SEPHY ENTERED THE COPY SHOP in an outfit typical of the eighties. She wore tight jeans, a leather jacket, and a plaid shirt open as far as decency would allow, without revealing her bra. Her sunglasses, contrasting with the red of her lips, gave her a singular, provocative, enfant terrible look.
Her presence caught the attention of some young men photocopying papers for university. They glanced sideways several times at the young German woman's shapely body, as if some irresistible force of attraction compelled them to do so. She tuned out the dissipated, collective thoughts of that handful of restless hormones, observing the postcards displayed in a small niche in the window. It wasn't worth focusing on any of those boys.
Too much ocean for extremely fragile ships... —That's what she thought.
She forgot about the teenagers when she realized she was also attracting the attention of the sixty-somethings who had just entered. At least they, upon realizing Sephy was watching them, had the decency to hide their admiration for her by glancing at the newspapers hanging on the display. Such restraint on the part of the elderly men seemed unnatural to her, for, in reality, they usually drooled in the presence of a pretty girl.
When it was finally her turn, she took from her briefcase a sheet of parchment with Gothic characters written in ochre-colored ink, faded with age. The only employee in the store was surprised to see that it was an authentic medieval codex—she recognized it by the texture of the paper—and not a facsimile reproduction, as she had seen on many occasions.
Sephy, noticing the agitated clerk's hesitation, looked at her over her sunglasses.
— I need a color photocopy... is there a problem? — she asked dryly.
— It's a very old manuscript — the woman told her — The machine could damage it. My advice is that you photograph it.
— I understand, but I'll take the risk.
Believing she had done the right thing by warning her, the woman did her job with the client's acquiescence. Seconds later, she handed him the copy.
— Is there a fax service? — Sephy asked again.
— Yes, of course — the woman replied. — Can you tell me the number you want to send it to?
She handed him a note with the digits, also handing him back the photocopy of the codex. The clerk went to the other end of the counter, while Sephy put the original in his folder. A short while later, the woman returned with the sheet, the note, and the proof of delivery.
— Anything else? — she asked.
— No. Tell me how much I owe you.
— Two euros sixty.
She left the coins on the green cloth covering the counter, leaving without even saying goodbye. Outside, she crossed the street, ready to order a huge mug of beer at the inn across the street. She needed to make a phone call, and there was no better place to do so than the terrace of a Madrid tavern.
She entered the maze of tables and chairs, most of them occupied, until she found an empty one in the corner. She sat down before losing her seat to a couple who, like her, were looking for a spot outside, enjoying the sunny September day. She quickly called the waiter over to order a pitcher of beer and some grilled sausages.
When he left, she took her cell phone from her purse. After making sure no one could overhear the conversation, she dialed the number of Frida Weizsäcker, her roommate.
She soon heard the automated voice of the answering machine, telling her to leave a message after the tone. Sephy didn't see any point in talking to a machine, but she had to do it to get ahead with the work she had set out to do.
Frida was the only one who could help her, precisely because she had no connection to the Agency. Furthermore, she trusted her completely. It was no coincidence that they were close friends and had lived together for three years. It was a skin-deep issue. And that was the best guarantee of trust.
— Frida, my dear... — she began in German — ...when you get home, you'll find a fax I just sent you from Spain. It's a copy of an encrypted medieval codex. I need you to translate it and let me know the result as soon as possible. If possible, by tonight. Use the decryption program I have in the office. I know you can do it. A kiss.
She put away her cell phone and opened the folder she'd left on the desk. Her fingers traced the Gothic characters of the Toledo manuscript. Despite the warning from the organization The Widow's Sons, she hadn't been able to destroy a parchment for which the Masonic society that had hired her was willing to murder two innocent people. She needed to know what was so important hidden in those words. So he decided to burn a couple of crumpled sheets of paper instead of the document.
He had a feeling that once the message was transcribed, he would be in for a pleasant surprise.