Page 136 of The Atlas Maneuver

But she never finished.

So he’d come to Luxembourg to find answers. Stephanie had obtained an address for Suzy’s apartment, which was located in the Cloître de Saint-François, a former convent that had been converted into luxury housing in the heart of the old city. Records indicated that Suzy owned the space outright, its current valuation, according to tax records, at a little more than six million euros. Apparently she’d been extremely well paid.

But for the inventor of bitcoin he would have expected no less.

The Police Grand-Ducale, part of Luxembourg’s Ministère de la Sécurité Intérieure, had been briefed and called in to assist. They had met him at the airport and driven him straight here, arranging for access to the apartment. He’d asked to inspect it alone but they had not agreed, so three of the national police now stood with him. Considering the owner was deceased there was no need for subtlety, so one of them used a battering ram and crashed the door open.

He stepped inside.

Impressive.

Especially the view of Luxembourg City, bathed in sunlight through plate-glass doors past a terrace. He walked around and noted the exposed beams, fireplaces, gold leaf, beautiful herringbone floors, intricate moldings, and some top-of-the-line appliances. In a walk-in closet off the master bedroom he noted her wardrobe, an assortment of high-end designer clothes, shoes, and handbags.

The three national policemen had fanned out and were looking around too. He wondered what for since their briefing had been extremely limited, only that the apartment’s owner had worked at the Bank of St. George. Other officers, along with Europol, had already appeared at the bank’s headquarters and taken control, effectively shutting the bank down. Both Bern and Washington had requested this through the European Union.

Remember my favorite book?

A Distant Mirror.

By Barbara Tuchman.

A self-trained historian and double Pulitzer Prize winner. The book detailed the tumultuous 14th century and postulated that the death and suffering then reflected that of the time in and around World War I. An excellent narrative history. He loved the book too. He and Suzy had discussed it during their time together, and he distinctly recalled that she ranked it as her favorite.

I still have my copy.

That’s what she’d told him.

So he continued his survey, moving slowly and casually, eventually making his way into the den and the bookshelves to the left of the flat-screen television. His expert bibliophile eye perused the shelves. Biographies, some novels, but mainly histories. No surprise. Her favorite. From different times and periods. None over-represented. Not a lot of books. Nothing that ranked collectable or valuable, except to their owner.

Then he spotted it.

The distinctive beige cover with block lettering.

He glanced around. The three officers were off in other rooms. He slid the book free and admired the front jacket and the painting depicted. From a famous 15th-century book of hours. Showing the fourth horseman of the apocalypse. He noticed that the cover was wrapped in clear plastic, like books were in libraries for protection. Others on the shelves were likewise sheathed.

Book lovers did that.

He cradled the hardcover in his left palm. Maybe nine hundredpages. Gently, he opened the front cover to the end papers that showed a map of Europe during the 14th century. He turned the page carefully, respecting the fact that the book had been printed nearly fifty years ago. The next page was blank save for the distinctive feminine signature of Barbara W. Tuchman in soft blue ink.

A signed copy.

He’d found it in a Jacksonville, Florida, used-book shop and bought it just for Suzy. A first edition. This volume carried some worth as Tuchman had been dead for a long time. But the epigraph page had been defaced with writing. In pencil. No self-respecting bibliophile would permanently damage a precious book. Sure, Suzy had written in this one but only in the faintest of lead, easily erased without a trace remaining.

A series of letters and numbers.

He counted. Twenty-eight different characters.

Hos730#DF$2936GRVOZX37/?fy%&

Which she’d recorded beneath the book’s epigraph. A quote from John Dryden, who penned a work titled “On the Characters in the Canterbury Tales.”

For mankind is ever the same

and nothing is lost out of nature,

though everything is altered.

Suzy had deliberately left a message and, with her dying breaths, directing him straight to it. But when this message had been left she’d had no way of knowing that he would appear in Basel.

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