The Hypnotist

THREE

The lanky man ambled down the narrow Viennese street with the lazy insouciance of someone who never worried and who’d never been weighed down with tragedy or illness. He walked as if the stone pavers beneath his feet had been laid for him; as if the sun were shining and it were morning. But it was night and it was windy and wet, with the kind of cold, pelting rain that one expects in April, not May.

He’d been in this city for only six days but had seen enough to dislike it. Vienna felt tired to him, as if the weight of its secrets burdened its people with a heaviness they couldn’t shrug off and was too much for them to bear.

Or maybe he didn’t like it because he’d failed here.

He’d come to arrest Dr. Malachai Samuels for stealing ancient stones from an archaeological dig in Rome the year before. Samuels, a preeminent past-life therapist and amateur magician, had made all the evidence disappear, and to date neither Interpol nor the FBI had been able to connect him to the crime. But instead of taking the reincarnationist into custody, the agent had been involved in a bizarre incident at the Musikverein. Along with almost a thousand other people, he’d experienced a hallucination while listening to a performance of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony. To date, none of the investigators had offered a satisfactory explanation of what had occurred. Music could excite you or lull you into a state of extreme relaxation-but catapult you into a hyperreal fantasy of another time and place? Of another life lived and lost?

The press, both here and abroad, was still reporting the rumors that the occurrence was the result of a sonic anomaly that had caused a mass hypnotic past-life regression. Because he was a rationalist, the agent hoped the authorities testing the air in the music hall would discover there’d been a chemical attack. He preferred a black-and-white explanation and refused to accept that what he’d experienced during the concert was a memory of an earlier existence. Clearly his subconscious had manufactured a story in which people from the present played roles in an imagined past. There were hundreds of painkillers that caused delirium and delusions; his doctors had prescribed several of them for him when he was younger. Under the influence of narcotics, anything was possible.

A middle-aged man, carrying a string bag in one hand and a maroon umbrella in the other, hurried past, giving the agent only a cursory glance. Good. Everything about his demeanor and wardrobe was designed to disguise his involvement with law enforcement. The black shirt, jeans and leather jacket, the hair that fell over his collar-it was basically how he’d looked in college. The clothes just cost more now.

Stopping at number 122, an artless building identified as the Toller Archäologiegesellschaft-the Toller Archaeology Society-he rang the bell. Seconds later he was buzzed into a lobby where a middle-aged woman, wearing a wrinkled and shapeless navy dress, waited for him. Dr. Erika Alderman greeted him solemnly, then opened a second door that would have been invisible from the street and ushered him deeper inside the building.

He’d met the doctor yesterday at the funeral for the man Malachai had traveled to Vienna to visit. Her grief had been palpable and the agent had refrained from asking her about the events of the past few days. It wasn’t the right time or place. Besides, was there really anything left to discover? Malachai had been watched from the minute he’d arrived in Vienna, and although he’d visited here three times, there was no indication he’d had anything to do with his colleague’s death. So the agent was surprised when, after the ceremony, Dr. Alderman had approached him and, in a hoarse whisper that sounded as if she’d been crying too hard for too long, requested that he come by before he left for America. She had something to show him.

As he followed her through the archway, under the carved letters on the frieze that revealed the brotherhood’s true designation, the change from ordinary exterior to extravagant interior was drastic. Leading him into the inner sanctum, she offered up some background. “The Memorist Society was secretly founded in 1809 to study the work of Austrian Orientalist Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall, one of the men responsible for the greatest dissemination of Eastern knowledge in late-eighteenth-century Europe. Did you know that already?”

“I came across some information about the society in preparation for this trip, but I’m hardly an expert.”

“When we met you said you worked for the FBI, but you didn’t say you worked with art crimes.”

“No, I didn’t.” He wasn’t surprised she knew. His name and job description had appeared in far too many articles about the incident at the music hall. There were only eleven FBI agents in the Art Crime Team-ACT-and they made every effort to stay out of the press both overtly and in their covert identities. A photo of one of them could blow a persona that had taken years to cultivate.

“Can you tell me about your unit?”

“We investigate the theft of objects from museums and residences, auction fraud and consignment fraud between galleries or dealers. We also help out with international requests to find works stolen abroad or artifacts looted from archaeological sites.”

