One Day in New York Read online

  "I think you'd like London, too."

  Naomi glanced over, her dark eyes holding a hint of flirtation. "Maybe I'll come visit sometime."

  A beat of silence and Jake turned to gaze out the window again as they headed into town. There was a strange sense of the familiar as they drove through the city. New York was one big movie set, where the fire hydrants and yellow taxis immediately made the visitor feel at home, as they had been seen so many times before on screen. The street signs, the accents, the architecture – it was all familiar and oddly comforting.

  Jake watched a pedestrian traffic sign shift to WALK and a wave of suits crossed the road, eyes fixed forward in big-city anonymity. Don't look at me and I won't look at you. As in London, you could be anyone in New York, and no one would bat an eyelash. The dwellers of this urban jungle were protective of the unusual and extreme, the right to stand out as sacred as that of making cold hard cash.

  Naomi looked at her watch as they drove onto Manhattan Island.

  "We'll go straight to the museum," she said. "We don't want to miss the tour before the grand unveiling of the cross."

  Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the driveway leading up to the Cloisters museum and gardens. The complex was part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but the Central Park location meant that the latter was always packed and busy. In comparison, this was an oasis of calm at Fort Tryon Park in the very north of Manhattan, a collection of medieval art in a rebuilt monastery overlooking the Hudson River. It was a surprising slice of European heritage in the modern city.

  The architects had managed a coherence in the structure even though the buildings were made up of several different cloisters, rectangular courtyards for prayer and contemplation. The strong Romanesque style of the eleventh and twelfth centuries was characterized by round arches and barrel vaults, while the Gothic made itself known through pointed arches and freer ornamentation. It was a kind of architectural Frankenstein, constructed out of bits of history from French and Spanish monasteries, the effect one of unusual style elements blended by a passion for the medieval world.

  The bright sun cut through Jake's fatigue and he closed his eyes for a second, letting it warm his face as they pulled into the carpark. In these little moments of calm, it was good to just be grateful for a warm day.

  "Stay there a moment," Naomi said, getting out of the car. Jake opened his eyes to see her walking towards a silver van selling coffee. He smiled. Some of the places he traveled for ARKANE made it hard to get a good brew, but at least here in New York, it was pretty much guaranteed. Naomi returned with two steaming cups and a couple of pastries in a bag.

  "You're a lifesaver," Jake said. He took a bite of the crumbling sweetness and sipped his coffee, starting to feel more human again. "So tell me why you're babysitting me for this little trip?"

  "I'm a linguist," Naomi said, her dark eyes fixed on Jake. "There are over 800 languages spoken in New York, and many of the religious and supernatural occurrences require language expertise. Of course, I don't speak them all, but I love a challenge so I tend to get assigned to most cases in one way or another. The cross we're here to see has an unknown script on it that can't be translated. Some say it's a form of corrupted Hebrew, a mistake from the Middle Ages, but I want to see it for myself. To be honest, I'm not usually in the field – I'm office bound, but none of the other agents were up for this assignment."

  "The notes I was sent imply the cross was originally British. Is that right?" Jake said. He took a bite of the second pastry.

  Naomi nodded. "The provenance has never been proved, and the British government didn't buy it originally because the art dealer wouldn't reveal his source. But one scholar suggests it was originally from the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, one of the wealthiest monasteries in England."

  "Until Henry VIII dissolved them all, of course," Jake said, wiping the crumbs on a napkin. "Let's go see this marvel."

  Chapter 3

  JAKE AND NAOMI WALKED into the Cloisters main entrance, and an usher directed them towards a small group of specially invited scholars milling about as they waited for the tour prior to the unveiling of the cross. There was a muted excitement in the air, a level appropriate for academics whose passion remained of the more intellectual kind. The group congregated in one of the main Cloisters, a rectangular court constructed from fragments of the Benedictine monastery of San Miguel de Cuixà near the Pyrenees. Columns of Languedoc marble in shades of coral surrounded a garden with a fountain in the center, the sound of the water a peaceful refrain. Jake had a peculiar sense of being transplanted in time and space, the European architecture making it seem as if he had flown across the ocean for hours, only to arrive in nearby France.

