"Book of Souls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cooper Glenn)PROLOGUEAfter thirty-odd years in the rare-books business, Toby Parfitt found that the only time he could reliably and deliciously muster a frisson of excitement was the moment when he would delicately stick his hands into a packing crate fresh from the loading dock. The intake-and-catalogue room of Pierce amp; Whyte Auctions was in the basement, deeply insulated from the rumbling traffic of London’s Kensington High Street. Toby was content to be in the silence of this comfortable old workroom, with its smooth oak tables, swan-neck lamps, and nicely padded stools. The only noise was the pleasant rustling of handfuls of shredded packing paper as he scooped them out and binned them, then, disconcertingly, asthmatic breathing and a thin-chested wheeze intruded. He looked up at the blemished face of Peter Nieve and grudgingly acknowledged him with a perfunctory bob of his head. The pleasure of discovery would, alas, be tainted. He couldn’t tell the youth to bugger off, could he? “I was told the lot from Cantwell Hall was in,” Nieve said. “Yes. I’ve just opened the first crate.” “All fourteen arrived, I hope.” “Why don’t you have a count to make sure?” “Will do, Toby.” The informality was a killer. Toby! No Mr. Parfitt. No sir. Not even Alistair. Toby, the name his friends used. Times had certainly changed-for the worse-but he couldn’t summon the strength to buck the tide. If a second-year associate felt empowered to call the Director of Antiquarian Books, Toby, then he would stoically bear it. Qualified help was hard to find, and young Nieve, with his solid second in Art History from Manchester, was the best that £20,000 could buy nowadays. At least the young man was able to find a clean shirt and a tie every day, though his collars were too generous for his scrawny neck, making his head look like it was stuck onto his torso with a dowel. Toby ground his molars at the deliberate and childlike counting-out-loud to fourteen. “All here.” “I’m so glad.” “Martin said you’d be pleased with the haul.” Toby rarely made house calls anymore. He left them to Martin Stein, his Deputy Director. In truth, he loathed the countryside and had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, out of town. On occasion, a client would have some real gems, and Pierce amp; Whyte would try to wheedle itself in to snatch business away from Christie’s or Sotheby’s. “Believe me,” he assured his Managing Director, “if I get wind of a Second Folio or a good Brontë or Walter Raleigh out there in the provinces, I will descend on it at warp speed, even if it’s in Shropshire.” From what he was led to understand, Cantwell had a trove of fair to middling material, but Stein had indeed told him he would enjoy the diversity of the consignment. Lord Cantwell was typical of their clientele, an elderly anachronism struggling to maintain his crumbling country estate by periodically selling off bits of furniture, paintings, books, and silver to keep the taxman at bay and the pile from falling down. The old boy sent his really good pieces to one of the major houses, but Pierce amp; Whyte’s reputation for books, maps, and autographs put it in leading position to land this slice of Cantwell’s business. Toby reached his hand into the inside pocket of his form-fitted Chester Barrie suit and extracted his thin white-cotton specimen gloves. Decades earlier, his boss had steered him to his Savile Row tailor, and, ever since, he had clothed himself in the best fabrics he could afford. Clothes mattered, and so did grooming. His bristling moustache was always perfectly trimmed, and visits to his barber every Tuesday lunchtime kept his gray-tinged hair unfailingly neat. He slid on the gloves like a surgeon and hovered over the first exposed binding. “Right. Let’s see what we have.” The top row of spines revealed a matched set. He plucked out the first book. “Ah! All six volumes of Freeman’s “All firsts, Toby.” “Good, good. They should go for six hundred to eight hundred. You often get mixed sets, you know.” He laid out all six books carefully, taking note of their condition before diving back into the crate. “Here’s something a bit older.” It was a fine old Latin Bible, Antwerp, 1653, with a rich, worn, calf binding and gilt ridges on the spine. “This is nice,” he cooed. “I’d say one fifty to two hundred.” He was less enthusiastic about the next several volumes, some later editions of Ruskin and Fielding in dodgy condition, but he grew quite excited at Fraser’s “Whose granddaughter?” “Lord Cantwell. She had an unbelievable body.” “We don’t, as a habit, make reference to our client’s bodies,” Toby said sternly, reaching for the broad spine of the book. It was remarkably heavy; he needed two hands to drag it out securely and lay it on the table. Even before he opened it, he felt his pulse race and the moisture dissipate from his mouth. There was something about this large, dense book that spoke loudly to his instincts. The bindings were smooth old calf leather, mottled, the color of good milk chocolate. It had a faintly fruited smell, redolent of ancient mold and damp. The dimensions were prodigious, eighteen inches long, twelve inches wide, and