Angelology

Riverside Church, Morningside Heights, New York City
Riverside Church was an imposing Gothic Revival cathedral rising above Columbia University. Together Vladimir and Saitou-san mounted the steps to a wooden door adorned with disks of iron, Saitou-san’s high-heeled boots crunching upon the salt-strewn ice, a black shawl wrapped snugly about her shoulders.
As they walked inside, the light diminished to a honeyed glow. Vladimir blinked, his eyes readjusting to the ambience of the foyer. The church was empty. Straightening his tie, Vladimir walked past an alcove with an empty reception desk, up a set of steps, and into a large antechamber. The walls were creamy stone that rose to a confluence of jointed arches, one meeting another like wind-filled sails hoisted in a crowded harbor. Beyond, through a set of wide double doors, Vladimir ascertained the deepening hollow of the church nave.
His first impulse was to search the church, but he held back, his attention drawn to two copper plaques hung on a wall. The first commemorated John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s generosity in the building of the church. A second plaque was a dedication to Laura Celestia Spelman Rockefeller.
“Laura Celestia Spelman was Abigail Rockefeller’s mother-in-law,” Saitou-san whispered, reading the plaque.
Vladimir said, “I believe the Rockefellers were devout, especially the Cleveland generation. John D. Rockefeller Jr. paid for the construction of this church.”
“That would explain Mrs. Rockefeller’s access,” Saitou-san said. “It would be impossible to keep anything here without inside help.”
“Inside help,” a whining, high-pitched voice said, “and a lot of cash.”
Vladimir turned to find that a toadlike old man in an elegant gray suit and neatly combed gray hair had appeared in the hallway. A monocle encircled his left eye, its gold chain hanging over his cheek. Vladimir stepped back instinctively.
“Forgive me for startling you,” the man said. “My name is Mr. Gray, and I could not help but notice you here.” Mr. Gray appeared to be half blind with anxiety. His eyes bulged wildly as he looked about the hallway, his gaze settling at last upon Vladimir and Saitou-san.
“I would ask who you are,” Mr. Gray said, pointing to Abigail Rockefeller’s card in Vladimir’s hand. “But I know already. May I?” Mr. Gray took the card from Vladimir, looked it over carefully, and said, “I have seen this before. In fact, I helped arrange for the printing of these cards when I worked as Mrs. Rockefeller’s errand boy. I was merely fourteen. I once overheard her say that she liked my obsequious manner, which I tend to believe was a compliment. She had me running her errands—downtown for paper, uptown to the printers, downtown to pay the artist.”
“Then perhaps you will tell us the meaning of the card?” Saitou-san said.
“She believed,” Mr. Gray said, ignoring Saitou-san, “that angelologists would be coming.”
“And we have arrived,” Vladimir said. “Can you tell us how we’re meant to proceed?”
“I will answer your questions directly,” Mr. Gray said. “But we must first go to my office, where we might speak with more ease.”
They descended a stone staircase off the antechamber, Mr. Gray moving downward at a rapid pace, skipping steps in his haste. At the bottom a darkened hallway opened before them. Mr. Gray threw open a door and ushered them into a narrow office piled high with papers. Stacks of unopened mail tipped from the edge of a metal desk. Curled pencil shavings were scattered across the floor. A wall calendar from the year 1978 hung next to a filing cabinet, the month of December left open.
Once they were inside the office, Mr. Gray’s manner became one of indignation. “Well! You have certainly taken your own sweet time in coming,” he said. “I was beginning to think there was some misunderstanding. Mrs. Rockefeller would have been furious at that—she would turn in her grave if I’d died without delivering the package in the fashion she wished. An exacting woman, Mrs. Rockefeller, but very generous—my children and my children’s children will feel the benefit of the arrangement, even if I, who have been waiting half of my life for your arrival, will not! I was but a young man when she hired me to oversee the workings of the church office—fresh from England, without a position in the world. Mrs. Rockefeller gave me my place here in this office, instructing me to await your arrival, which I have done, ceaselessly. Of course, provisions were made should I have expired before your arrival—which I must say could have happened any day now, since clearly I’m not growing any younger—but let’s not allow ourselves to ponder such morbid thoughts, no, sir. At this important hour, it is only the wishes of our benefactress that must concern us, and her thoughts turned upon a single solemn hope: the future.” Mr. Gray blinked and adjusted his monocle. “Come, let’s get down to business.”
