Peter stumbled out of Heathrow Airport into a soggy London evening. He wore the grime and exhaustion of thirty-six hours' travel. There had been a long layover in Amsterdam, but the passport belonging to Corbett Christensen, Anna's soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, had done its job. British border agents barely glanced at it before waving Peter and his little suitcase along.
Now, he joined the throngs of London-bound people cramming onto the Piccadilly Line, nervously scanning the faces for any that seemed out of place, too quick to turn away, or too slow. Backing into a corner of the crowded car, Peter held the little suitcase to his chest. It crinkled the paper note in his breast pocketâthe secret runic message his father had left for him in the Music Library. He closed his eyes, those strange words still reverberating in his mind. Seh-mee-nah see-nah-pees. Whatever they meant, whatever their purpose, the answers waited at the end of the Piccadilly Lineâat the British Museum.
Exiting at Goodge Street Station, Peter trudged up the steps and found himself on a busy street hemmed in by tall brick buildings. The scents of diesel and cooking grease hung in the cool, damp air. A fine drizzle fell from the halogen sky, blurring the lamplights, softening the din of passing cars.
The hotel was just a few blocks north of the station. Back at Heathrow, Peter had bought a burner phone and called ahead. The hotel was ugly, three stories of black paint and white trim, Georgian maybe. But it was close to the British Museum, and it was cheap. And it accepted cash. Anna's boyfriend, Corbett, would reported his credit card stolen by now.
Anna.
Peter rolled his suitcase across the lobby's worn carpet. The desk was clerked by a pasty young man with intense acne and a distinct aversion to eye contact. He scanned the passport Peter handed him and entered the information into a computer. Then taking Peter's cash deposit, he handed over a key, blanket and bed linens, and a stack of rough towels that might have once been soft and white.
The room was on the third floor at the end of a creaky hallway. Peter opened the door and switched on the light. A barred window overlooked the busy street below. A stained mattress sagged on its metal frame. Mildew grew along cracks in the plaster ceiling. Peter stepped inside and locked the door's handle. There was no deadbolt, no chain. Shutting the curtains, he sat on the edge of the mattress and held the burner phone in his lap.
Anna.
It was not just her health that worried him, but her safety. The layover in Amsterdam had given him plenty of time to see the coward he had been, the fool: a coward for involving Anna in first place, and a fool for letting her push him out the door. By fleeing, Peter had put her in even greater danger, because whoever wanted to find him would certainly return to interrogate her. In his mind, Peter replayed their last conversation a hundred times, picking through her bitter words and flimsy logic until nothing remained but her cold and frightened face. She had been protecting him.
Now Peter lifted the phone. It seemed as heavy as a granite slab. Entering the number for King County Hospital in Seattle, he asked the operator to page Dr. R. K. Brisling. It was the safest way to get news about Anna. Peter might even pass along a message.
As he waited for the doctor to call, he made the bed and washed his face in the sink. Shedding his grimy outer clothes, he slipped under the covers and set his phone on the nightstand, close to his ear. Then he fell asleep.
Gray morning light crept through the curtains. Peter bolted upright and grabbed his phone. No calls. No messages.
Changing into fresh clothes, he brushed his teeth and sat on the edge of the bed. Once more, he called King County Hospital and asked to page Dr. Brisling.
When after ten minutes Dr. Brisling had not called back, Peter took the note his father had left for him in Music Library and unfolded it on his lap.
Vindolanda Tablet III-245
British Museum London
From a pamphlet he had gotten at the airport, Peter called the British Museum's main number. Six selections and two transfers later, he found himself speaking to a woman with a deep and husky voice.
"Adriana Fitzseth, B.E.P.," she said.
Peter introduced himself as Corbett Christensen, a student from the US.
"Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Christensen?"
"I was wondering if you could tell me about the Vindolanda Tablet."
"You mean the Vindolanda Tablets. We've many on display. May I direct you to our Roman Britain collection in the Weston Gallery?"
"I'm looking for one tablet in particular, I think."
"Ah, the birthday invitation to Sulpicia Lepidina? That's a delightful glimpse into the social lives of the Romano-British ruling class."
Peter had no idea what she was talking about. Again, he glanced at his father's note. "Uh . . . it's a Roman numeral, three, followed by two-four-five."
A pause. "Could you please repeat that accession number?"
"Roman numeral three, then two-four-five."
"What did you say your name was?"
"Corbett Christensen."
Another pause. "Well, Mr. Christensen, that does sound like one of our accession numbers, but I'm afraid series number three ends with specimen two hundred and thirteen. There is no specimen two hundred and forty-five. Are you certain of the number?"
"Yeah, I'm sure of it."
"Are you here in London?"
"Yes."
"Then meet me at the lamassu in precisely one hour."
"The what?"
She seemed to laugh at something. "They're twin sculptures from the Neo-Assyrian period. You can't miss them."
"But how will I recognize you?"
"I will be the one who does not look like a bewildered tourist. One hour then."
Peter hurried down Great Russell Street, stealing glances through the high, wrought-iron fence at the British Museum's imposing neoclassical façades and towering white colonnades. Ascending the main steps, he paused at a sculpture, the fragment of an enormous black mask, like wreckage from a fallen god.
