Rubens ran his arm across his damp forehead. The midday sun blazed through the skylight set high in the roof of the converted boxing gym. The large open hall, which served as both his home and office, was bathed in brilliant sunlight. In the centre of the hall stood the raised platform of the boxing ring where Rubens was sitting working at his table, surrounded by a security cage. The metal lockbox that Blake had brought him was by his side. The meshed door to the cage was open and cast a mosaic of elongated diamond shapes across the floor.
He hadn’t slept much, as he was eager to re-examine the extraordinary documents. He pulled the freestanding magnifying glass closer to himself and lowered his chin to his chest, peering into the lens. Holding his breath, he unfolded Wren’s letter and raked the page with his eyes.
The tint of the sepia ink was consistent with the purported date of the document. Modern inks contain chemical varnishes, which glisten in a way quite foreign to their older counterparts. The flamboyant handwriting style was a match with the authenticated samples of Wren’s writing that he had downloaded from the British Library’s online archives. Even Wren’s characteristic use of what was known as a ‘leading s’ was much in use in the letter. In Wren’s time, the letter ‘s’ was often written like a backwards ‘f’. There were numerous examples in the letter. Rubens flicked the page over and examined the blank side for any other marks or blemishes that could further substantiate the provenance of the document. There was nothing. It was all in the report he had emailed over to Blake.
He willed his hand to stop trembling, the involuntary movement exaggerated under the magnifying glass. The page was in immaculate condition and had obviously been stored over the centuries with great care.
According to Wren’s letter, the fabled Logos Stone had been hidden in London by the Templars some 800 years ago. Contained within the coded text of the single page of Wren’s letter was the key to finding its location. Rubens set the letter down on the table, stood up and reached over to the other text that Blake had brought him. As he did so, he recited aloud a Hebrew prayer, the words taken up into the open space of the converted boxing gym.
He placed his outstretched hand on the cover of the Sefer Yetzirah, the book traditionally known as the Book of Creation. A shiver of anticipation travelled up his back. As his fingertips touched the ancient leather cover, he felt his heart accelerate. He controlled the impulse to kiss the sacred text. With reverence he opened the book and put it down next to Wren’s letter. He leafed through the pages of the book, his fingertips gently drifting from right to left over the Hebrew letters.
He paused a moment and rolled his chair closer, the rolls of his stomach spilling over the tabletop. Rubens read on and found the page containing the diagram of the Tree of Life, the symbolic representation of the process by which God brought the universe into being.
‘By the Logos of the Lord the heavens were made, their starry host by the breath of his mouth,’ he said to himself, reciting the words of Psalm 33:6. His eyes flashed with excitement. Drawn in faded coloured ink, the ten circular Sephirot, or divine numbers, were arranged in three columns: a central line of four, flanked on either side by a line of three. His head inched closer. The ancient relic that Rubens was holding in his hands described how, through the ten Sephirot, God created the universe and everything in it. They were the sacred building blocks of the entire universe; all set in motion, or destroyed, by the divine utterance of the Logos.
The same Logos had been passed down to Abraham as part of God’s holy covenant with him, its words etched into a sacred stone by God Himself. Ruben’s face scrunched in concentration. And then there was the secret eleventh Sephirot, the representation of perfect divine knowledge …
Suddenly Rubens sat up, startled and confused. He could hear rapidly approaching footsteps from inside the building. Before he could get to his feet, three men had entered the gym.
Two of the men were huge, like walking concrete slabs, with bald heads. Both of them had gun-like bulges under their light jackets. They looked like identical twins, and they were positioned either side of the third man like bookends.
Ruben’s brain was flashing with danger. ‘How the hell did you get in?’
‘The door was open,’ said the apparent leader of the group.
‘You take me for a fool?’ barked Rubens, moving to the end of the table towards the cage door.
‘I hope we aren’t interrupting?’ said the Teacher with a glint in his eye, ‘but we have a mutual acquaintance.’
The lines bracketing Rubens eyes deepened. ‘Acquaintance?’
‘Carla Sabatini. She very conveniently supplied us with the door code,’ smiled the Teacher.
Rubens shot him a dirty look. ‘Get the hell out before I call the police.’
‘Mr Rubens, let me cut to the chase. We don’t have much time. I need something in your possession.’