  A man stepped up into one of the Gothic arches so he was framed by the dark stone. He brushed his thinning grey hair to one side, pushed his glasses up his nose and coughed slightly to get the attention of the group. He waited for a hush before starting, his voice reedy and slightly high pitched with nerves.

  "Welcome, esteemed colleagues from around the world. I'm the curator of artifacts and today we're so excited to share the Cloisters Cross with you, revealed for the first time in its entirety. Well, almost." The curator smiled. "We have hunted down the base of the artifact but the figure of Christ, the corpus, continues to evade us. Still, it is truly a marvel to see this impeccable and unique medieval artifact. It is one of only three almost complete medieval crosses in the world." He paused for dramatic effect. "Follow me."

  The curator turned and walked through the archway, followed by the group of academics – mostly men and a few older women. Naomi certainly stood out in the crowd and Jake noticed a few appreciative glances in her direction.

  It was cool as they walked through the stone corridors, surrounded by the glories of medieval Europe. One door was flanked by a pair of sculpted figures that guarded the entryway, while around them on the walls was a bestiary of animals. Jake found his pace slowing as he looked from side to side, noticing a dragon curling its tail around a tree portrayed in sepia fresco.

  "It's an amazing place," he whispered to Naomi. "It feels so familiar and yet, the way it's arranged jars somehow, like something is just out of place."

  Naomi shook her head with a smile. "I know, and I can't believe I haven't visited before. Living in New York for so long and yet I still don't know all its treasures."

  They emerged into another courtyard open to the sky above. The curator paused. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air, overlaying a more complex aroma.

  "We have a medieval garden here at the Cloisters," he said. "We grow the herbs, fruits and flowers that the monks would have had in those far-off times. Tending of the gardens was considered a holy duty, as much as prayer, and we like to think we continue to praise the Creator with our efforts. In celebration, we would like to offer you all some tea made from our garden of medieval herbs before we proceed into the main event."

  The curator waved a hand and a group of servers carried trays forward, handing out steaming cups of hot liquid, the smell an enticing mixture of flower petals and a medicinal tinge of peppermint.

  Jake handed a cup to Naomi and took one for himself, blowing on it a little before taking a sip. There was an aniseed note, a floral edge, and the overall taste was refreshing – perfect for jet lag. Around them, the academics drank enthusiastically, discussing the vintage as if it were a rare wine. Then they followed the curator onwards into a large room, with stone blockwork like the walls of a castle turret. It had a low ceiling held up by arched spines and columns topped by carvings of plants. Windows on one side let in a blueish light from outside. In the center of the room, a cross stood mounted on a stone plinth, starkly illuminated from above to highlight the elaborate carvings. It was delicate, slightly bowed in shape, and a warm golden color. A hush fell over the group as they gathered around the sacred object.

  The curator held his hands together, fingertips touching as if he was about to pray. His voice was son
orous, the acoustics resonating his words as he spoke with gravitas.

  "It has been said that the symbolism on the Cloisters Cross is akin to that of the Sistine Chapel compressed into an object you can hold in your hands. It's made of morse ivory, the traditional term for walrus tusk, carbon dated to the end of the seventh century. It was perhaps 500 years old when it was carved, so it was already an object of antiquity."

  The curator walked around the cross, reveling in his chance to impress a captive audience with his knowledge. "You need to examine it from all angles to appreciate the master craftsmanship as the carvings emerge from all surfaces. It was originally decorated with color, and traces of ultramarine blue, malachite and vermilion have been found on the surface, all pigments used by Romanesque artists." The curator tilted his head to one side, gazing at the cross. "Personally, I prefer the unadorned simplicity. Come, you may gather closer to examine it."

