh stood on the table, keyboard neatly centered in front of the screen. Good work. He really had to give himself credit. Three minutes was just about a personal best.

He relaxed deeper into his chair. Minnaloushe was busy at the music system, slipping a CD into the player. As the first notes filled the air, he recognized the music. Tchaikovsky. "Andante Cantabile," String Quartet no. 1, opus 11. The soaring violin notes almost unbearably poignant.

Minnaloushe sat down on the sofa and picked up her brandy glass. "Here's to the future."

"And to new friends," he added expansively and raised his glass. The gleam of the candle flames filtered through the amber-colored brandy, making it appear as though the liquid was magically glowing.

"New friends," the women repeated in unison.

They smiled at him and their smiles were full of promise. Their eyes looked like jewels. Morrighan lifted her glass once more in a final toast:

"To us. To getting to know each other…"

Entry Date: 9 July

G surprised me tonight. Behind the carefully crafted smile lies something quite disturbing. A coolness. A cruelty. Sometimes 1 glimpse it in his eyes. He does not realize it himself, I don't think. There is no sense that this quality is cultivated; it is more a kind of unconscious power. Dangerous. Very sexy. This guy comes from deep within the forest of a woman's fantasies.

Only once before have I encountered someone like Him: a man who gave the same impression of lazy ruthlessness. And maybe my memory of him is no longer accurate. I was only thirteen years old, after all.

I remember I was at a wedding reception and I was bored. The ceremony in the church had been beautiful-the bride in a shimmering white dress and gauzy veil. The groom looking adorably nervous. The bridesmaids smiling. Joyous music.

But the reception itself was utter boredom. Inside the marquee in the garden it was steaming hot, and I recall the smell of deodorized sweat and melting makeup. Sentimental speech following sentimental speech. And I remember that M and I had quarreled. She had tripped me and I had pushed her. It was one of those fights. I could not bear to be near her any longer so I had slipped away from the table at which M was sitting with Mum and Dad and had entered the house.

It was quiet inside. I crept up the stairs, hoping to find a place to hide out for the afternoon. The bedrooms were on the top floor. As I walked down the carpeted passageway, I heard a noise. A whimper. I felt the hair on my arms rise-not in fright, but in anticipation.

The door was ajar. I pushed it open even wider. It did not creaky and the two people inside the room did not notice me as I stood there watching avidly. They were making love. A blond woman and a black-haired man I recognized as wedding guests.

They had been sitting in the pew in front of me during the service. The woman's hat had formed a perfect frame for her delicate face. She was beautiful in a languid, slightly bloodless way. The man, on the other hand, had a devil-may-care smile and his life force was palpable. He was dressed as soberly and as formally as you could wish for, but there was something about him that was untamed. You had the feeling that with this man you shouldn't press too far. He could be dangerous. But is risk not the ultimate aphrodisiac? Even at that age I knew it instinctively.

When the bride entered the church, he turned around and for a few moments his eyes locked with mine. His face was fascinating: the full lips, the dark stubble pushing underneath the skin, the black eyes framed by long lashes. He had looked at me appraisingly-probably not the way an adult male is supposed to look at a girl barely in her teens. But it was not a lecherous look-more a nod, a recognition of the woman I was becoming. Admiring, approving. A jaunty salute. It made me blush. It was also the first time I had felt the power that comes with being a woman.

As I stood there in the door of the bedroom, my breath was caught inside my chest in pleasurable suspense. The blond woman was sitting on the mans lap. Her legs were clenched behind his back and her full, rounded breasts were squashed slackly against his chest. His skin was dusky from the sun, hers was cream. He held her by the nape of her neck as though he had to subdue her forcefully. The sight of his arm demanding submission and her bowed head resting against his shoulder spoke of delicious mastery and subjugation. I felt my own limbs tremble. She was moving herself against him slowly, languorously. The smell in the room was like buttermilk- Warm. Curdled.

He moved away from her and gripped one breast in his hand, rolling the nipple roughly between his fingers. She made a small mewing sound and her head drooped against his shoulder even lower. And now he was stroking her hair, her neck, the side of her cheek, his lips murmuring against her ear. She was moving ever more quickly against him. I could see where he had entered her and the sweaty nest of hair and crumpled skin at the base of his shaft. I stared, fascinated, my own body flushed. And then the woman suddenly screamed through closed lips and arched her back. I felt my own body shudder in recognition.