a good five inches thick: a couple of thousand pages, to be sure. As to weight, he imagined hoisting a two-kilo bag of sugar. This was much heavier. The only markings were on the spine, a large simple hand-tooled engraving, incised deeply into the leather: 1527. He was surprised, in a detached way, to see his right hand trembling when he reached out to lift the cover. The spine was supple from use. No creaking. There was a plain, unadorned, creamy endpaper glued onto the hide. There was no frontispiece, no title page. The first page of the book, the color of butter, roughly uneven to the touch, began without exposition, racing into a closely spaced handwritten scrawl. Quill and black ink. Columns and rows. At least a hundred names and dates. He blinked in a large amount of visual information before turning the page. And another. And another. He skipped to the middle. Checked several pages toward the end. Then the last page. He tried to do a quick mental calculation, but because there was no pagination, he was only guessing-there must have been well over a hundred thousand listed names from front to back. “Remarkable,” he whispered. “Martin didn’t know what to make of it. Thought it was some sort of town registry. He said you might have some ideas.” “I’ve got lots of them. Unfortunately, they don’t hang together. Look at the pages.” He lifted one clear of the others. This isn’t paper, you know. It’s vellum, very-high-quality stuff. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s uterine vellum, the crème de la crème. Unborn-calf skin, soaked, limed, scudded, and stretched. Typically used in the finest illuminated manuscripts, not a bloody town registry.” He flipped pages, making comments and pointing here and there with his gloved forefinger. “It’s a chronicle of births and deaths. Look at this one: Nicholas Amcotts 13 1 1527 Natus. Seems to announce that a Nicholas Amcotts was born on the thirteenth of January 1527. Straightforward enough. But look at the next one. Same date, Mors, a death, but these are Chinese characters. And the next one, another death, Kaetherlin Banwartz, surely a Germanic name, and this one here. If I’m not mistaken, this is in Arabic.” In a minute, he had found Greek, Portuguese, Italian, French, Spanish, and English names, and multiple foreign words in Cyrillic, Hebrew, Swahili, Greek, Chinese. There were some languages he could only guess at. He muttered something about African dialects. He pressed his gloved fingertips together in contemplation. “What kind of town has this population diversity, not to mention this population density in 1527? And what about this vellum? And this rather primitive binding? The impression here is something quite a bit older than sixteenth-century. It’s got a decidedly medieval feel to it.” “But it’s dated 1527.” “Well, yes. Duly noted. Still, that is my impression, and I do not discount my gut feelings, nor should you. I think we will have to obtain the views of academic colleagues.” “What’s it worth?” “I’ve no idea. Whatever it is, it’s a specialty item, a curiosity, quite unique. Collectors like uniqueness. Let’s not worry too much about value at this stage. I think we will do well by this piece.” He carefully carried the book to the far end of the table and put it on its own spot away from the others, a pride of place. “Let’s sort through the rest of the Cantwell material, shall we? You’ll be busy entering the lot into the computer. And when you’re done, I want you to turn every page in every book to look for letters, autographs, stamps, et cetera. We don’t want to give our customers freebies, do we?” In the evening, with young Nieve long gone, Toby returned to the basement. He passed quickly by the whole of the Cantwell collection, which was laid out on three long tables. For the moment, those volumes held no more interest to him than a load of old “What are you?” he asked out loud. He made doubly sure he was alone since he imagined that talking to books might be career-limiting at Pierce amp; Whyte. “Why don’t you tell me your secrets?” WILL PIPER WAS never much for crying babies, especially his own. He had a vague recollection of crying-baby number one a quarter of a century earlier. In those days he was a young deputy sheriff in Florida, pulling the worst shifts. By the time he got home in the morning, his infant daughter was already up-and-at-’em, doing her happy-baby routine. When he and his wife did spend a night together, and Laura cried out, he’d whine himself, then drift back to sleep before Melanie had the bottle out of the warmer. He didn’t do diapers. He didn’t do feedings. He didn’t do crying. And he was gone for good before Laura’s second birthday. But that was two marriages and one lifetime ago, and he was a changed man, or so he told himself. He’d allowed himself to be molded into something of a twenty-first-century metrosexual New York father with all the trappings of the station. If, in the past, he could attend crime scenes and prod at decomposing flesh, he could change a diaper. If he could conduct an interview through the sobs of a victim’s mother, he could deal with crying. It didn’t mean he had to like it. There had been a succession of new phases in his life, and he was a month into