Angelopolis A Novel Page 0,68

chemistry from Cambridge University and, in 1982, come to the academy where he worked closely on a number of classified projects. He’d received prestigious awards and distinctions. But the strings of biographical information didn’t catch Bruno’s attention nearly so much as the picture that appeared alongside the text. Godwin was a thin man with bright red hair, a long sharp nose, and piercing black eyes.

“It isn’t much,” Bruno said at last.

“There’s never anything meaty in the general files,” Yana said, giving him a sly look. “Almost anyone can access this kind of information.”

She resumed her typing until various windows began flashing by in such rapid succession that Bruno could hardly keep up with them as they appeared and disappeared on the screen. Suddenly she stopped. “It’s weird. Another piece on Merlin Godwin does exist, a classified dossier created in 1984, but it has been deleted.”

“How is that possible?”

“Someone with clearance went in and erased it,” Yana said.

“Erasing a classified file isn’t exactly easy to do.”

“Clearly someone went through a lot of trouble.”

“Could there be another way to access it?”

“Nothing is ever completely lost on this network,” Yana said. “This document was probably stored inside the classified archive, and it was most likely encrypted, which would mean that there’s a trace somewhere.” Yana turned back to the laptop. “Let’s see what I can do.”

With a click, the streams of Cyrillic gave way to legions of binary numbers falling across the screen. A report appeared; he made out the name Angela Valko written at the top. As he watched Yana begin to read, he knew that she had found something of interest. He could only hope that it would be extraordinary.

Smolyan, Rhodope Mountains, Bulgaria

It seemed to Azov that they had risen high above the inhabited world to a remote and hidden place where, with one step, he would disappear into a mountain pass, never to be seen again. Everywhere they turned, they found silence. He looked over his shoulder, watching the street with wary attention. He’d monitored the road and was certain that they had been alone the entire drive, and yet he couldn’t help but feel that someone was watching them, that they were surrounded by danger at every moment.

The moon shone against the stark stone walkways. Shuttered shops and cafés sat in pools of darkness, their awnings drawn. Ancient buildings rose from rough jags of hewn stone. As he led Vera and Sveti away from the square, it seemed to Azov as though the entire foundation of the village had been carved directly from the rock, each building retaining the swirls of mineral in the marble. Looking over the village, he saw gorges and valleys falling away in tiers, each new depth like a sheet of linen absorbing the inky night.

They moved through a warren of streets, each one twisting as it rose. At a dead end, Azov stopped, looked behind, and turned back. He had been to the house before, but in daylight; the labyrinthine structure of dark narrow streets had temporarily confused him. Within steps, however, he found his bearings. “Here it is,” he said, stopping abruptly before a tall and narrow black door framed by a crumbling stucco façade. The house was one of a row of village houses, three stories high, with pale blue shutters closed to the street. Azov picked up a brass knocker and brought it down upon a sheet of metal.

“Identify yourself.”

The voice, familiar as it was, startled him from his thoughts. He looked up to find a man with glasses and long white hair wearing what seemed, from the shadowy street, to be a military greatcoat. He held a gun in his hand.

“Tell me exactly what in the hell you’re doing outside my door at three thirty in the morning,” the man said.

“Dr. Valko,” Azov said, his voice calm. “It is Hristo Azov, from the angelological outpost on St. Ivan Island. Forgive me for coming to you like this without warning, but we need to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

Raphael Valko squinted, as if trying to make out the faces of each member of the group. He paused as he saw Azov, his expression softening as he recognized his colleague. “Azov,” he said. “My friend, what are you doing here?”

“I think we’d better speak inside,” Azov said, looking over his shoulder as a cat ran from the shadows.

“I’ve been hoping you would return,” Valko said. “But I expected some warning—a letter, perhaps, or a messenger. It isn’t wise to come here so