So this is it, I thought. This is what people risk hell for. This agony and ecstasy of the flesh.

How sad, then, that I have never again captured quite the same sense of delight as I felt that day standing in the door of a bedroom in a strange house-not yet a woman, no longer a child. Years later, when I became a participant in the game of love myself and not a mere onlooker, I had expected smoke, honey, crystal, fire. But reality never seemed to fully match the power of that first, vicarious experience when I watched from the bedroom door.

Is it because G reminds me of that unknown man from my youth that I am so attracted to him? A sexual imprint-a hidden trip wire planted in my brain years ago?

But G has been chosen as a player in the game, not as a partner for my bed. He is to follow in R's footsteps. Transcend them. Solve et coagula.

I must meditate upon my name.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Inhale. Exhale. Stretch."

This was a hell of a lot tougher than he had thought it would be. Gabriel sneaked a look at the woman who was occupying the mat to his left. She was performing the exercise effortlessly; back straight, legs firm but not rigid. The woman must have core muscles like piano wire. He, on the other hand, was wobbling all over the place like a happy drunk.

"And down." The yoga teacher's voice was soothing. "And relax. Good work, people. See you all next week."

Gabriel turned his head painfully and caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror covering one wall of the gym. His face was red. And were those bubbles coming from the corner of his mouth?

For a few more moments he continued to lie spread-eagled on the mat, exhausted. Apart from the fact that he was hurting in places he never even knew he had muscles, he was also suffering from the effects of the previous night's dinner party at Monk House. He knew he shouldn't have had that last Cognac. The way he felt now, he could go to sleep right here this minute.

But the yoga teacher was starting to roll up his mat and was obviously getting ready to leave. Move your ass, Blackstone. Time to go to work.

"Mr. Scott…"

The yoga teacher turned toward him. "Ariel, please."

"Uh, right. Ariel."

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"I understand from the front desk that this class is full and that I will not be allowed to attend it again. Do you offer another class, by any chance?"

"Indeed. Every Tuesday morning at six-thirty."

Gabriel shuddered. Six-thirty. Oh, man. That was brutal.

His expression must have given him away, because the yoga teacher said apologetically, "I realize it is very early but I teach only part-time. I have a day job as well."

Gabriel almost smiled. Yes, he knew all about Mr. Scott's day job. It was the guy's day job that interested him. He couldn't care less about lotus positions and mantras. But yoga was to be his way in. If it meant learning how to twist himself into a pretzel and getting up at some ungodly hour, then so be it.

Ariel was opening his gym bag and was taking out a truly extraordinary piece of clothing, which he proceeded to pull over his head. Gabriel stared. Could it actually be a poncho?

"Well, good-bye." Ariel nodded at him. "I hope I'll see you in my class on Tuesday."

"Wait." Gabriel touched the man's elbow. "I would love to talk to you about yoga. I don't know all that much about it. But after today's class, this is something I know I can get passionate about." He managed to keep a straight face. "If you have the time, would you allow me to buy you a cup of tea? I was about to have a cup of tea myself. Green tea," he improvised. The yoga teacher looked like he could be a green tea kind of guy.

"Of course," Ariel nodded. "Thank you, yes."

As they sat down at a table inside the cafe and placed their order, Gabriel quickly went over in his mind what he knew about the man opposite him. Ariel, not surprisingly, was not the name the yoga teacher's mother had given him. He had been christened Donald Michael Scott and was a low-level human resources clerk at a pharmaceutical company called LEVELEX. And it just so happened that Gabriel and Isidore had been retained by LEVELEX's competition to hack into the company's research database.

The money for this job was excellent-if they could pull it off. And that was nowhere near certain. The security at this company was super tight. Again and again he and Isidore had been stopped cold. No hack possible. Isidore was about to call it quits, but Gabriel was not. He had another plan in mind.

A plan that involved Mr. Scott.

Gabriel watched the yoga teacher take a cautious sip of his tea, puckering his lips. This unassuming little man with his polka-dot poncho was going to provide him with the information they needed, without even knowing he was providing it. A coconspirator… but an oblivious one.