the newest, an amalgam of retirement and unfiltered fatherhood. It had been only sixteen months from the day he abruptly retired from the FBI to the day Nancy abruptly returned to work after maternity leave. And now, for at least brief stretches of time, he was left on his own with his son, Phillip Weston Piper. Their budget didn’t allow for more than thirty hours per week of nanny time, so for a few hours a day he had to fly solo. As lifestyle changes went, this was fairly dramatic. For much of his twenty years at the FBI, he’d been a top-of-the-heap profiler, one of the most accomplished serial-killer hunters of his era. If it hadn’t been for what he charitably called his personal peccadilloes, he might have gone out large, with accolades and a nice postretirement gig as a criminal-justice consultant. But his weaknesses for booze and women and his stubborn lack of ambition torpedoed his career and fatefully led him to the infamous Doomsday case. To the world, the case was still unsolved, but he knew better. He’d broken it, and it had broken him in return. Its legacy was forced early retirement, a negotiated cover-up, and reams of confidentiality agreements. He got out with his life-barely. On the bright side, fate also led him to Nancy, his young Doomsday partner, and she had given him his first son, a six-month-old, who sensed the rift when Nancy closed the apartment door closed behind her and had started to work his diaphragm. Mercifully, Phillip Weston Piper’s high-pitched squall was squelched by rocking, but it abruptly resumed when Will put him back in his crib. Will hoped beyond hope that little Phillip would burn himself out and slowly backed out of the bedroom. He put the living-room TV onto cable news and tweaked the volume to harmonically modulate the nails-on-chalkboard squeal of his offspring. Even though he was chronically sleep-deprived, Will’s head was awfully clear these days, thanks to his self-imposed separation from his pal, Johnnie Walker. He kept the ceremonial last half-gallon bottle of Black Label, three-quarters full, in the cabinet under the TV. He wasn’t going to be the kind of ex-drunk who had to purge the place of alcohol. He visited with the bottle sometimes, winked at it, sparred with it, had a little chat with it. He taunted it more than it taunted him. He didn’t do AA or “talk to someone.” He didn’t even stop drinking! He had a couple of beers or a generous glass of wine fairly regularly, and he even got buzzed on an empty stomach. He simply prohibited himself from touching the nectar-smoky, beautiful, amber-his love, his nemesis. He didn’t care what the textbooks said about addicts and abstinence. He was his own man, and he had promised himself and his new bride that he wouldn’t do the falling-down-drunk thing again. He sat on the sofa with his large hands lying dumbly on his bare thighs. He was set to go, kitted out in jogging shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers. The nanny was late again. He felt trapped, claustrophobic. He was spending way too much time in this little parquet-floored prison cell. Despite best intentions, something was going to have to give. He was trying to do the right thing and honor his commitments and all that, but every day he grew more restless. New York had always irritated him. Now it was overtly nauseating. The buzzer saved him from darkness. A minute later, the nanny-troll, as he called her (not to her face), arrived, launching into an attack on public transport rather than an apology. Leonora Monica Nepomuceno, a four-foot-ten-inch Filipina, threw her carrier bag on the kitchenette counter, then went right for the crying baby, pressing his tense little body against her incongruously large breasts. The woman, who he guessed was in her fifties, was so physically unattractive that when Will and Nancy first learned her nickname, Moonflower, they laughed themselves to exhaustion. “Ay, ay,” she crooned to the boy, “your auntie Leonora is here. You can stop your crying now.” “I’m going for a run,” Will announced through a scowl. “Go for a long one, Mister Will,” Moonflower advised. A daily run had become part of Will’s postretirement routine, a component of his new-man ethos. He was leaner and stronger than he had been in years, only ten pounds heavier than his football-playing weight at Harvard. He was on the brink of fifty, but he was looking younger thanks to his no-scotch diet. He was big and athletic, with a strong jaw, boyishly thick tawny hair, and crazy blue eyes, and clad in nylon jogging shorts, he turned women’s heads, even young ones’. Nancy still wasn’t used to that. On the sidewalk, he realized the Indian summer was over, and it was going to be uncomfortably chilly. While he stretched his calves and Achilles tendons against a signpost, he thought about shooting back upstairs for a warm-up suit. Then he saw the bus on the other side of East 23rd Street. It started up and belched some diesel exhaust. Will had spent the better part of twenty years following and observing. He knew how to make himself inconspicuous. The guy in the bus didn’t, or didn’t care. He had noticed the rig the previous evening, driving slowly past his building at maybe five miles per hour, jamming