  The center of the cross was a round engraved medallion. Each of the top three arms ended in a square terminal, where other tiny carvings could be seen. The long shaft of the cross held the pattern of a pruned tree trunk. Jake bent to look more closely at two tiny figures, Adam and Eve, clinging to the bottom of the Tree of Life, their faces upturned to Heaven in desperation. Moses was portrayed with the Brazen Serpent lifted high on a forked stick, and each individual figure on the cross had a different face, turned to show an aspect of their biblical character. It was truly a masterpiece.

  As they stepped closer to examine it, Naomi stumbled a little, and Jake reached out to help her. She frowned and looked at the ground, confusion in her eyes.

  "Are you okay?" Jake whispered, taking her arm.

  "I'm … um … yes, the floor seems a little uneven, that's all."

  Her eyes were unfocused for a moment, but then she shook her head and bent to the cross.

  "The earth trembles, Death defeated groans with the buried one rising," Naomi said quietly. "That's one of the Latin couplets on the shaft." She pointed at the top. "But it's the titulus I came to see especially. Look, where the hand of God is portrayed within a stylized cloud. The Gospels use the phrase, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, but this has Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Confessors. It's a very unusual phrase." She bent even closer. "And there, you can just see the line of corrupted Hebrew." She squinted at it. "That's strange, it looks like –"

  The curator clapped his hands together, a little gesture of scholarly excitement as he prepared to share more of the story of the artifact.

  "It's important to understand the great journey that the cross has traveled to reach us here. It came to the Met from a Yugoslavian art collector, Ante Topic Mimara, who recovered works of art at the end of the Second World War. He withheld the provenance of the cross, dying with its secrets intact, but there are reports from a Hungarian immigrant that the crucifixus maledictus had been seen in the Cistercian monastery of Zirc in the Bakony Mountains in Hungary. It was known as the crucifixus maledictus because of one of the carvings, Maledictus omnis qui pendet in ligno. Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree. This refers to the traditional method of crucifixion, and of course Jesus reversed this curse with his sacrifice for us."

  Jake bent forward as the curator's voice faded in volume, as if the sound came from beneath a swimming pool. It wasn't unusual to have blocked ears after a flight and he shook his head a little as he tried to catch the words.

  "It's thought that the cross was sent to Hungary as part of a ransom for Richard the Lionheart in 1194, when he was captured on his way home from the Crusades. The Abbot of Bury St Edmunds was instrumental in the exchange, with many of the riches of the monastery given in ransom. It's thought that the cross was amongst that treasure."

  Light-headed now, Jake swayed slightly. Naomi reached out a hand to steady him, and Jake noticed a few of the academics had moved back to lean against the thick walls.

  "The carvings on the cross portray the story of the Passion of Christ," the curator continued, "expressed through the testimony of the evangelists while the Tree of Life winds up the front of the cross. It's stunning even without the missing corpus. The back of the cross … features the individual prophets holding texts from their holy books. They …"

  The curator rubbed at his temples as his words trailed off, a confused look crossing his face as he lost track of what he was saying. He clutched the edge of the plinth, turning towards the arched doorway before sinking down to sit on the floor.

  Jake felt a lifting sensation, a weightlessness, almost as if he could fly. He wanted to climb up to the top of the Cloisters and jump into the air, sure of his ability to soar like the birds. At the same time, he lost control of his limbs and he sank to his knees, realizing that around him, others were doing the same.

  "The tea," Naomi whispered, her voice faint as she dropped to the floor next to him. "They grow Datura metel here, downy thorn apple, a powerful hallucinogenic plant used in medieval magic as well as medicine." She looked around at the other academics lying prone on the stone floor, their movements sluggish. "We've been poisoned."

  Jake's tongue was thick in his mouth and he couldn't shape a reply as footsteps echoed on the stone floor, two sets deliberately walking towards the room. Jake saw them emerge from the archway in a haze of vision, their features morphing in and out of focus, first lizard like and then shining like angels. He couldn't move his limbs even as his mind seemed to soar above them into the vault of the ceiling. He tried to focus on them, tried to capture aspects of their faces, but he couldn't see properly. They both wore dark cassocks like priests, a uniform that attracted deference and little suspicion in a place like the Cloisters, but they walked like military men.