It was going to be easy. As he listened to the man prattle on about asanas and Ayurveda, Gabriel had no doubt the guy was the perfect mark. And even though he had to say so himself, his strategy was brilliant. When he researched the employees at LEVELEX, Donald Scott's name had stood out simply because he also happened to be a member of the same gym where Gabriel worked out. When Gabriel discovered that the clerk was also a yoga teacher, he had immediately signed up for his class. By casting Scott in the role of mentor, he had lowered the man's natural inclination to be wary of strangers. After all, teaching required you to be approachable.

The only problem he could see in this whole setup was Isidore. Isidore did not like this kind of social engineering. "Scumbag tactics" is how Isidore described co-opting an employee without the employee consciously being aware of it. But what Isidore didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Some more tea?" Gabriel smiled at Donald Scott.

"Yes, thank you."

Gabriel pushed the earthenware teapot toward the yoga teacher. "So what do you do when you're not teaching yoga and inspiring your students?"

"Well, actually, I work for a pharmaceutical company…"

It was all too easy. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

After saying good-bye to the yoga teacher and promising to sign up for his Tuesday morning class, Gabriel got into the Jag and took out his mobile phone. Time to check in with Frankie.

He caught her just as she was about to step into the lobby of her hotel in Paris. The cell connection made her sound as faraway as though she were in the Arctic, not a mere hop, skip away over the Channel. But at the sound of her voice, he felt a sharp surge of pleasure. He missed her.

"Talk," she said economically.

"Well, good morning to you too."

"Sorry." She coughed discreetly. "But William and I are just about to check in. He's fine," she added before Gabriel could ask. "And the doctor he consulted seemed convinced he could add up to a year to the prognosis."

"That's great."

"Yes, well. We'll have to see. So how did it go with the sisters last night?"

"Pretty good. They want to be friends."

Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort was her response. Then, "Any idea who the remote viewer is?"

"Not a clue. I couldn't pick up anything from either of them."

"Watch out, anyway."

"I will. Don't worry about me. I plan to enjoy myself."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said cryptically and disconnected.

Gabriel smiled as he dialed Isidore's number. He would have to wait for the women to invite him back to the house again before he'd be able to retrieve the logger he had installed inside the Mac's keyboard. But until they did, he was not about to sit idle. Isidore's virus should have done its work by now on the IBM, which meant that even though The Promethean Key was to remain a mystery for a while longer, the diary was about to give up its secrets. Of course, it all depended on whether Minnaloushe had downloaded the attachment. He was confident that the bait had been a good one-the chance to obtain another Makishi mask must be pretty irresistible to her-but you never knew.

But the news was good. "Your plan worked," Isidore said without preamble. "We're in."

Smith's at Smithfield was packed. The huge loftlike space was buzzing with conversations from many voices, the windows steamed up. From the kitchen came a steady stream of plates filled with baked beans, thick steaks, fried eggs and slices of white toast. Gargantuan portions and no low-fat options in sight. Smith's was only a few blocks away from Isidore's house and one of his favorite hangouts.

Isidore was slumped over one end of one of the big kitchen tables, long legs tucked underneath the low wooden seating bench. The expression on his face was that of a cat having stolen a particularly rich bowl of cream. There was also a glint in his eye, which gave Gabriel pause. He lowered his backpack and looked at his friend suspiciously. "You look happy."

"Living a clean life and thinking healthy thoughts will do that for you. You should try it sometime."

"Yes, oh Yoda."

"Did you hang with the ladies last night, my man?" Isidore still had that Cheshire cat grin on his face.

"I did."

"And?"

"They said they wanted to get to know me better."

"Did they really. Why is that? I wonder."

"They're attracted to my brilliant mind. They can't get enough of it."

"You're sure that's all it is." Isidore's voice was heavily sarcastic.

"No, you're right. It's my body, as well."

"Conceited sod." Isidore looked at him disgustedly for a moment. But then he smiled creamily and reached into his own backpack. Extracting a paper folder, he placed it neatly in front of him, pushing a sugar bowl out of his way.

"Actually, I know quite a bit about your visit to the girls last night." Something was amusing Isidore greatly.

Gabriel watched him warily. "OK. Spill it. The diary. You've read it?"

