It was John Achatz, the brilliant Boston lawyer. "Kush, is that you?" he asked in an agitated voice. "I hope I'm not calling too early."

"No, it's not too early," Kush groaned. "Not if you're on Paris time, which is six hours ahead of Boston."

"I guess that would make it 1 pm in Paris, given that it's 7 am here on Eastern Standard Time. Sorry to be intruding so early in the morning."

A pained smile flashed across Kush's face. How ironic, he thought, that the telephone, so invasive of our privacy, had actually been invented here in Boston, where people have long been known for their Yankee reserve.

"Listen, Kush" John said, "I wouldn't be calling like this if it weren't an emergency. The fact is. . . . . " suddenly John's voice dropped to a fierce whisper. ". . . We can't - find - The Buonorotti Anagram."

"You can't find it?"

"There's not a copy to be found in Boston. It's as if they've all disappeared. I'm beginning to think . . . it's not an accident."