Free The Alchemist’s Code by Martin Rua

paper in front of me. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like us to do a cross-check of the pieces sold, optioned and those which we have seen recently together.”
    At that point, my mind went completely blank.
    â€œErm. Okay, then, let’s do it.”
    A slightly surprised expression appeared on the man’s face, as though my answer had puzzled him. He pulled himself together quickly, however, and began what he called a cross-check. The papers that he had given me contained places, dates, times, names of people and strange, meaningless symbols, like those I had found on the pages of the newspaper.
    â€œI’ll read first and you repeat after me, ok?” The man said, as though speaking to a child with learning difficulties.
    â€œAll right,” I said placidly.
    â€œJerusalem, 1118, the Temple Mount.”
    I read aloud from my own sheet that same phrase, next to which there was a symbol. At the sight of this strange sign, which appeared to be some kind of rune, I was overcome with a dizziness that lasted only a few seconds. The man must have noticed.
    â€œAre you all right? Do you want to tell me something?”
    The date and location didn’t bring anything to mind except some memories related to my medieval studies. I wondered what the reason was for this strange interrogation I was undergoing, and to which I may have already been subjected to in recent weeks. Why did those symbols cause those strange sensations?
    I had no way of knowing what answers I had given the man on previous days. Just as I did not remember reality when I was under the influence of drugs, I did not remember the precise details of my fake life now that my mind was almost free.
    â€œI don’t know, is it something to do with the Crusades?” I said.
    â€œDo you remember any details in particular?”
    â€œWhat kind of details?”
    â€œNames that this date and this place bring to mind – symbols, numerical sequences.”
    Another absurd question. It was like the ones Deckard used in
Blade Runner
to identify the replicants. I shook my head.
    â€œI’m sorry, nothing in particular.”
    He just nodded.
    â€œAll right, let’s move on. Berlin, March 1945, New Synagogue.”
    Another date and place that meant nothing to me. Why so many questions about distant events and places that meant nothing to me?
    This game was starting to get on my nerves, so I snapped, “Look, I’ve no idea, this one doesn’t mean anything to me either.”
    Showing no signs of giving up, he set before me another sheet, and when I saw it I could not conceal my reaction. It showed a simple spoked wheel, but there was something familiar about it. Instinctively I touched the Spider-Man toy in my pocket, and the man noticed.
    â€œPerhaps you’d like your friend to help you?” he asked, pointing to the pocket of my coat.
    He knew. The man knew, and that could only mean one thing. They had been spying on me when my old toy had caused those visions.
    â€œMaybe if you concentrate you can tell me something useful, and in return I could tell you something about your wife.”
    He had decided to show his hand.
    I jumped up from the desk, bent over the sheets in front of him and looked into his eyes, then moved away slowly.
    â€œMy wife is everything to me. I don’t care about anything else. Tell me where she is, you son of a bitch.”
    I thought that my reaction had taken him totally by surprise, but I was wrong. His left hand, in fact, slipped under the desk and, as quick as a flash he was on me, trying to inject something into my neck with a jet injector.
    We ended up rolling on the floor, the syringe dangerously close to me. He was strong, and we found ourselves in the narrow space between his desk and the wall. Desperately, I looked around me for something that I could use, and my eye fell on the large glass ashtray that stood next to the computer. I had to get there, but I