"Oh, yes. Well, parts of it, anyway."

Gabriel waited. Isidore clearly wanted to make the most of the moment.

"The diary goes back years-it's going to take ages to read through it all. So I've just skimmed through some of the more recent entries, you understand."

"And?"

"There's some weird shit in there, man. Some off-the-wall descriptions and really esoteric stuff but," Isidore paused, enjoying himself, "there are also more personal observations-especially last night's entry, you'll notice-and that's where it gets really interesting."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm talking about you, bro. You figure strongly, my man. The writer is obviously intrigued by you. When you get back to your computer, you can browse the diary at your leisure. But just for now, I've printed out a few pages for your information." He pushed the folder across to Gabriel. "I've highlighted some of the choice bits, you'll see."

Gabriel opened the folder. Inside were a few sheets of paper. Certain parts of the text had been highlighted with a pink Magic Marker. The date at the top of the first page was yesterday's. As he began reading, he could feel his face getting warm.

G surprised me tonight. Behind the carefully crafted smile lies something quite disturbing. A coolness. A cruelty…. Sometimes I glimpse it in his eyes… Dangerous. Very sexy. This guy comes from deep within the forest of a woman's fantasies…

"They're not all rave reviews, though. As you can see from this bit here… and here." Isidore leaned over helpfully, one long finger pointing out the two relevant paragraphs.

G possesses an overweening vanity. It manifests itself in every gesture, every elegant move. Even the way he dresses. I have to admit, he has graceful hands. A cute tush! Pity he knows it.

There is undoubtedly a strong streak of narcissism there. And with G

it is more than just personal vanity; it is also a vanity of the mind. A deep belief in his own ability. A conviction that he can take on anyone, on any terms.

Isidore sat back in his chair. "Now, that's what I call penetrating prose. And did you read the racy stuff in last night's entry? Seems as though you remind her of some sexual fantasy man she met in her tender years."

"Who wrote this? Minnaloushe or Morrighan?"

"Ah well, this is where it gets tricky. I don't know. Everyone in this diary is referred to by initials. Which means the author keeps referring to her sister as M. And that is no help at all, of course. So far I can't find anything that gives an indication of whose voice it is. The ironic thing is, this woman has an obsession with her own name… See, almost every entry ends with I must meditate upon my name. Wish she'd stop meditating and start talking."

"Does the diary mention anything about remote viewing?"

"Yes. Here-one page back where she calls you 'multi-sensory man.' Catchy name, don't you think? Beats Batman and Superman anytime." Isidore sniggered. "She thinks you represent the next step in evolution. Man, if you're what's waiting for mankind in the future, I'm worried."

Gabriel sighed. "Get serious for a moment, will you? Is the writer the viewer?"

"I have no idea. She keeps talking about how amazed the two of them were to discover that you're a remote viewer, but she doesn't say who actually does the scanning. Like here: The scan will be as delicate as Goliath moving on silk. No imprint. A phantom ghosting through his thoughts. It still doesn't say who'll be scanning like Goliath. Who is Goliath anyway?"

"A spider."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. What about Robert Whittington? Does the diary mention him? "

"A lot. When you get to your computer, go back about eighteen months: that's when his name first surfaces. Or rather his initial-I imagine R stands for Robert Whittington. The author always sounds regretful when she talks about him. And she says again and again how much she misses him. But no chilling confessions or murderous thoughts. Which is not to say that parts of the diary aren't spooky, bro. Some of it freaked me out big-time. This is not your ordinary garden variety 'Dear Diary,' believe me. It has almost no 'this is what I did today' kind of detail. No real specifics."

"Did you check to see what she wrote during the week the boy disappeared?"

"Of course. But it was no use. During that week she never wrote in it. And the next time she mentions Robert, it is only to say that he has 'left.'" Isidore added imaginary quotation marks with his fingers.

Gabriel stared at the printed pages. "So you found no indication that the boy was harmed."

"Well, no. Just that he left because he wasn't up to the challenge, whatever that might be. And that he wasn't strong enough. I suppose she could be using euphemisms, like when she says 'he left,' maybe she means he checked out. As in permanently."

"But nothing about drowning?"

"Nada." Isidore shook his head. "But they're into something weird, Gabe. And whatever it is, they managed to get Whittington hooked onto it as well. Take a look at this page. The second paragraph."

