Peter stumbled out of Heathrow Airport into a soggy London evening. He wore the grime and exhaustion of thirty-six hours' travel. There had been a long layover in Amsterdam, but the passport belonging to Corbett Zickafoose, Anna's soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, had done its job. British border agents barely glanced at it before waving Peter and his little suitcase along.

Now he crowded onto the Piccadilly Line bound for the city, nervously scanning the faces for any that seemed out of place, too quick to turn away, too slow. Backing up against the bulkhead in the corner, he held the little suitcase to his chest, crinkling the paper note in his breast pocket—the runic message his father had left him in the Grieg album. He closed his eyes, those strange words still reverberating in his mind. Seh-mee-nah see-nah-pees. Whatever they meant, whatever their purpose, the answers waited at the end of the Piccadilly Line—at the British Museum.

Exiting at Goodge Street Station, Peter trudged up the steps and found himself on a busy street hemmed in by tall brick buildings. The scents of diesel and grease hung in the damp air. A fine drizzle fell from the halogen sky, blurring the lamplights, softening the din of passing cars.

The hotel was just a few blocks north of the station. Back at Heathrow, Peter had bought a burner phone and booked a room. The hotel was three stories of black paint and white trim, Georgian maybe. He was not sure. All he knew was that it was close to the British Museum, that it accepted cash-only payments, and that it was cheap. Peter had only the cash he had withdrawn in Seattle and exchanged at Heathrow; by now, the credit cards Anna took from Corbett would have been reported as stolen.

Anna.

Peter rolled his suitcase across the worn carpet to the check-in desk. It was clerked by a pasty young man with intense acne and a distinct aversion to eye contact. He scanned the passport Peter handed him and entered the information into a computer. Then taking a cash deposit, he handed over a key, a set of linens, and a stack of rough and yellowed towels that must have once been soft and white.

The room was on the third floor at the end of a creaky hallway. Peter opened the door and switched on the light. A barred window overlooked the busy street below. A bare mattress sagged on the gray metal frame. Mildew grew along cracks in the plaster ceiling. Peter stepped inside and locked the door's handle. There was no deadbolt, no chain. Shutting the curtains, he sat on the edge of the mattress and held the burner phone in his lap.

Anna.

It was not just her seizures he was worried about, but her safety. The layover in Amsterdam gave him plenty of time to realize what a coward he had been, what a fool: a coward for involving Anna in first place and a fool for letting her so easily push him out the door. By fleeing, Peter had put her in even greater danger, because whoever wanted to find him would return to interrogate her. Peter replayed their last conversation a hundred times, picking through her bitter words and flimsy logic until nothing remained but her cold and frightened face. She knew the danger all along.

Now Peter lifted the phone, as heavy as a granite slab. Entering the number for King County Hospital in Seattle, he asked the operator to page Dr. Brisling. It would be safe to ask him if Anna was all right. He might even pass along a message.

As Peter waited for the doctor to call back, he made the bed and washed his face in the sink. Shedding his grimy clothes, he slipped under the covers and set his phone on the nightstand, close to his ear. Then he fell asleep.

Gray morning light crept through the curtains. Peter bolted up and grabbed his phone. No calls. No messages.

Changing into fresh clothes, he brushed his teeth and sat on the edge of the bed. Once more, he called King County Hospital and asked to page Dr. Brisling.

When after ten minutes Brisling had not called back, Peter took the note his father had left for him in the Grieg album and unfolded it on his lap.

Vindolanda Tablet III-245

British Museum London

From a pamphlet he had gotten at the airport, Peter called the British Museum's main number. Six selections and two transfers later, he found himself speaking to a woman with a deep, husky voice.

"Adriana Fitzimmin, B.E.P.," she said.

Peter introduced himself as Corbett Zickafoose, a student from the US.

"Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Zickafoose?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me about the Vindolanda Tablet."

"The Vindolanda Tablets," she corrected. "We've many on display. May I direct you to our Roman Britain collection in the Weston Gallery?"

"I'm looking for one in particular, I think."

"Ah, the birthday invitation to Sulpicia Lepidina? That's a delightful glimpse into the social lives of the Romano-British ruling class."

Peter had no idea what she was talking about. Again, he glanced at his father's note. "It says here . . . Roman numeral three, followed by the number two-forty-five."

A pause. "Could you repeat the number please?"

"Roman numeral three, then two-four-five."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Corbett Zickafoose."

Another pause. "Well, Mr. Zickafoose, that does sound like one of our accession numbers, but I'm afraid series number three ends with specimen two hundred and thirteen. There is no specimen two hundred and forty-five. Are you certain of the number?"

"Yeah, I'm sure of it."

"Are you here in London?"

"Yes."

"Then meet me at the winged lions in one hour."

"The what?"

"The winged lions. They're the largest, and heaviest, pieces in the museum. Room six on the ground level. You can't miss them."

"You can meet me now?"

"Would you prefer another time?"

"No. No. Thank you. How will I recognize you?"

"I will be the one who does not look like a bewildered tourist. One hour then."

