The Einstein Prophecy

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“I was hoping I’d never see you again,” Police Chief Farrell said from the top of the stairs.

“Nice to see you, too,” Lucas said as a uniformed cop standing sentinel stepped aside to let him pass. The last time he’d climbed these stairs, it had been dark out, but even at this time of day, they were dim.

Farrell was holding a cardboard cup of coffee in one hand, and with the other pushed the door to Andy Brandt’s apartment open wide. “You must have friends in high places,” he said as Lucas edged past him and into the room.

Someone whose back was turned was seated at the makeshift desk, his fingers rapidly combing through a blizzard of papers, including, as Lucas could see, a corner of the blue folder that had belonged to Simone’s father.

Lucas wasn’t surprised at all by the quick action. A call to Colonel Macmillan, with the suggestion that the still missing Andy Brandt had been engaging in espionage, was bound to kick-start the local authorities. Lucas had found a summons to the Harrison Street apartments waiting in his university mailbox.

“So, you worked with this guy Brandt?” Chief Farrell asked him now.

“Not much. He was in another department — but, yes, I knew him.”

“He sure as hell knew you,” Farrell said, and when Lucas asked him what he meant by that, the man at the desk turned around in his chair and said, “A picture’s worth a thousand words.”

To his astonishment, Lucas recognized his fellow boarder, Taylor. The factory worker, or so he’d said.

“Take a gander at these,” Taylor said, holding out a batch of photos.

In the pile were at least a dozen shots, all snapped surreptitiously: Lucas, walking on Nassau Street with Delaney or standing in a museum gallery surrounded by students or smoking on the front steps of Mrs. Caputo’s house. In one, he was in the lobby of Guyot Hall, where Andy’s lab had been, contemplating the Caithness Man.

“Oh, and he’s got a few of your girlfriend, too,” Taylor said as Lucas looked up from the photos, dumbstruck. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

“Okay,” Lucas said. “First of all, what are you doing here?”

Taylor reached into the breast pocket of his Windbreaker, removed his wallet, and held it open. Under the plastic sleeve was an FBI identification card.

“Now you can answer a question for me,” Taylor said. “Why was Brandt taking pictures of you? Did he have a crush on you or what?”

Lucas wondered if this was some kind of trap. Was it possible that the FBI didn’t know what the OSS was up to? He didn’t dare say anything that might foul him up any further with Macmillan. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“I would if I could. Everybody wants him, but nobody can find him.”

Taking the photos back and tossing them on the desk, Taylor leaned back in the chair, reappraising him. “Well then, maybe this will be more up your alley, Professor — if it isn’t too much trouble, maybe you could tell me what all of this stuff is about?”

He opened the blue folder and spread some of the papers out on the table. Lucas saw Arabic writing, and illustrations of hieroglyphs and Christian iconography. “For starters, who’s this guy?” Taylor said, picking out a dog-eared antique print. “He shows up in a bunch of these.”

Lucas studied the print. It depicted a bearded man in a long robe, swinging a crooked-handled staff at a cringing devil with stubby horns. “That’s Saint Anthony.”

“The patron saint of travelers?”

“No, that’s the Saint Anthony of Padua. This is an earlier one — Saint Anthony of Egypt.” Recalling everything Simone had since filled him in on, he added, “He was a hermit who lived in the desert and, according to Scripture, wrestled with demons who tried to get him to succumb to worldly temptation and renounce God.”

“Did he win the wrestling match?”

“Legend has it that he did.”

“Just in case I ever need to know,” Taylor said, bemused, “how the hell do you beat a demon?”

“See that staff, with the odd handle?” Lucas said, trying to recall what Simone had once told him. “He raised it to the sky and the Lord sent His power through it.”

“Huh. I’ll have to remember to put in a requisition slip for one of those.” He took the print back and tossed it on top of the others. “Why would a spy, if that’s what we’re talking about here, take any interest in crap like this?”

Why indeed, Lucas thought, unless he had received explicit orders to do so. Those orders could only have come all the way from Berlin, from the highest levels of the Third Reich. How much did the Germans really know about the ossuary? The ossuary had never made it to the capital, much less to Hitler’s private retreat.

“First, you can answer a question for me,” Lucas said, in an attempt to redirect the conversation. “Why have you been keeping me under surveillance?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you going to tell me that it’s just a coincidence that you live in the same boardinghouse that I do? That you’ve lied to me about who you are, and what you’re doing in Princeton? And how about turning up a few rows away from me at the football game — another coincidence?”

Taylor paused, then said, “Chief, could you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

Farrell stepped outside reluctantly, and closed the door.

“For starters,” Taylor said, “in case you forgot, I was boarding in that house before you were.”

“But you must have known I was moving back there.”

“And second, you’ve got an inflated opinion of yourself.”

Lucas waited.

“You’re not the reason I’m living there, you’re not the reason I’m in Jersey, and you’re not the reason I was sitting in the stands.”

“Then why?”

Taylor shook his head and said, “For an Ivy League professor, you can be awfully slow.”

Lucas still hadn’t grasped what he was getting at.

“Ask yourself. Who else lives on Mercer?”

And then Lucas thought of the view from Taylor’s front window… and how his light went on or off in keeping with what was happening directly across the street… and of his proximity to someone else at the stadium that day.

“You’re keeping watch over Einstein?”

The agent didn’t answer.

“You’re his secret bodyguard?”

“Something like that.”

So many things were falling into place.

“Do I need to tell you that that’s highly classified information?” Taylor said.

“No.” But then why had he divulged it?

“And that you’re in a position to do your country a great service?”

Ah, here it comes, Lucas thought. “What service is that?”

“Ever since that incident at the stadium, you and Dr. Einstein have become acquainted.”

“Barely.”

“It would really help us out if you could tell us what you talk about.”

“What we talk about? I’ve met with him once. You really think we discussed the theory of relativity?”

“No. I don’t. But does he ever say anything about, say, the war?”

“He says he hopes we win very soon.”

“What’s he say about our allies?”

“Our allies?”

“Yeah, you may have heard of them. England. France. Russia.”

The penny dropped. For years, Einstein had been accused by some newspapers and radio commentators of being soft on the Soviets and Communism. Now Lucas knew what Taylor was fishing for, and what he was being asked to do. “You really want to know what we talked about? We talked about the Battle of Monte Cassino.”

“Why that one in particular?”

“Because I’m an art history professor, and the destruction of the monastery was a tragic loss to the art world.”

“Anything else happen?”

“Yes.”

Taylor looked hopeful.

“He bummed a cigarette. It’s against his doctor’s orders.” The letter he’d seen from President Roosevelt, hinting at Nazi progress on some dangerous scheme, he decided to keep to himself. There was one thing, however, that Lucas wanted before he left.

“But I’ll tell you what I can do. I might be able to help you out with those papers,” he said, casually gesturing at the contents of the blue folder. “If there’s anything important in them, I can let you know.”

Taylor seemed to mull the offer over from every angle before saying, “Okay,” and handing them over. “They’re sure as hell unintelligible to me.”

On his way out, Taylor warned him not to leave town without notice, and the police chief chimed in. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Good, I could use a spare.”

The cop at the bottom of the stairs laughed, then stopped when Farrell glared at him.