The Snake Stone

122

Millingen placed the coin on the desk with a loud click.

Their eyes met.

“Lefevre is dead,” Millingen said. He was watching Yashim now, trying to gauge the effect of his words.

Yashim nodded slowly. “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Lefevre, dead.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, Dr. Millingen.” Yashim frowned impatiently. “It’s a question of identity, that’s all. He told me that himself.”

“He told you-what?” Millingen’s tone was scornful.

“Byzantium. Constantinople. Istanbul. They’re all real names. All real places. Lefevre was fascinated by them, too: three identities, woven into one-just like the snakes in the column, on the Hippodrome. They are all the same place, of course. Just as Meyer and Lefevre are the same man.”

Millingen made a gesture of impatience. “I don’t go in for metaphysics, efendi. I’m a doctor-and I know a dead man when I see one, too.”

“That body, in the embassy,” Yashim said mildly, “was certainly dead. It just wasn’t who we thought. It wasn’t Lefevre at all.” He cocked his head. “Who was it, Dr. Millingen? I’m very curious. Was it a corpse you procured for the occasion? Or just a hapless bag-carrier, in the wrong place, at the wrong time?”

Millingen began to tap his finger on the coin.

“Well, it’s not the most important thing now,” Yashim said peaceably. “You were happy to let the world believe that Lefevre was dead.” He looked up and smiled. “You thought the Mavrogordatos would be satisfied, I suppose. Is that what he hoped, too?”

Millingen bent his head and frowned at a corner of his desk, but he did not open his mouth.

“But he couldn’t count on your help, could he? Not after Missilonghi. So he did the trade: his life for the relics. The last, lost treasure of Byzantium, spirited away by a priest at the altar as the Ottomans invaded the Great Church. A chalice and plate-if they still existed. And the collector in you couldn’t turn him down.”

Dr. Millingen leaned his elbow on the desk and shaded his eyes.

“Some people think,” he said slowly, and there was a tremble in his voice, “that it was the Holy Grail.”

Yashim looked at him in silence. “You’ve kept him hidden,” he said at last. “In the port, perhaps.”

Millingen heaved his shoulders, shrugging.

Yashim frowned. “He hid the book at my apartment. There’s not much trust between you, is there?”

Millingen gave a scornful bark. “Only a fool would trust a man like Meyer,” he said.

“Amelie did.” Even as he spoke, Yashim remembered the three snakes. The three cities. Meyer. Lefevre. And a dead man.

But Lefevre was not dead. He was still alive. He had one identity that was not fulfilled. One skin he hadn’t cast.

“You both needed someone to carry out the plan.”

“That was his idea,” Millingen said, dragging his palms down the side of his face. “He wouldn’t trust me. And I couldn’t let him go. He left the book with you, and sent for his wife.”

Yashim bent forward and leaned his palms on the edge of Millingen’s desk.

“What was your deal, Dr. Millingen? Why is Amelie going home alone?” His legs felt weak. “Because she failed?”

Millingen nodded gently. “I’m afraid, Yashim efendi, that Dr. Lefevre has died, after all.” His voice sounded ragged and old.

Yashim flushed with sudden anger. “I don’t think so, Dr. Millingen. This time he can’t run away from who he is. Madame Lefevre has something else to sell.”

He knelt on the ground and unlaced the bag.

Millingen leaned forward. Yashim brought up something wrapped in a cloth and laid it on the far side of the desk. It was about two feet long, and it sounded heavy.

Yashim put a hand on top of the object. “I hope you understand me, Dr. Millingen. Madame Lefevre risked her life. I don’t think she should have to go away alone.”

Millingen’s eyes were like gimlets.

Yashim flicked the cloth open.

Millingen started back, as if he’d been stung. He glanced up into Yashim’s face, then back into the deep-set eyes and the cold frown.

“The Serpent of Delphi,” he said. “I don’t-where did you get this?”

“I can’t say where,” Yashim said. “But I’ll tell you why. Madame Mavrogordato never tried to kill Lefevre.”

“But that’s not true! Her people simply got the wrong man, as you say, and-”

“No, Dr. Millingen,” Yashim said softly. “That’s your mistake. Madame Mavrogordato never quite found out who, exactly, Lefevre was. She suspected, but she wasn’t sure.”

Millingen frowned. “Then who was trying to kill him?”

“Let’s just say he trod on a serpent’s tail,” Yashim said, “and it bit back.”

Millingen threw up his hands.

Yashim looked at the snake’s head.

“I am giving you this for two passages on the Ulysse, to France.” He blinked. “Dr. Lefevre goes home, with his wife.”