St Paul’s Labyrinth: The explosive new thriller perfect for fans of Dan Brown and Robert Harris!. Jeroen Windmeijer

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СКАЧАТЬ belonging to the realm of fables, but persistent rumours about the tunnels were widely accepted to be true.

      Then there was Annie’s Verjaardag, the café in the old city vaults which everyone ‘knew’ were part of an underground network of tunnels that led to the Burcht. The city had developed so densely around these areas that there had never been a serious attempt to find out how much truth there really was in the old stories.

      Although Peter knew a great deal about the history of Leiden, he hadn’t managed to make a correct guess about even half of the stories on the tour. The lesson he had taken away from the experience was: if a story sounded too unlikely to be true, then it probably was true.

      He ran his finger over the Nieuwstraat, another ‘invisible’ canal. He squinted at the page until the fine outlines of the buildings faded away and all he could see were the red and blue delineations that formed an alternative map of the city.

      He tapped his finger on the picture.

      If there had been a tunnel present ab urbe condita, he thought, then perhaps there wouldn’t have been much digging needed to connect it to the roofed-over canals … What if it wasn’t just one tunnel, but a whole labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city? My god, this could be one of the greatest archaeological discoveries of the century …

      He put the book down and picked up the new mobile phone again. The only apps on it were the pre-installed programs it would have been sold with, and Wickr. Tomorrow he would go to a phone store and ask if they could find out who it was registered to.

      Peter jumped when his own phone rang. He involuntarily synchronised his breathing with the ringtone, breathing in when the tune played, and out when it paused.

      An 0900 number. That could be the police.

      Just as he was about to answer it, the ringing stopped.

      Then it immediately rang again. He answered it this time.

      ‘Is this Mr De Haan?’ The voice sounded formal but friendly.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘This is the Leiden constabulary of the Hollands Midden regional police. We’ve been looking for you, Mr De Haan.’

      ‘So I, er … so I understand. I …’ Peter felt his face redden. He would make a useless criminal, he thought. He would fall to pieces the minute he was interrogated.

      ‘Where are you at the moment? We can come and pick you up, if that’s easier for you.’

      ‘This is about Arnold van Tiegem, isn’t it? Is there any news?’

      ‘This will be easier if we discuss it face to face. I can send a car for you. That would be the quickest way, I think. Where are you now?’

      ‘I’m … I’ll come myself. I can walk.’

      ‘Sir, will you please—’

      Peter hung up. He put the telephones inside his jacket and stuffed his wallet into his trouser pocket.

      On his way outside he realised that his phone made him easy to trace. If he changed his mind and didn’t go to the police station after all, they would have no trouble finding him. He stopped at the faculty’s pigeonholes and slipped his own phone into the box that had his name above it. It was an intuitive decision that instantly felt right.

      He decided to visit Judith first. She was the only person he could talk to in confidence about this absurd situation, and her house was close to his route to the police station on the Langegracht.

      Less than ten minutes later, he arrived at the Sionshofje on a side street off the Haarlemmerstraat. He pushed open the heavy, green outer door and walked into the large inner courtyard, which was bordered by a brick pathway. There were no lights on in Mark’s house. He was away travelling of course, but Judith’s house was dark too. Surely it was too early for her to go to bed? Had she gone out?

      He looked through the window, but the living room looked deserted. He knew that Judith kept a key under a flower pot near the front door. He removed it, carefully opened the door and turned on the light.

      As he stepped through the door, a new message arrived.

      He opened it nervously.

      ‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!

      By that heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –

      Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

      It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

      Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?’

      Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’

      He wasn’t much of a poetry connoisseur, but even he immediately recognised it as a verse from Edgar Allen Poe’s famous poem The Raven, about a mysterious raven’s midnight visit to a man mourning the death of his lover.

      Nevermore … The poem’s distraught protagonist is denied the hope of ever being reunited with his deceased love. Peter had barely finished reading the poem when the message disappeared. Nevermore …

      Peter called out Judith’s name, but no answer broke the silence. He climbed the narrow staircase to the first floor, but it was dark there too. He hurried back downstairs.

      Now he regretted leaving his own phone behind. Like many other people, he hardly knew any phone numbers by heart now that he had a smartphone.

      However, just then another message arrived. He struggled to hold in an expletive.

      Do not seek help. Only you can find her.

      It was immediately followed by another.

      Follow the black raven.

      A few seconds later, the messages were gone.

      Follow the black raven … What? Do not seek help? Find her? Judith? What did she have to do with it?

      The phone vibrated again. It was a link this time. He clicked on it. A digital clock appeared on his screen. The time on it was counting down.

      17:08:22 – 17:08:21 – 17:08:20 …

      He stared at the screen, transfixed.

      The starting time was displayed in the top left-hand corner of the screen. Two o’clock in the afternoon.

      Almost seven hours had gone already.

      THE FIRST VISION

      And behold, I saw a young man standing on the bow, with his arms wide like a bird. He gazes up to the heavens but his eyes are closed. He is short, his nose is long, and despite his youth, his head is already bald. He has a friendly appearance. The play of shadows and light on his face changes his countenance from man to angel and back again.

      And the prow cuts through the clear blue water, rising out of the sea on the crest of a wave and coming back down with a crash, СКАЧАТЬ