“Which one of those brought you to Vienna?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

She nodded and went back to describing the architecture. “This is all original-the building and the decor. We’ve done some restoration, of course, but everything is as it was.”

They passed columns that stood like sentries and an Egyptian mural that covered an entire wall. Beneath their feet was a gemtoned carpet and above their heads was a cupola painted the cobalt of a night sky where stars-tiny mirrors that caught and reflected light from below-twinkled. Every corner was crammed with too many gleaming objects and artifacts for him to take them all in.

Alderman didn’t stop to introduce him to any of the society’s members, but he was aware that they were looking at him curiously, even suspiciously, and he pressed his upper arm against the gun in his shoulder holster. His talisman. Long ago he had given up looking for reassurance from the people in his life and had come to rely only on this inanimate object.

“Of specific interest to the society’s founders,” Alderman continued, “was reincarnation-a belief common to the newly discovered Hindu Shruti scriptures, teachings of the Kabbalah, mystery schools of ancient Egypt, Greek philosophers and Christian doctrine prior to the fifth century ACE. And this is our library,” she said as she reached the threshold, her timing perfect.

This room was smaller than the public spaces and, like them, was windowless. Wall sconces illuminated four walls of bookshelves crammed with volumes that gave off a slightly musty scent.

Shutting the door behind her, Dr. Alderman locked it with a key hanging from a gold chain around her neck. The tumblers clicked efficiently. When she tried the knob to make sure it was secured, he wondered if her paranoia was justified or an over-reaction to recent events.

“Have a seat, please,” she said, gesturing to a grouping of worn leather club chairs. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water would be fine.”

The bar was ornately carved and well stocked with crystal decanters and heavy glasses that gleamed in the room’s soft lights. She filled a tall glass with water and then poured herself an inch of amber liquid. “I’d like to thank you for seeing me so late in the day,” Alderman said as she sat down opposite him. “I’ve just taken over as the head of the society, and there’s a lot to deal with rather quickly.”

He nodded and waited for her to continue, choosing not to tell her yet that he wanted to talk to her, too.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one, and then offered them to him. So many people in Vienna smoked it had made him rethink his abstinence. “I quit, but allow me…” he said as he reached into his pocket.

She lit her cigarette from the steady orange flame he offered. “If you quit, why carry the lighter?”

“To prove I’m the one in control of the habit, not the other way around.”

She smiled.

“So, how can I help you, Doctor?” he asked.

“Is it true the US is the world’s largest bazaar for stolen art?”

“One of them, yes.”

The combination of a largely unregulated marketplace, so many buyers anxious for a deal and so many unscrupulous sellers had created a four- to six-billion-dollar global industry that now fueled everything from terrorism to drug running.

“Since the 9/11 terrorist attacks, art crime has become the third largest worldwide crime, following the drug trade and illicit arms deals,” he told her. “Dealers, collectors and academics who are less than stringent are, in effect, helping the terrorists now. At ACT we try as best we can to alert everyone, but…”

He hadn’t meant to lecture her, but it was precisely because people didn’t recognize the link between the removal and transport of cultural objects and the funding of terrorism that the crimes continued to increase at such alarming rates.

Raising awareness would help, but the last important article on the subject had been a 2006 op-ed in the New York Times written by Matthew Bogdanos, a colonel in the marine reserves who described how, during an Iraqi raid on terrorists in underground bunkers, marines had found automatic weapons, stockpiles of ammunition, ski masks, night-vision goggles and a cache of precious artifacts including vases, seals and statues. In the past ten years the trail of terrorists had led more and more to looted artwork. Antiquities were as valuable as drugs and often easier to transport and trade.

“You have a reputation for being very successful at recovery,” Dr. Alderman said as she put out her cigarette. “One of the most successful.” She stopped and sipped her drink as if she needed fortification. “That’s why I would like to hire you.”

“Thank you. But I’m already employed.”

“I am well aware of that. I’m not proposing to you that you quit your job. It is in fact precisely because of your FBI affiliation, as well as how closely you work with Interpol, that I am making this proposition.”

“I appreciate that, but I don’t freelance, either.”

“Perhaps, then, our needs will overlap and by doing your job you’ll be able to help me do mine?”