Rubens didn’t answer; instead he gritted his teeth.
‘You see, Carla explained about the Sefer Yetzirah and the Christopher Wren document she and Vincent Blake passed to you. I understand you are quite an authority on the subject. They happen to be very important to me. I need to see them.’
Rubens swallowed loudly.
‘I need to see them, now.’
‘Go to hell!’ Rubens spat back.
‘What a quaint expression,’ said the Teacher as he flicked something from his shoulder. After a moment, he gave out an exaggerated sigh and nodded a signal. In unison, the two heavies drew their weapons from beneath their jackets. There was a glint of steel and Rubens’ muscles tightened. He could feel sweat dribbling down his back. The two men directed their weapons upwards and raked the ceiling with gunfire. The skylight shattered in a cacophony of sound, sending a barrage of glass fragments onto the floor like a hailstorm. There was a moment of frozen silence.
‘I haven’t got time to play games. Where are the documents?’ The Teacher’s eyes flashed with menace and then were drawn to the objects on the table in front of Rubens. ‘Ah, there they are,’ said the Teacher, his face dark and unwavering.
With lightening quick reflexes, Rubens shut the ancient book with a snap, gathered up the letter and placed them both in the circular lockbox. Quickly, he closed its lid, sending a click up through his fingertips. With his eyes fixed upon the intruders, he spun the outer combination ring several turns. ‘Back off,’ shouted Rubens edging his way to the cage door.
Suddenly, he saw a movement above. His eyes darted towards the tattered remains of the skylight. There was a large black shape strobing against the golden disc of the sun. He blinked his eyes shut for a moment, dazzled by the flashing light. By the time he had opened them again, a thrumming sound filled the air. It was a huge raven beating its wings heavily. For a brief second he stared in horror at the power of the bird. Then, in an instant, Rubens’ bulky frame made for the cage door. He fumbled for the bolt, trying to slam it home, but in that moment the raven powered itself against the frame. The cage door burst open, knocking Rubens off his feet.
The bird was on him immediately, its razor-sharp talons sinking into his shoulders. Rubens’ arms flailed at the writhing mass of muscle and feathers. His head thrashed and twisted under the frenzied attack. An excruciating scream erupted from the cage as the bird’s beak ripped at his throat. Blood pulsed through his outstretched fingers. He gasped for breath, frantically trying to pull the bird away. But the bird kept coming at him, knocking him onto the floor. Suddenly, the raven’s beak shot like a striking cobra towards his face. The back of his head bounced off the floor under the relentless assault. A tortured scream echoed off the walls. Rubens felt a flash of pain lance through his left side, and then his chest clamped violently. His body gave out a shudder and then fell still. The bird unfurled its massive wings and shook its head feathers, sending a spray of blood and Rubens’ left eyeball rolling across the floor.
The three men crunched their way to the cage. Using the side rail, the Teacher pulled himself up the small wooden staircase onto the boxing ring. He gave a snort of derision as he stepped over Rubens’ lifeless body. He made a slow circuit of the table, eyeing up the strange circular object sitting there. Picking it up, he gave it a shake. The Teacher could feel the book and Wren’s letter shift inside. His mind was taken over by the single thought of how to get the documents out. A look of grinding frustration crossed his face. The Teacher’s eyes focused on the four concentric rings on the object’s front and the curious designs stamped on them.
Slowly, a sly look came over him. ‘It’s a combination, the symbols need to be lined up.’ Tutting at the simplicity of the task, the Teacher began matching the symbols up with each other. He used the motif of the pyramid as his reference, its simple sloping geometry making it easy to match up the rings. It took a matter of seconds to realign the symbols. ‘And this must be the release mechanism,’ he said, fingering the pointer of the galloping horse carrying the two knights.
He gave himself a satisfied smile and then pushed down on the pointer. A sound reverberated inside the lockbox and something sharp snapped at his hand, causing pain to flare across his fingers. Recoiling from the object, he dropped it on the table with a heavy thud. With his mouth opening and closing silently, he lowered his eyes to the table. It was as if the lockbox had suddenly turned into some type of oversized martial arts throwing star, its rim bristling with blades. As panic began to rise up in his throat, the Teacher raised his left hand to his face. Small jets of arterial blood spurted from ragged stumps of flesh where his fingers used to join his knuckles. Horror filled his eyes.