The Book of Lost Fragrances

Twelve

NEW YORK CITY

MONDAY, MAY 23, 2:00 P.M.

Malachai wanted to hurry, but walking fast might draw too much attention. If it had been raining, he’d have had an excuse. But it was a warm day, and most of the strollers in Central Park were taking their time: walking dogs, pushing baby carriages, or just admiring the blooming apple and cherry trees. The lush pink and white blossoms perfumed the air. If not for Jac L’Etoile, Malachai wasn’t sure he would have noticed. Until two weeks ago, he rarely thought about scent. Now he was preoccupied with it.

West of the Dairy, Malachai entered the Chess and Checkers House. It was cooler inside the red- and white-brick building, and he smelled a fruity pipe tobacco that wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Two men were playing at the first table on the right. To their left was a clean-cut man in his midthirties wearing chinos and a blue button-down shirt. On his table, along with the chess pieces, were the pipe, unlit, and an open book. As he approached, Malachai saw illustrations of chessboards on its pages.

“Finally studying Petrov’s Immortal?” Malachai asked.

Reed Winston looked up. “Very imaginative game, you’re right.” Almost good-looking, he had a square jaw and strong features, but his eyes were too small and he showed too much gum when he smiled-which he did too often. Especially when he was delivering less than good news.

“Perhaps one of the most imaginative ever played. And exciting.”

“Should I reset the board?” Winston asked.

“No, I don’t have enough time for a game. I was delayed at the office and do apologize. But I have time for coffee. Would you join me?”

While Winston picked up the ivory pieces and returned them to the chess box, Malachai engaged him in a conversation about the famous 1844 game between Russian chess master Alexander Dmitrievich Petrov and F. Alexander Hoffmann. They were still talking chess as they left the building. Only when they were out on the open path did Malachai broach the subject that was the reason for the clandestine meeting.

Malachai had his office swept for bugs every week. But there was little he could do about directional mikes, which the FBI had used on him and the foundation in the past. Over the last few years, Malachai had been questioned about several robberies. Even taken into custody. Although never formally charged with any wrongdoing, he was always one of the FBI’s prime suspects in any crime involving memory tools. And even though there was no overt sign or obvious reason for the bureau to be currently paying attention, he preferred to conduct certain conversations outdoors.

“What kind of connections do you have in Paris?” Malachai asked.

“Good connections.”

A toddler broke free from his mother’s hand and stepped out in front of the two men. In seconds his mother was on top of him, apologizing for getting in their way.

Malachai smiled at her and told her not to worry. He didn’t respond to Winston until they were out of the woman’s earshot.

“I would prefer excellent connections.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“This time I’ll need some guarantees.”

While he didn’t take part in criminal activity himself, Malachai had found himself on the wrong side of the law several times in the last few years. He wasn’t the only one pursuing the fabled memory tools, and more than once he’d had no choice but to engage people to do some rather dirty work for him. Unfortunately, none of those efforts had proved successful.

“We’ve had too many accidents, Winston. Missed far too many prime opportunities. If anything untoward happens this time, you can be sure we won’t be working together in the future.”

“We had a terrific team-”

Malachai put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. To anyone watching, they appeared to be father and son or uncle and nephew. “I’m not asking you to defend your work. Just giving you some advice. All right?”

“Yes, fine,” Winston said. This time without one of his trademark smiles.

“Pictures of the object will be delivered to your abode tomorrow along with a name and an address.”

“‘Abode.’ Ha. If you saw my apartment, that’s the last thing you’d call it.”

They had reached a wisteria arbor. About ten feet long, it was overburdened with green, leafy vines and lush, lavender blossoms. As beautiful as the foundation’s Tiffany stained-glass windows of wisteria were, the actual flowers were far lovelier. Malachai lifted his head toward the low-hanging flowers and breathed in the scent. He didn’t recall ever smelling it before. In his recent reading, he’d learned there are flowers whose scents can’t be extracted. Chemists reproduced the scents with synthetics that came close but rarely matched nature’s handiwork. When he got back to his office, he was going to call Jac and find out if wisteria was one of those.

“Have you ever smelled wisteria?” Malachai asked Winston.

“Smelled it? Not that I’m aware of.” He looked confused, then sniffed the air. “You know…” He inhaled again. “I think I have smelled it before. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house; this must have been that big vine that grew along the front porch.”

“Scents stir the memory. You can stumble on one fragrance and suddenly remember an entire day of your childhood-and it will be as real and as vivid as if it happened just hours before.” Malachai didn’t usually digress. “It’s a subject I’ve been studying.”

“Because it has to do with what you want me to find?”

“Yes.”

“And when I find it, you want it taken?”

“No. We’re just watching for the moment. Not touching.”

The ex-Interpol agent arched his eyebrows. “That’s what you want me to organize?”

“Yes. We are going to go slower and be more careful this time. I can’t afford another misstep. And the people involved are friends of mine.”

“Play it safe?”

Malachai nodded. Any memory tools that had survived this long could be anywhere. He knew it. And the FBI knew it. The objects could be hidden in plain sight, buried in a ruin, on display in a museum, or sitting in an antique store or in some grandmother’s curio cabinet. To date the search had taken years and cost a fortune. Not just in money, but in lives. It was anyone’s guess how much longer it might take. All Malachai wanted was one tool: intact and functional. That’s all.

Except that was like saying “all” you wanted was to pull down a star from the heavens.

So far finding a tool had proved an impossible dream. But Malachai couldn’t let go. He had devoted his life to the study of reincarnation and had grand plans to reorient human belief in past, present and future lives. He wanted to give the gift of hope to the world.

But that wasn’t his only motivation. Or the reason he was in a hurry. His father was still extremely healthy for an octogenarian, but how many more years would he remain compos mentis? Malachai had to find out about his own past lives soon. If what he guessed was true, he wanted to shove it in the old man’s face. He wanted to hear his father’s reaction and savor his father’s pain when he realized what he’d thrown aside so casually.

Three times he had come close to owning a tool. Three times he had failed. There couldn’t be a fourth.

“We’ve been walking for too long,” he observed to Winston. “But before I go, I think I’d like you to get a beat on Agent Lucian Glass. Make sure he’s not paying any attention to me, can you? If we get any indication he is, I’m going to want to rethink our strategy.”

And then without saying good-bye or giving the ex-agent any indication he was leaving, Malachai turned around and proceeded to walk back around the lake in the direction he had come. He stopped only once, under the wisteria pergola, to inhale yet again the purple blossoms’ sweet fragrance.