  One of the men carried a suitcase. He laid it on the floor in front of the cross, opening it to reveal a padded interior. He lifted the Cloisters Cross from its stand, reverence in his eyes and in the way he handled it. He pulled it gently, the pieces sliding apart, and he laid each ivory element gently in the case before closing the lid carefully. Ignoring the prone academics on the floor, the pair walked out again, their actions taking only a few minutes. The stone plinth stood empty, the spotlight only serving to emphasize the negative space where one of the great treasures of Christendom had stood so briefly.

  Chapter 4

  THE UPPER BAY SPARKLED and rays of bright sun illuminated the magnificence of the city below. His city. Gilles Noiret never tired of this view, never grew weary of the myriad possibilities that New York could offer those who grabbed for them.

  He ran his company from this towering pinnacle, the seventy-second floor of the Chrysler Building. Officially, the escalator finished at the seventy-first floor, but after purchasing the highest levels for his exclusive investment company, Gilles had constructed this sanctuary in the tangle of concrete supports and electrical equipment under the chrome-plated cap of the building. He loved staring out from the Art Deco turret, its silver starburst pattern pointing towards the spire above, with the knowledge that millions of eyes turned towards it every day, orientating themselves by its height and beauty.

  Gilles took a tentative breath and felt it catch, sweat prickling as he dreaded the attack to come. He began to cough, a hacking sound that shook his whole body for several minutes.

  Clutching his desk, Gilles retched, gasping for air until his lungs released the phlegm that clogged them. He hawked up a glob of bloody mess and spat it carefully into a handkerchief, the warm softness of it in his hand making his stomach clench. It was a piece of him, evidence of his disease. Every time he suffered an attack, he feared it would be his last.

  It offended him to be so physically degraded, so broken, and the thought of dying here, choking to death on his own rotting flesh, set his resolve. He had not lived at the pinnacle of wealth to die in the same way as any poor man living rough on the streets. That was not how the American dream was meant to end.

  He flipped open his laptop and played the video of the dying nun, her face contorted as she burned. He felt a rising e
xcitement as he watched, the only physical pleasure he could summon as his body rotted from within.

  As the video ended, a cloud passed overhead and Gilles caught a reflection of himself in the glass, bent double like an old man. His face was disfigured by the poison he had imbibed just a few years ago at a dinner held by his own brother, meant to kill him so he wouldn't have to share their inheritance. The immigrant sons of Russian and French ancestors, they had taken competition to extremes, both in business and their personal life. But it was Gaspard who had ended that night in the morgue and Gilles had never regretted finishing the brother who had only ever been a rival. There would always be more to compete with in this city of alphas: those with an edge of the blade in their ambition.

  Gaspard had left his mark nonetheless, and the dioxin had caused rapid hyperpigmentation. Gilles' once handsome face was marred with patches of darker skin as well as hyperkeratosis, where the skin thickened and became scaly and bumpy. It itched and ached, but the surface ruin was nothing to what the poison had done internally.

  In recent months, even the most advanced medicine had failed, so Gilles had sought alternative remedies from the fringes of health and spirituality. He had tried injections made from the tinctures of plants from the deepest Amazon and potions made from endangered animals. He had hired healers of all stripes, from those who chanted and gave him herbs to smoke, to those who told him to look inside and cleanse his soul. He had even paid for muti, traditional medicine from South Africa made from body parts. Nothing had worked yet, but he wouldn't give up until his dying breath.

  During nights of pain-wracked insomnia, he had ventured into the margins of society, obscure message boards on the dark web – that part of the internet hidden from search engines and accessed via proxy servers. Gilles found things there that turned even his stomach, but he'd also found a glimmer of hope on a religious conspiracy message board that talked of a powerful relic with healing properties.