‘What’s the Latin for “bear”?’

Urthred walked to a dusty shelf and opened up a large, iron-bound book resting on a lectern. He studied it. On Randall’s machine, Nick knew, the action would have opened up a window on the Web.

‘Ursus.’ Randall spelled it out. ‘Any good?’

Nick tried it: capitalised, lower case. ‘Nope.’

‘How about-’

The muffled bleep of Nick’s cellphone penetrated through the headphones. ‘Hang on.’ He unhooked the headset and picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘Nick, buddy.’ Royce, as ebulliently unpleasant as ever. ‘We got a few more questions for you. You want to come back in?’

Nick looked at his watch. Almost as if he could see him, Royce added, ‘Not now. I’m heading out. Tomorrow morning. Bring a friend.’

When Nick went back into the game, Urthred was gone and the Wanderer held a new parchment scroll.

Had to go. Good luck hunting bears.

Nick didn’t smile. He ordered another soda and reopened Cryptych. He tried every variant of ‘bears’ and numbers he could think of, every combination of dates. In the corner of the screen time moved on, the seconds tapped out by the click of keys. He wondered if ‘bear’ was a mistake Gillian had mistyped in her panic. Beat? Neat? Near?

‘Nowhere near.’ Nick slammed the lid of the computer and waved to the waitress for the bill. He tossed his credit card onto the plate and stared into neon-lit space while she ran it through the machine. The password prompt had branded itself onto his brain: he knew when he went to bed he would see it in his sleep, dancing in front of his eyes.

‘Sir? Excuse me, sir?’

The waitress had come back with his credit card. He reached for the pen to sign, but there was no slip.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Your card was declined.’ Her tone was so bored she could have been listing the specials. Nick was bewildered.

‘Can you try it again?’

‘Three times already. You should call your bank. You got something else?’

‘How much do I owe?’

‘Twenty-seven seventy-five.’

He peered inside his wallet. A twenty and a ten. He pulled them both out and laid them on the table. The waitress saw the tip and popped her gum in contempt.

‘Have a nice day.’

The moment he was back in his hotel room he rang the phone number on the back of his credit card. He punched in the card number when the computer asked for it, then settled back on his bed for the long, on-hold purgatory. To his surprise, an operator picked up almost straight away.

‘How may I help you today, Mr Ash?’ she asked, after the usual security checks.

‘I just tried to pay for a meal with my card and the waitress said it was declined.’

‘That card’s been cancelled, sir.’

‘Cancelled?’

‘It was reported stolen three hours ago.’

‘Stolen?’ Nick’s mind spun. ‘Who told you that?’

A hollow clacking of keys on the other end of the phone. ‘You did, sir.’

Nick lay flat on the bed. He felt weak, a shadow snatching at things he couldn’t grasp. ‘I, uh, the card wasn’t in my wallet so I assumed it must have been stolen. I guess I panicked.’ How guilty did he sound? ‘But I found it again now. Can I get it reactivated?’

‘I’m sorry, it’s not possible to reactivate a cancelled card. You should receive a replacement within seven to ten working days.’

Nick ended the call. He was shaking. How could they do that – whoever they were – just phone up and cancel a part of his life?

Maybe it wasn’t anyone. Credit card companies make mistakes, the wrong cards get cancelled…

What about the hotel? They’d swiped his card when he checked in. Would that show up on his statement? If it did, they’d know where he was. And his cellphone. Was that safe? There were so many base stations in New York City they’d get a fix on him in an instant, if they had that kind of access.

They.

He jumped off the bed. He had to get out of there. There was nothing to pack except his laptop and the previous day’s clothes still balled-up damp in a corner. He stuffed them into a laundry bag he found in the closet and turned out the light, then turned it back on again in case anyone was watching.

He let himself out into the corridor. At the far end, by the elevator, a bellboy with a room-service trolley was waiting outside another room. He heard Nick and glanced up, watching him for a second longer than was necessary.

Is he one of them? Did he recognise me? With a spurt of embarrassment, Nick realised what he must look like: unshaven, unkempt, with a laptop slung over one shoulder and a laundry bag in the other. No wonder the guy looked suspicious.

An invisible guest opened his door. The bellboy pushed the trolley into the room, shooting Nick another doubtful glance. The moment he was out of sight, Nick ducked back into his room. He leaned against the wall, shivering as sweat beaded on his forehead.

He couldn’t check out of the hotel without paying. Then Royce really would lock him up. But he couldn’t pay without the card – and if they were monitoring it, they’d know at once he was on the move. Where would he go? He had friends, but each time he thought of them he imagined them like Bret, slumped dead in a chair. He couldn’t do that to them.

He double-locked the door, shot the chain and put a chair under the handle. He checked the windows didn’t open. Then he stripped off and crawled into bed.

It was a long time before sleep came, and when it did it brought no rest. He dreamed he was running through a forest, thick and tangled like something from Gothic Lair, chasing a creature that crashed unseen through the undergrowth ahead. However fast he ran he never seemed to get closer. The forest was filled with noise, other hunters chasing the same animal – or were they after him? He knew Royce was among them. He ran faster, tripping on rocks and tearing his face on branches.

He came out into a clearing, a long meadow that ended at the foot of a sheer cliff. Now he could see his prey, a black-backed bear breasting through the high grass in long, sinuous bounds.

‘Shoot him,’ said Gillian, next to him. He hadn’t seen her come. ‘Bear is the key.’

He looked down and saw a gun in his hand. It was surprisingly heavy. He had the terrible feeling he was doing something wrong, but he didn’t know what it could be. He lifted the gun and aimed it at the bear, who had rolled into a ball and seemed to be tickling itself, oblivious to the danger.

‘Poor bear,’ said Emily, who had appeared out of nowhere. But it was too late: Nick had already pulled the trigger. Except that the bear wasn’t a bear any more – it was Bret. It slumped against the cliff, drowning in blood.

When daylight finally dawned outside he’d already been awake for hours. And he still had no idea what the password might be.

XX

Paris, 1433

The cloaked man stood in the churchyard, glancing between the arch above him and the book in his hand. To anyone watching – anyone but me – it must have seemed some sort of piety, the book perhaps a Bible or a book of hours. I knew better.

I had spent half the night copying the book by candlelight, thrilling to the phrases that flowed through my pen. I should have abandoned it to another scribe – told Olivier I did not have time and forfeited the fee. But I could not. The words crept into me, seizing me the same way they had that night in Cologne. I had found out the customer’s name from Olivier: Tristan d’Amboise. When he came to collect his manuscript I lingered on the stairs at the back of the shop, and the moment he left I followed, all the way to the churchyard.

I stood behind a gravestone and watched. The sun setting behind the spire of St Innocent’s flung a long shadow across his shoulders. Above him, seven painted panels adorned the great arch over the churchyard gate, set there by Nicholas Flamel, the magician who crossed Mercury with the Red Stone and produced half a pound of pure gold. The pictures returned to me like a long-forgotten dream: the king with the sword, the cross and the serpent, a lonely flower on the high mountain guarded by griffins. Flanking the arch, painted on the walls, two lines of women in coloured dresses processed solemnly towards the gate.