“An excellent idea,” Vladimir said.
Mr. Gray went to the filing cabinet, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to work through the number until he discovered the match. With a turn of the key, the cabinet drawer popped open. “Let me see,” he said, straining to see the files. “Ah, yes, here! The very documents we need.” He flipped through the pages, stopping at a long list of names. “This is a formality, of course, but Mrs. Rockefeller specified that only those appearing on this list—or the descendants of these persons—would be authorized to receive the package. Is your name, or the name of one of your parents or grandparents, or indeed your great-grandparents, among this number?”
Vladimir scanned the list, recognizing all the major angelologists of the twentieth century. He found his own name in the middle of the final row, next to Celestine Clochette’s.
“If you don’t mind, you will sign here and here. And then once more here, on this line at the bottom.”
Vladimir examined the paper, a long legal document that, from a cursory view, affirmed that Mr. Gray had performed the task of delivering the object.
“You see,” Mr. Gray said by way of apology, “I receive my remuneration only after the delivery has been performed, as evidenced by your signature. The legal document is quite specific, and the lawyers are unrelenting—it has been inconvenient, as you might imagine, living without recompense for my labors. All these years I have scraped by, waiting for you to arrive so that I might retire from this wretched office. And here you are,” Mr. Gray said, giving Vladimir a pen. “Simply a formality, mind you.”
“Before I sign,” Vladimir said, pushing the document away, “I must have the object you’re holding for me.”
An almost imperceptible chill hardened upon Mr. Gray’s features. “Of course,” he said tersely. He slipped the contract under his arm and tucked the pen into the pocket of his gray suit. “Just this way,” he said, his voice clipped as he led them out of the office and up the stairs.
As they returned to the upper level of the church, Vladimir hung back, shadowed in the recesses of the hall. His study of ethereal musicology had consumed his youth, driving him deeper and deeper into the closed world of angelological work. After the war he’d left the discipline. He had run a humble bakery, making confections and cakes, the simplicity of which gave him comfort. He had believed that his work was futile, that there was little humanity could do to stop the Nephilim. He returned only after Gabriella had come to him herself, pleading with him to join their efforts. She had said that they needed him. At the time he’d been doubtful, but Gabriella could be quite persuasive, and he could see the dark changes that had begun to occur. He could not say how he knew—perhaps it was the rigorous training of his youth or perhaps simple intuition—but Vladimir understood that Mr. Gray was not to be trusted.
Mr. Gray walked haltingly up the central aisle of the nave, bringing Vladimir and Saitou-san into the cool dark church. The scent was instantly familiar to Vladimir, the mossy fragrance of incense filling the air. Despite innumerable stained-glass windows, the space remained dark, nearly impenetrable. Above, Gothic candelabras hung by thick ropes, oxidized-iron wheels of intricate fretwork topped with candles. A massive Gothic pulpit, ring after ring of sculpted figures climbing the sides, rose at the altar, while Christmas poinsettias, bright red ribbons tied about their pots, stood on pedestals throughout the church. Separated from the nave by a thick maroon cord, the apse lay in shadows before them.
Mr. Gray unclipped the velvet rope and dropped it to the floor, the buckle echoing through the nave. Worked into the marble floor was a stonework labyrinth. Mr. Gray tapped his toe upon it, nervous, creating a frantic rhythm. “Mrs. Rockefeller placed it here,” Mr. Gray said, sliding his shoe over the chancel. “At the center of the labyrinth.”
Vladimir walked the length of the pattern, examining the lay of the stones with care—it seemed impossible that anything could be hidden in it. It would have required breaking the stones, something he could not imagine that Mrs. Rockefeller, or anyone else involved in the care and preservation of art, would condone. “But how?” Vladimir asked. “It looks perfectly smooth.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Gray said, moving to Vladimir’s side. “That is simply an illusion. Come, look closely.”
Vladimir squatted to the floor and examined the marble. A thin, fine seam had been cut along the border of the central stone. “It is practically invisible,” Vladimir said.
“Step away,” Mr. Gray said. Positioning himself over the stone, he applied pressure to its center. The stone lifted from the floor as if on springs. With a twist of his hand, Mr. Gray removed the central stone of the labyrinth.