“A much more likely scenario.”

She leaned forward and spoke sotto voce. “An ancient copper booklet that dates back to approximately 2000 BCE has been in the society’s possession for hundreds of years.”

He saw she was searching his face for a reaction. Not finding one, she continued. “Recently our historian came to believe it was a list of deep meditation aids that could help people access past-life memories.”

“Do you mean a list of Memory Tools?” He kept all intonation out of his voice and fought the urge to push her. The Malachai Samuels case he’d been working on for the past eighteen months, which had cost the bureau hundreds of thousands of dollars and had brought him to Vienna, centered on a cache of precious stones thought to be Memory Tools.

“Yes, we believe so. No one had ever been able to figure out what language it was written in or translate it until two years ago when our historian read an article about an archaeologist named Harshul Parva, who’d found the key to Harappan, a language used in the Indus Valley. Apparently, despite a large cache of writing samples from the Harappa mature period, which lasted from 2600 BCE to 1900 BCE, there’d never been any developments in breaking the language.”

“Did Parva translate the list?”

“No, our historian wouldn’t let anyone else see it. But he did get help from Parva.”

“Was the list translated properly?”

“I don’t know.” Alderman paused to take another drink. “But let’s assume it was. If you knew what was on the list and one of those items came on the market, you’d be in a position to identify it and let us know it had surfaced, yes?”

“Are you in possession of the list?”

Again he watched Alderman search his face, trying to gauge his interest. It was part of an agent’s training to learn how to hide emotions, but the last woman he’d lived with complained he’d learned too well. Gilly had told him once that all she ever saw reflected in his eyes were the room’s lights. You’ve got a cat’s unblinking gaze, she’d said. Not a real cat, though: a small jade animal I once saw in a museum. Cold, precise, perfect-but a facsimile. Her comment had stung because he feared it was the truth.

“Last night, after the funeral, I discovered that the booklet is missing from the vault,” Alderman said. “I’m hoping our historian secreted it away someplace even more secure and we’ll find it.”

“In case it’s been stolen, I’d like a detailed description so I can log it in with Interpol if you haven’t already reported it missing.”

She nodded. “I have the translation of the list, though. That wasn’t in the vault. Would you like to see it?” While Alderman opened her leather agenda, the library took on the immutable silence of a tomb. Pulling out a single sheet of paper, she put it on the table between them and then rested her right hand on top of it as if she were keeping it from blowing away even though the room was windowless.

“I never believed Memory Tools existed, even after a colleague of mine in New York, a well-respected reincarnationist, claimed to have found one of them,” she said. “But I do now and am prepared to offer you anything you want to help us find these.”

“Have you shown this to anyone?” Like the reincarnationist from New York you just mentioned, he wanted to ask but didn’t.

“No one. I’m fairly certain the only other living person who knows there even is a list is in jail and will be for a long time.”

“Dr. Alderman, if the tools listed here belonged to the society and have been stolen, both the FBI and Interpol need to know about it.”

“They haven’t been stolen because, as far as I know, they haven’t been found. At least, most of them haven’t.”

The list could be critically important to his investigation, he thought. It could mean the difference between going back to New York having failed and succeeding. His fingers inched forward. “May I see that?”

It was ordinary typewriter paper. Each item was numbered and handwritten in both English and German in blue ink. He started to read down.

Pot of fragrant wax

Colored orb

Reflection sphere

Bone flute

He never finished because of two things that happened so close together he couldn’t distinguish which came first: a slight gust of wind blew into the room and the doctor gasped. Instinctively, he let the paper fall as he reached for his gun, but just as his fingers touched the comforting metal something came down hard on the back of his head.

The pain was instantaneous and intense. Sharp, jagged and overwhelming. He was seeing darkness and then titanium-white brightness, and even as he fought to breathe through the pain, he wondered how someone could have gotten into the room, because he’d seen Dr. Alderman lock the door from the inside.

The second blow came almost immediately. He’d suffered pain like this a long time ago, and that was what he was remembering when the third strike hit. From far away he heard moaning but didn’t realize it was coming from his own lips. Before he lost consciousness, Special Agent Lucian Glass was thinking that he didn’t really care very much if he died-as long as this time he stayed dead.