The museum's Great Court was a bright and cavernous space beneath a dome of reticulated sea-green glass, supported at its apex by white cylindrical tower. Throngs of people eddied about, their murmuring voices giving the place a strange, hive-like feel.
Grabbing a map of the museum, Peter veered through a colonnade then down a long hallway lined with ancient Egyptian statues and busts. There was some sort of commotion ahead. A clot of tourists had formed a ring around someone convulsing on the floor, a young woman it seemed, maybe a man. It was hard to say. A security guard pushed through the crowd, radio to his mouth.
Peter could not help but think about Anna sitting there on that dingy couch, left hand dead in her lap. Go, she had said. Just go.
He trudged forward, passing through a low doorway to another crowded hallway, the Near East Collection. There, to either side of a high, arched doorway, stood the twin lamassu, massive winged lions with human heads. Twelve feet tall, each had been carved from a solid block of black gypsum-alabaster. According to the display, they once guarded the royal palace of King Ashurnasirpal II at Nimrud, near the city of Mosul in modern Iraq.
Peter checked his phone. No calls. No messages. But it was time to meet Adriana Fitzseth. He turned slowly in a circle, scrutinizing everyone in the crowd, but all he saw were bewildered tourists.
Then a woman's voice called out. "Mr. Christensen. Mr. Christensen?"
It took a moment to realized she referring to him. "Oh, yes."
Adriana Fitzseth was six feet tall, big-boned, and fair-skinned. She had colored her cropped har a shade of auburn that complemented the mint green of her slacks and blazer.
"Come with me," she said, ushering him through an unmarked door. He followed her up a narrow flight of stairs, through another door, and down a hallway of what appeared to be administrative offices.
Hers was cramped and cluttered, but its window afforded a pleasing view of the golden-leaved trees that grew along the museum's back entrance. She closed the door, leveled her green eyes at Peter, and took his right hand in hers.
"Adriana Fitzseth, Curator for Britain, Europe, and Prehistory." Then she slipped her left hand beneath their clasped right hands, as if to receive a bribe. When Peter failed to oblige, she cocked her head, released his hand and asked him to sit in a chair opposite her desk.
"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice," said Peter.
Adriana Fitzseth sat behind her desk. Then she ducked down and began rummaging through a low drawer. "Did you hear the news?"
"What news?"
She popped back up. "Your vice president, of course."
Peter had seen the headlines exiting HeathrowâUS Vice President Albert Stone Dead at Eighty-Fourâbut it hardly seemed to matter, at least not to him.
She sighed and pressed her hands together. "So, what may I do for you, Mr. Christensen?"
"The Vindolanda Tablet. I mentioned it on the phone."
"Right. May I ask why you want to know about it?"
"Honestly, I don't even know what it is."
"Then how did you know to ask for that particular accession number?"
"A professor gave it to me."
"A professor? And what is this professor's name?"
"He's at the University of Washington in Seattle. I doubt you'd know him."
"I'll be the judge of that."
"Alright. His name is Daniel Barchet."
She puckered her lips as if considering the name. "Perhaps you were right." She stood and straightened her blazer. "Well, Mr. Christensen, I'd be happy to ask one of my assistants to show you to the Weston Gallery, where some of the Vindolanda Tablets are displayed."
"Wait." Peter slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, fingers sliding over the crisply folded paper, the secret note from his father.
Adriana Fitzseth leaned forward, her fists firmly planted on the desk. "I believe this would be easier if we each dropped our pretenses."
"Pretenses?"
She smiled and stood upright. "If I were traveling incognito, I would choose a less cumbersome name. They say travel light, don't they?" She sat again and seemed to shrink a little behind her desk. "Corbett Christensen is not your real name, unless I am wholly mistaken. Oh, don't look so surprised." She ducked again to rummage through the drawer. This time she came up with a photograph and handed it to Peter.
It was a copy of the photo his parents used to keep on the refrigerator, Peter in a cap and gown, one arm around his father's narrow shoulders, the other around his mother's waist. "How did you get this?"
"Your father gave it to me."
"You know him?"
"Of course I do. Oh, I suspected it was you all along, from the moment you uttered that accession number. I had only to see you in person to be sure of it. But why the disguise?"
"Tell me how you know him first. And how did you get this picture?"
"He gave it to me, of course."
"He was here?"
"Right where you're sitting."
"What?"
She suddenly gaped. "When I shook your hand, you didn't identify yourself by the usual means. Why not?"
"What are you talking about?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't know, do you? Your father didn't send you here."
"No, he didn't send me. He's dead."
She cupped her hand to her mouth.
"It was a house fire."
She lowered it slowly. "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I had no idea." Her expression of shock soon gave way to one of confusion. "But if he didn't send you, how did you get the accession number for the Vindolanda Tablet?"
Peter pulled out his father's note, unfolded it, and handed it to Adriana. "He left me that, but he never got to explain what it meant."
She studied it intently, nodding slowly to herself. At last, she looked up and handed the note back to Peter. Standing, she went to the door. "Come. Let me show you what your father meant for you to see."
____________________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 15!
All comments welcome.
-Frode
Image: The British Museum, taken from http://www.telegraph.co.uk/british-museum/