Unknown 9 by Layton Green (each kindness read aloud txt) 📕

Cal flattened against the wall and pulled Andie back with him. His face was drawn, his lips pressed tight. “There’s a guy in the courtyard coming this way, and I’d bet half the brownstones in Brooklyn he isn’t a Kali worshipper. Take a quick look—you’re better disguised than I am. Tall, athletic guy, looks Chinese to me, black jeans and green T-shirt. There’s a half dozen people flanking him in the crowd.”

Andie stepped out for a glimpse. She had to strain to see over the crowd, but she saw the same guy in the middle of the courtyard, a handsome young man with short dark hair, aviator sunglasses, and a physique that resembled a bodybuilder’s even through the loose cotton shirt. He was not yet pushing people aside, but he was making a determined effort to get through. She didn’t see any visible weapons, but the guy had an extremely competent look that reminded her, from the economy of his movements to the firm set to his jaw, of Zawadi and Omer.

“You see him?” Cal asked as she backed inside, out of view of the courtyard.

Andie’s knees felt a little shaky. “Yeah.”

“I think our time just ran out. Let’s pick another entrance and get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not leaving without trying for the idol. We might not get another chance.”

“Andie, don’t—”

“I’m doing it. Are you with me or not?”

Cal swore and looked away. After running a hand through his hair, he turned back and mumbled, “Fine. But we gotta go, Andie. Now. What do you need?”

“A diversion.”

CartagenaSummer 1970

After discovering the photo in the wine cellar depicting a conversation between Nikola Tesla, Ted Taylor, and an unknown figure believed to be Ettore Majorana, Dr. Corwin spent the rest of the day holed up in his room at the Cloisters, staying out of sight and devising a plan for how to proceed.

The sun had descended an hour ago. Freshly showered, he smoothed the pointed collar of his electric-blue dress shirt and stepped onto his balcony overlooking the courtyard. A quick glance told him the hotel was hopping, dinner and drinks in full swing, waiters hurrying to and fro among the tables and tropical foliage.

It was time to proceed.

In order to avoid the crowded courtyard, he took a circuitous route through the labyrinthine interior of the hotel, emerging near the entrance to the crypt and the wine cellar. Wondering if there was a secret passage connecting the two—that would be useful—he straightened his trilby and whistled a tune as he idled beside a potted palm, waiting for a sommelier to appear. Laughter and the clink of glasses filled the air, along with the aroma of roasted meat and fine cigars.

Five minutes later, a Colombian man with a trim beard appeared on the walkway, wearing a bow tie and black apron over his white dress shirt. He was heading for the cellar with a fastidious gait.

The tasting room had closed for the day. Dr. Corwin followed behind the sommelier, padding silently over the mosaic stone tiles. There was a restroom just before the entrance to the cellar. If the sommelier turned and saw him, Dr. Corwin could duck into the toilet.

Intent on his mission, the sommelier left the door open as he hurried to the bottles on the opposite wall. Prepared to waylay him in an emergency—a blow to the temple that would leave no lasting harm—Dr. Corwin walked silently into the room, slipping into the rough-hewn corridor just to the right. He took a few steps inside and squatted beside a dusty oak barrel, deep in shadow. Soon the light in the wine cellar was extinguished, followed by the sound of the door closing and the click of a dead bolt.

So far, so good.

Dr. Corwin dug into his pocket and took out a cigar lighter. He flicked it on as he moved to the entrance of the old storage tunnel, searching for the exact spot where the man in the photo had stood with one hand resting suggestively on the wall. Once in position, he bent over and felt around for loose stones. Finding nothing, he expanded outward, searching in a wide radius.

Still no luck, and the flame was burning his thumb.

The sound of another key in the lock broke the silence. Dr. Corwin hurried to extinguish the light and scurried deeper into the tunnel. The farther he went, the mustier it smelled, and he heard the pitter-patter of rodent feet inside the walls.

As before, whoever had entered did not stay long. Dr. Corwin guessed most of the bottles ordered at dinner were kept at the main bar, and only special orders were serviced in the cellar. In any event, he resumed searching as soon as the person left, this time using a pocketknife to probe the mortar between the irregularly cut stones. Now he found more than he bargained for: plenty of the mortar had disintegrated, allowing him to loosen the stones.

One stone was particularly susceptible to his examination. With a grim smile, he inserted the blade to pry it out, leaving a small cavity in the wall. He leaned down to illuminate it.

Inside was a wooden matchbox.

Tamping down his excitement, Dr. Corwin reached inside to extract the box. It bore no commercial imprint and looked homemade. He slid the box open and saw a folded piece of paper inside. After extinguishing the flame to cool his fingers, he reignited the lighter and examined the lined yellow paper. It was in good condition, and of the sort widely available in stores. His excitement grew as he saw, in the middle of the paper and written crisply in blue ink, a row of numbers and mathematical symbols that made no sense to him.

A code then.

Ah, a man after my own heart.

The sound of a key turning the dead bolt interrupted the silence yet again. He extinguished the flame and scrambled back into the darkness, still holding the loosened stone, the wooden box, and the piece