The three of us are about to engage in the most sublime form of play. We told R about the game today. He is so keen, bless his sweet heart. It will be fun playing with him. R is a seeker. He has already searched for the white light elsewhere. But now his journey will truly begin. Passion. Death. Rebirth.

"I can't make up my mind if they were planning some erotic orgy for the boy or if they wanted to take him to church. And all those references to 'playing' with him?" Isidore drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "To tell you the truth, I find that creepy as hell. Like he's a doll or something. What does it mean?"

"I don't know."

"And what is this 'game' and the 'white light'?"

"Isidore, I don't know."

"Well, I'd better warn you, the ladies have plans for you as well. When you start reading the diary properly, you'll see they've decided that you're to be their next playmate."

"Is that a fact?"

"Oh, yes indeed. You're the chosen one."

"I suppose I should feel flattered."

"No, my man. You should feel apprehensive."

Gabriel dropped his eyes again to the pages in his hands.

M and 1 are convinced that G is perfect for the game. But unlike R, G is no spiritual seeder after truth. Feeding the soul is not high on his list. Instant gratification. Materialism. Those are his gods. A peddler of information. He sells it and moves on. Out of sight, out of mind. No spiritual footprint.

It will be a challenge and a great adventure. Everything points to this guy lilting to push the danger button. Risk equals self-knowledge. My kind of man.

Gabriel frowned. "This doesn't help very much at all." He closed the folder and pushed it away from him. "Damn."

"Maybe the answer lies on the second computer. In The Promethean Key."

"Maybe."

"So get me the key logger and I'll get you the password."

"I plan to. As soon as they invite me back." Gabriel stared moodily at the folder. "I wish I knew who the author of the diary is: Minnaloushe or Morrighan."

"Well, don't despair. You'll now be able to access this diary whenever you feel the urge. Maybe the writer will reveal herself in future entries."

"Here's hoping."

Isidore grinned. "And maybe she simply won't be able to keep her hands off your 'cute tush.' That would be a dead giveaway." He laughed and ducked the sugar cubes Gabriel threw at him. "So, what's next?"

"As they're so keen on spending time with me, I don't think I should disappoint the ladies. I will give them every opportunity to do so. The three of us will hang some more, to borrow a phrase from your vocabulary."

"Do you think it wise?"

"Probably not." Gabriel grinned suddenly. "But who wants wise when you can have fun? In the meantime… I have some reading to do."

It took Gabriel almost a week to read through the entire diary. The diary was voluminous and covered a time span of close to five years. Some of the entries were thousands of words long. Others, only a few sentences. The writer did not always write in it every day, but she rarely skipped more than a week. She was obviously committed to keeping some kind of record of her thoughts and the passage of her days.

With the help of Isidore's Trojan virus, he was able to access the diary's electronic pages whenever he felt like it. It allowed him to read not only past entries, but also brand-new entries made in the present. Once, he even found himself logging in on the diary at the exact moment she was busy keying words into it. It was an odd sensation, watching the disembodied words float across the screen, knowing she had no idea he was on the other side of the looking glass, looking in.

Much of what he read was obscure. The white light. I will search for it as for an enchanted city lost beneath the waves, following the water-heavy sound of bells tolling in their drowned cathedrals.

Some ideas surfaced again and again. White light, journey, game. The language used to describe these concepts was frustratingly opaque.

What to make of this, for example?

Why try to find sublime purpose in the haziness of dreams or the anarchic lines in the palms of your hands? Play the game. That is all that is required. Follow the path that does not wander.

The images and observations made little logical sense, but she had created a magical world within the diary's pages, a wild world. The entire diary was a celebration of an extraordinary imagination: poetic, haunting, evocative.

Can you hear the sun set?

What is the color of seduction?

The easy answer is red, but that does not ring true. Red is full on. Seduction is a feather brushing against the shin of the inner thigh. Subtle. Teasing. I thinly the color of seduction is cappuccino. Dark coffee diluted with cream.

From love to death:

Death should not be turkey-necked, flaccid, trying to speak profound words through a toothless mouth. Death should be strong and virile and grab you by the hand as you run into a windswept darkness stalking flame after flame.