“Amazing,” Saitou-san said, watching over his shoulder.
“There is nothing a fine stonemason and an abundance of funds cannot achieve,” Mr. Gray said. “You were acquainted with the late Mrs. Rockefeller?”
“No,” Vladimir said. “Not personally.”
“Ah, well, a pity,” Mr. Gray said. “She had a keen sense of social justice marked with the folly of a poetic nature—a combination quite rare in women of her stature. Originally she designated that when angelologists arrived to claim the object under my care, I was to lead whoever came here to the labyrinth and ask for a series of numbers. Mrs. Rockefeller assured me that whoever came would know these numbers. I have them memorized, of course.”
“Numbers?” Vladimir said, baffled by this unexpected test.
“Numbers, sir.” Mr. Gray gestured to the center of the labyrinth. Below the stone there was a safe, a combination lock at its center. “You will need numbers to open this. I suppose you might think of yourself as the Minotaur making your way into the stone labyrinth.” He smiled, enjoying the bafflement he had caused.
Vladimir stared at the safe, its door perfectly flush with the floor beneath the labyrinth as Saitou-san bent over it. Saitou-san said, “How many numbers in each combination?”
“That, I cannot tell you,” Mr. Gray said.
Saitou-san turned each of the dials in succession. “Abigail Rockefeller’s cards were made specifically for Innocenta to decode,” she said, speaking slowly, as if searching her thoughts. “Innocenta’s responses affirmed that she had counted the lyre strings on the cards and had—I assume—written down the numbers.”
“The sequence,” Vladimir said, “was twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-eight, and thirty-nine.”
Saitou-san turned each of the four dials to correspond with the numbers and pulled at the safe. It didn’t open.
“This is the only sequence of numbers we have,” Saitou-san said. “They must work in some combination.”
“Four numbers and four dials,” Vladimir said. “That makes twenty-four different possible combinations. There is no way we can try all of them. There isn’t time.”
“Unless,” Saitou-san said, “there was a designated order to the numbers. Do you remember the chronology in which they were given? Verlaine told us the sequence in which numbers appeared on the cards.”
Vladimir thought for a moment. “Twenty-eight, thirty-eight, thirty, and finally thirty-nine.”
Saitou-san moved each dial, aligning the numbers carefully. Wrapping her finger around a metal lever, she pulled the handle of the safe. It lifted without resistance, exhaling a soft gush of air. Reaching into the cavity, she withdrew a heavy bundle of green velvet and unwrapped it. The sound chest of the lyre threw waves of golden illumination over the stone labyrinth.
“It is lovely,” Saitou-san said, turning it to examine it from all angles. The base was round. Two identical arms bowed out and then curled, like the horns of a bull. The golden surfaces were smooth and polished to a gleam. “But there are no strings.”
“Nor is there a yoke,” Vladimir said. He knelt by Saitou-san’s side and looked at the instrument cradled in her hands. “It is just one piece of the lyre. A most important piece, but alone it is useless. This must be why we were sent to four locations. The pieces have been scattered.”
“We need to tell the others,” Saitou-san said, carefully returning the lyre’s body to the velvet bag. “They need to know what they are looking for.”
Vladimir turned and faced Mr. Gray, who stood trembling between them. “You didn’t know the combination. You’ve been waiting for us to come and give it to you. If you had known, you would have taken it yourself.”
“There is no need to worry about what I know or do not know,” Mr. Gray said, his face growing red from perspiration. “The treasure belongs to neither of us.”
“What do you mean?” Saitou-san asked, incredulous.
“His meaning,” said a voice at the far end of the apse, a familiar voice that sent chills of terror through Vladimir, “is that the game has been over for many years. It is a game that the angelologists have lost”
In his fright Mr. Gray’s monocle fell from his eye, and without a moment of hesitation, he scurried from the apse and into a side aisle of the nave, the fabric of his gray suit appearing and disappearing as he traversed puddles of light and shadow. Watching Mr. Gray flee, Vladimir made out bands of Gibborish creatures along the aisles of the church, their white hair and red wings visible in the dull light. The creatures turned to watch as Mr. Gray passed, avid as sunflowers to the movement of the sun. Before he could escape, however, a Gibborim seized Mr. Gray. As Vladimir watched, all doubt cleared about the nature of the meeting: The angelologists had fallen into a trap. Percival Grigori had been waiting for them.