Peter hurried down Great Russell Street, stealing glances through the high, wrought-iron fence at the British Museum's imposing neoclassical façades and towering white colonnades. Ascending the main steps, he paused at a sculpture, the fragment of an enormous ebony face, like wreckage from a fallen god.

The museum's Great Court was a cavernous space domed in reticulated sea-green glass, supported at its apex by a thick cylindrical tower wrapped in twin spiral staircases. Despite the lofty dimensions, the constant murmur of voices gave the place a hive-like feel.

Peter veered left through a colonnade and down a hallway lined with ancient Egyptian statues and busts. Ahead, a clot of tourists had formed around a glass display. According to the map, it was the original Rosetta Stone. But all Peter could see was a ring of shocked faces gaping down at a heavyset woman in a flowery muumuu as she convulsed on the cold floor. He thought of Anna, her left hand withered in her lap even as she pushed him away. A security guard barged through the crowd, radio to her mouth. Now Peter remembered that scene back in Seattle, the crazy woman in the red dress dancing bare-breasted on the hood of her car.

Shoving it all out of his mind, he continued down the hall and through a low doorway to the Near East collection. There stood the twin Assyrian Lions. Twelve feet tall and carved from charcoal alabaster, they wore the bearded and turbaned heads of kings. According to the display, the lions once guarded the royal palace of King Ashurnasirpal II at Nimrud, near the modern city of Mosul in what is today Iraq. But in the British Museum, they guarded little more than a drinking fountain. Yet their featureless eyes seemed to abide on some distant horizon, ancient and mysterious.

"Mr. Zickafoose," someone called out. "Mr. Zickafoose?"

Adriana Fitzimmin was six feet tall, big-boned, and fair-skinned. Her cropped, wiry hair was dyed a shade of auburn that complemented the mint green of her slacks and blazer.

"Come with me," she said, ushering him through an unmarked door. He followed her up a narrow flight of stairs, through another door, and down an administrative hallway.

Her cramped and cluttered office afforded a territorial view of the golden-leaved trees that grew along the museum's back entrance. She closed the door, leveled her green eyes at Peter, and took his hand firmly, all business.

"Adriana Fitzimmin," she said. "Curator for Britain, Europe, and Prehistory." Then she slipped her left hand beneath their clasped right hands as if expecting a bribe. When Peter failed to oblige, she cocked her head, released his hand, and asked him to sit.

"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice," he said.

Adriana Fitzimmin sat behind her desk. Then she ducked down and began rummaging through a low drawer. "Did you hear the news?"

"What news?"

She popped back up. "Your vice president, of course."

Peter had seen the headlines exiting Heathrow—US Vice President Albert Stone Dead at Eighty-Four—but it hardly seemed to matter.

She sighed and pressed her hands together. "So, what may I do for you, Mr. Zickafoose?"

"The Vindolanda Tablet. I mentioned it on the phone."

"Right. May I ask why you want to know about this particular artifact?"

"Honestly, I don't even know what it is."

"Then how did you know to ask for that particular accession number?"

"A professor gave it to me."

"And what is this professor's name?"

"He's at the University of Washington in Seattle. I doubt you'd know him."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"His name is Daniel Barshman."

She puckered her lips as if considering the name. "Perhaps you're right," she said at last. She stood and straightened her blazer. "Well, Mr. Zickafoose, I'd be happy to ask one of my assistants to show you to the Weston Gallery."

"Wait." Peter slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, fingers sliding over the crisply folded paper.

Adriana Fitzimmin leaned forward, knuckles planted firmly on her desk. "I believe this would be easier if we each dropped our pretenses."

"Pretenses?"

She smiled and stood straight. "If I were traveling incognito, I would choose a less cumbersome name. They say travel light, don't they?" She sat again and seemed to shrink a little behind her desk. "Corbett Zickafoose is not your real name, unless I am wholly mistaken. Oh, don't look so surprised." She ducked again to rummage through the drawer. This time she came up with a photograph and handed it to Peter.

It was a copy of the photo his parents used to keep on the refrigerator, Peter in a cap and gown, one arm around his father's narrow shoulders, the other around his mother's waist. "How did you get this?"

"Your father gave it to me."

"He was here?"

"Of course. Oh, I suspected it was you all along, from the moment you uttered that accession number. I had only to see you in person to be sure of it."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Well, I was curious. A man doesn't travel under a false name without good reason. And I suspect you have one."

Peter studied the woman's coarse features. "There is. But why did my dad come here? When?"

She frowned. "First, answer this. When I shook your hand, why didn't you identify yourself by the usual means?"

"Usual means? What's that?"

"Didn't your father send you?"

"No, he didn't send me. He's dead."

She cupped her hand to her mouth.

"It was a house fire."

She lowered it slowly. "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I had no idea." Her expression of shock soon gave way to one of confusion. "But if he didn't send you, how did you get the number for the Vindolanda Tablet?"

Peter pulled out his father's note, unfolded it, and handed it over. "He left me that, but he never got to explain what it meant."

She studied it intently, her frown slackening into a nod. "Come," she said, leading him to the door. "I think this is what he meant for you to see."

____________________

Image: The British Museum, taken from http://www.telegraph.co.uk/british-museum/