And then there was the instruction to herself, like a running leitmotif: I must meditate upon my name.

But she never gave it.

Not every observation was mystical or nebulous. There were pragmatic, everyday observations as well: ruminations on politics, local events, pop culture-even trivia read in newspapers and magazines. These observations were irreverent and witty. Often deliriously dark. Sometimes sly.

Not your ordinary garden variety diary, Isidore had said, and this was certainly true. The voice in these pages belonged to a complex woman.

Though much of what she wrote had a spiritual dimension to it, the author of the diary clearly did not deny herself the pleasures of the flesh. She possessed a mind aggressively sensual. The pages were studded with sexual encounters: the men, always referred to by their initials only, were usually spoken of fondly, but ultimately dismissively, warranting only a few words. In the diary's pages her male partners were reduced to alphabet soup. It was the act of love itself that she celebrated.

The Egyptians believed love to reside in the brain, not the heart. But I believe love should be vehement, physical, blotting out rational thought. Bathing in his maleness: his smell, his touch, his exquisite violence. The next morning a bruised body, a disheveled bed. And that searing sense that life is joy and passion.

Another entry:

Why is it that women find men's hands so attractive? Is it the strength implicit in the powerful fingers and wrists, or just because of the role hands play in the making of love? Hands, which may caress, tease, grip in ecstasy. Smoothing the hair from my face, opening my mouth, quietening me.

He knew he should feel guilty: these sentences were not meant for his eyes. He told himself he had no choice-it was a necessary step in his investigation into Robert Whittington's death-but he knew there was more to it.

And it wasn't just the surreptitious thrill of being a voyeur, a Peeping Tom. It went deeper. The more he read, the more captivated he became by the person behind the words.

She usually entered her thoughts into the computer late in the evening. Writing in her diary was possibly the last thing she did before going to bed. Gabriel pictured her, already dressed for sleep: feet bare, her face innocent of makeup, her brow slightly furrowed as she tapped the keys, hesitating over this word or that. He saw where she sat at the long living room table in the uncertain light of a lamp, her hands resting lightly on the keyboard, her face turned away from him. He had a glimpse of the outline of her figure underneath the wispy nightdress, saw the shadow hugging her feet. And then she looked his way, and immediately her features dissolved and he was unable to even see the color of her eyes.

Minnaloushe? Or Morrighan?

The raw sensuality, which burned up many of the sentences like brush fire, reminded him of Minnaloushe. But that wing-brush of darkness-the relentless pursuit of risk-was pure Morrighan.

Risk leaves our senses quivering. Danger is erotic. We are most aware when we find ourselves in the shadow of death.

Was it possible to fall in love with a voice in a diary?

The woman speaking from these pages was irresistible. He couldn't get enough of her. He read the diary, and it was like watching a beautiful dancer strip off her clothes. Like the sultan and Scheherazade, he thought, self-mocking. Getting turned on by the power of words. A power far more subtle than a pretty face.

She was keeping him spellbound.

Bewitched.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"You're obsessed."

Gabriel turned his head to look at his friend. They were in their van, a block away from Pittypats's offices. But before they could get to work with their Pringle can, they needed a place to park. Gabriel sometimes thought the most challenging part of their job was simply finding suitable parking space.

"You've fallen in love with the woman in the diary. You're smitten, Gabe. Admit it."

"The lady has an appealing voice."

"You do realize that this appealing voice might belong to a woman who drowned someone? A murderer?"

"No way." Gabriel shook his head. "No way."

"You don't know that," Isidore warned. He glanced over at Gabriel before changing the gears noisily. Isidore was not the most accomplished of drivers. "And if she didn't kill him," he continued, "the diary makes it clear that she was-at the very least-engaged in playing this weird game with Whittington, whatever it was. She and her sister both."

"There's nothing to indicate that the game led to his death."

"There's nothing to indicate it didn't." Isidore was impatient. "For God's sake, she talks about walking through that creepy house of many doors-how weird is that?"

"So?"

"Don't you get it? By her own admission, it puts her in the same location as the woman who drowned Robbie Whittington."

