“It’ll work. They won’t have a choice but to follow it. The question is, how will Kholkov handle it?”
Following the throng, half of whom were taking a guided tour, the other half on their own exploration, Sam and Remi made their way down the broad, white-graveled path toward the chapel. Back at the dock, Kholkov and his three companions were disembarking.
“You think they’re armed?” Remi asked.
“I’d put money on it.”
“We could find someone, see if there are any security guards.”
“I don’t want to put anyone in Kholkov’s way. Who knows what he’d do? Besides, right now we’re still a step ahead. No use in squandering that. Let’s keep going, finish the job, find what we’ve come for, and go.”
“Okay. So: the riddle. The first half we’ve solved,” Remi said. “That leaves us with two lines: ‘The Genius of Ionia, his stride a battle of rivals’ and ‘A trio of Quoins, their fourth lost, shall point the way to Frigisinga.’ Something about that first line keeps nagging me.”
“Such as?”
“Something from history. A connection I’m overlooking.”
From behind them they heard a voice: “Pardon me, please . . . excuse me. . . .”
They turned and saw a woman on crutches trying to get past them. They stepped aside, and the woman smiled her thanks as she passed. Remi’s eyes narrowed as she watched her move off.
“I know that look,” Sam said. “Lightbulb pop on?”
Remi nodded, her eyes still fixed on the woman. “Her crutches. The one on her right is set a notch lower.”
“So?”
“Put it another way: Her stride isn’t ‘a battle of rivals,’ ” she replied, her face lighting up. “That’s it, come on.” She hurried down the path to where it widened before the chapel and stopped at t
he fence, making sure they were away from prying ears. She hurriedly began tapping on her iPhone’s screen. “There! Got it! You’ve heard of the Ionian League—ancient Greece, a confederation of states formed after the Meliac War?”
“Yes.”
“One of the members of the Ionian League was the island of Samos—the birthplace of the ‘Genius of Samos,’ also known as Pythagoras. You know, the father of the triangle?”
“I’m still not following.”
“The woman’s crutches . . . one was shorter than the other. If you stretch your imagination they formed a scalene triangle—two unequal sides.”
Now Sam caught on. He smiled. “Pythagoras was the father of the isosceles triangle—two equal sides . . .”
“ ‘His stride a battle of rivals,’ ” Remi quoted again.
“So we’re looking for an isosceles triangle.”
“Right. Probably marked by Laurent’s cicada stamp. That leaves us with one line: ‘A trio of Quoins, their fourth lost, shall point the way to Frigisinga.’ ”
Sam looked over his shoulder and scanned the crowds until he spotted Kholkov, who was strolling around the landing area. His cohorts wouldn’t be far away. Sam was about to turn away when he saw Kholkov pull a BlackBerry from his pocket and study the screen. He jerked his head up, looked around, then gestured to someone in the crowd. Ten seconds later his three companions were huddled around him. After a brief conversation two of them turned and started jogging back to the dock. Kholkov and the other man headed for the chapel path.
“Took the bait,” Remi said.
“But only partially. That’s what I was afraid of. The question is, when will he realize the obvious?”
“Which is?”
“That he’s got us trapped. All they have to do is stake out the dock and wait for us to come back.”
CHAPTER 47