The last time Vladimir had met Grigori was many decades before, when Vladimir was a young protégé of Raphael Valko. He had seen firsthand the atrocities the Grigori family had perpetrated during the war. He had also witnessed the great pain they’d inflicted upon angelologists-Seraphina Valko had lost her life because of Percival Grigori’s machinations, and Gabriella had come close to dying as well. Back then Percival Grigori had cut a startling, fearsome figure. Now he was a sickly mutant.
Grigori gestured and the Gibborim brought Mr. Gray forward.
Without warning, Grigori cracked the ivory head of his cane from the shaft, twisting the steel blade of a dagger from its mooring. For a second the knife glinted in the weak light. Then, in one swift movement, Grigori stepped forward and plunged the dagger into Mr. Gray’s body. Gray’s expression changed from surprise to disbelief and then to wilting, disconsolate anguish. As Percival Grigori withdrew the knife, Mr. Gray collapsed to the floor, whimpering softly, blood collecting about him. In a matter of moments, his eyes held the watery gaze of death. As swiftly as he’d unsheathed the knife, Percival wiped it clean on a white square of silk and inserted it back into the shaft of the cane.
Vladimir saw that Saitou-san had edged away from him with the sound chest in hand, slinking silently toward the rear of the church. By the time Percival noticed, she was within reach of the door. Percival lifted his hand and ordered the Gibborim after her. Half of the creatures turned upon her, while the remaining Gibborim stepped forward, the hems of their robes brushing against the floor as they surrounded the apse. With a second gesture, Percival instructed these creatures to take hold of Vladimir.
Clutched tightly in their grasp, Vladimir inhaled the scent of the creatures’ skin; he felt the chill of their bodies behind him. A cool gust of air swept the nape of his neck as the creatures beat their wings, steadily, rhythmically.
“She will take the lyre to Gabriella!” Vladimir cried, struggling against the hold of the creatures.
Percival looked upon Vladimir with contempt. “I was hoping to see my dear Gabriella. I know that she is behind this little recovery mission. She has become quite elusive over the years.”
Vladimir closed his eyes. He recalled that Gabriella’s infiltration into the Grigori family had been a sensation in the angelological community, the largest, most influential undercover job of the 1940s. Indeed, her work had paved the way for modern surveillance of the Nephilistic families and brought them useful information. But it had created a dangerous legacy for all of them. After so many years, Percival Grigori still wanted revenge.
Leaning heavily upon his cane, Grigori hobbled to Vladimir. “Tell me,” he said. “Where is she?”
Percival leaned close to Vladimir, so that he could see the purple pouches under Percival’s eyes, thick as bruises on his white skin. His teeth were perfectly even, so white they seemed plated in pearl. And yet Percival was aging—a net of fine lines had developed about his mouth. He must have reached at least three hundred years.
“I remember you,” Percival said, narrowing his eyes as if comparing the man before him with one in his memory. “You were in my presence in Paris. I recall your face, although time has changed you almost beyond recognition. You helped Gabriella to deceive me.”
“And you,” Vladimir said, recovering his equilibrium, “betrayed everything you believed in—your family, your ancestors. Even now you haven’t forgotten her. Tell me: How badly do you miss Gabriella Lévi-Franche?”
“Where is she?” Percival said, staring into Vladimir’s eyes.
“That I will never tell you,” Vladimir said, his voice catching as he spoke. He knew that with those words he had chosen to die.
Percival released the ivory-headed cane from his grip. It fell to the floor, sending a sharp echo through the church. He placed his long, cold fingers upon Vladimir’s chest, as if to feel his heartbeat. An electrical vibration surged through Vladimir, shattering his ability to think. In the last minutes of his life, his lungs burning for air, Vladimir was drawn into the horrifying translucency of his killer’s eyes. They were pale and ringed with red, intense as a chemical fire stabilized in a frozen atmosphere.
As Vladimir’s consciousness dissolved, he remembered the delicious sensation of the lyre’s body, heavy and cool in his hands, and how he had longed to hear its ethereal melody.