Gabriel was silent. Isidore had put his finger on the one aspect of the diary that distressed him. There was no doubt that the writer of the diary was familiar with the house of a million doors. The house in which Robert Whittington had encountered the woman responsible for his death. And the house was not just familiar to her, she walked through it regularly. The journey continues. Every day I climb the unfathomable staircases, walk down the tilting corridors, cross the treacherous drawbridges and open deceiving doors.

Deceiving doors. Not a bad description, if a little understated. Behind one of those doors lay screaming madness.

He looked out the window of the van. "She's not a murderer, Isidore. I know it."

"You're kidding yourself, my friend. But even if she didn't kill him, she probably helped her sister cover it up."

"I think she doesn't know her sister has killed. Sisters don't share everything, you know. Especially not murder."

"You're rationalizing." Isidore put his foot on the gas a little too emphatically and the van jerked into motion again. "You're infatuated."

Yes, Gabriel thought silently. I am. I am infatuated with a woman who has glowing poppies growing in her heart. With a woman who wrote a poem-in rhymed stanzas, no less-to her big toe. "Ode to Lord Magnipus." How can you not love a woman who names her toes and writes poems in their honor?

He suddenly noticed a free delivery bay right outside the squat sixties building opposite Pittypats. Miracles never cease. He tapped Isidore's arm.

"Well spotted." Isidore turned into the bay with alacrity. "Although the chances that we'll be chased by the building's security guards are pretty high."

"So let's get cracking, then."

As Isidore reached behind his seat to extract their goody bag, he said complainingly, "Man, I'm not up for this today. To think I could be in Hawaii right now."

"Chin up. Whistle while you work, that's my motto."

"Hi ho. Hi ho."

"Most men lead lives of quiet desperation."

"No shit. I take it you're not the author of those immortal words?"

"No. Thoreau. But I can be almost as poetic. How about: Life sucks?"

"Works for me." Isidore dragged the bag onto his lap. "By the way, I think we should call it a day on the LEVELEX job. That place is Fort Knox, man. Let's cut our losses."

Gabriel shook his head. He was still grooming Mr. Ariel Scott, and he and the yoga teacher had shared another pot of green tea only yesterday. It was just a matter of time before he'd be able to get some workable info off the man. Isidore knew nothing of this, of course.

"Let's hang in there awhile longer."

"OK. You're the boss." Isidore tapped the digits into the key lock of the bag. "To get back to the sisters-when are you meeting up with the girls again? It's been a week since the dinner party. You still need to retrieve the keylogger from their computer. It's going to be difficult if they don't invite you back."

"Don't worry on that score."

"I hope you're right. I need to give that logger back to my friend. It's just on loan, remember. And even though he's a buddy, this guy can get seriously aggressive when he's pissed."

"Isidore, relax. It's a sure thing."

"How do you know?"

"I've been reading the diary. And it tells me they have not forgotten about me. I expect to hear from them any day now." On the other side of the big plate-glass windows fronting the lobby, Gabriel could see a capped security man sharing a desk with the company's receptionist. The man seemed to be looking in their direction.

"OK." Gabriel pulled the bag toward him and rolled down the window. "Focus. We need to get to work before they send Fido over there to check us out."

"Yeah. Yeah. But you're sure they'll invite you back?"

"Believe me. It'll happen."

And he was right. The next morning, when he logged onto the diary, Gabriel felt his pulse quicken.

# # #

Entry Date: 20 July

M things it's time to contact G. I can't agree more.

When I think of him, I feel my entire body turning on. Moist palms, crackling neurons, electric storms in every cell.

Watch it, girl! M will not be amused. And she's right. G has not entered our life as a romantic interest. He will walk another path.

And we will need to take it slow, this time. R signed up for the game. G did not. He will have to be seduced into playing.

And then we can give G his name…

So no rushing things. The approach will need to be far more circumspect. A leisurely dance. A courtship.

He was still staring at the screen when, as if on cue, the doorbell rang.

It was a courier with a letter. The handwriting on the envelope was feminine but strong: delicate connecting strokes but luscious loops to the g's and l's. Inside was a sheet of delightfully scented rice paper folded in half. The message was short but sweet: Two ladies in need of a dashing escort. May we prevail upon your sense of gallantry? Ticket enclosed. Dress glam.

A buff-colored ticket was attached to the note with a paper clip. A grand tier seat for the premiere of Romeo and Juliet at Covent Garden.

The courtship had begun.