traffic, provoking a chorus of honks. It was hard to miss, a top-of-the-line Beaver, a big royal blue forty-three-footer with slides, splashed out in gray and crimson swooshes. He had thought to himself, who the hell takes a half-a-million-dollar motor home into lower Manhattan and drives around slow, looking for an address? If he found it, where was he going to park the thing? But it was the license plate that rang bells. Nevada. Nevada! Now it looked like the guy had indeed found adequate parking the night before, across the street just to the east of Will’s building, an impressive feat, to be sure. Will’s heart started to beat at jogging speed even though he was still stationary. He had stopped looking over his shoulder months ago. Apparently, that was a mistake. Gimme a break, he thought. Still, this didn’t have their signature. The watchers weren’t going to come at him in a half-baked-Winnebago battle-wagon. If they ever decided to pluck him off the streets, he’d never see it coming. They were pros, for Christ’s sake. It was a two-way street, and the bus was pointed west. All Will had to do was run east toward the river, make a few quick turns, and the bus would never catch up. But then he wouldn’t know if he was the object of somebody’s exercise, and he didn’t like not knowing. So he ran west. Slowly. Making it easy for the guy. The bus slid out of its space and followed along. Will picked up the pace, partly to see how the bus responded, partly to get warm. He got to the intersection of 3rd Avenue and jogged in place, waiting for the light. The bus was a hundred feet behind, stacked up by a line of taxis. He shielded his eyes from the sun. Through the windshield he made out at least two men. The driver had a beard. On the go again, he ran through the intersection and weaved through the sparse pedestrian sidewalk traffic. Over his shoulder, he saw the bus was still following west along 23rd, but that wasn’t much of a test. That came at Lexington, where he took a left and ran south. Sure enough, the bus turned too. Getting warmer, Will thought, getting warmer. His destination was Gramercy Park, a leafy rectangular enclave a few blocks downtown. Its perimeter streets were all one-ways. If he was still being tailed, he’d have a bit of fun. Lexington dead-ended at 21st Street at the park, where 21st ran one way west. Will ran east, along the outside of the park fence. The bus had to follow the traffic pattern in the opposite direction. Will started doing clockwise laps around the park’s perimeter, each lap taking only a couple of minutes. Will could see that the bus driver was struggling with the tight left turns, nearly clipping parked cars at the corners. There wasn’t anything remotely funny about being followed, but Will couldn’t help being amused every time the giant motor home passed him on its counterclockwise circuit. With each encounter, he got a better look at his pursuers. They failed to strike fear in his heart, but you never knew. These clowns definitely weren’t watchers. But there were other sorts of problem children out there. He’d put a lot of killers in jail. Killers had families. Vengeance was a family affair. The driver was an older fellow, with longish hair and a full beard the color of fireplace ash. His fleshy face and ballooned-out shoulders suggested a heavy man. The man in the shotgun seat was tall and thin, also on the senior side, with wide-open eyes that furtively engaged Will sidelong. The driver stiffly refused to make eye contact altogether, as if he actually believed they hadn’t been made. On his third circuit, Will spotted two NYPD cops on walking patrol on 20th Street. Gramercy Park was an exclusive neighborhood; it was the only private park in Manhattan. The residents of the surrounding buildings had their own keys to the wrought-iron gates, and the police were visible around there, prowling for muggers and creeps. Will pulled up, breathing heavily. “Officers. That bus over there. I saw it stop. The driver was hassling a little girl. I think he was trying to get her inside.” The cops listened, deadpan. His flat Southern drawl played havoc with his credibility. He got a lot of those out-of-town looks in New York. “You sure about that?” “I’m ex-FBI.” Will watched for a short while only. The cops stood smack in the middle of the street and halted the bus with hand waving. Will didn’t stick around. He was curious, sure, but he wanted to get over to the river for his usual circuit. Besides, he had a feeling he’d see these geezers again. To be on the safe side, when he got back home, he’d take his gun out of the dresser and oil it up. WILL WAS GRATEFUL he had chores and obligations to occupy himself. In the early afternoon, he made the rounds to the grocer, the butcher, and the wine merchant without a single sighting of the big blue bus. He slowly and methodically chopped the vegetables, ground the spices, and browned the meat, filling the postage-stamp kitchenette and the whole apartment with Piper’s trademark chili smoke. It was the only dish that was foolproof in his hands, dinner-party safe. Phillip was napping when Nancy came home. Will shushed her then gave her a first-year-of-marriage hug, the kind where the hands wander. “When did Moonflower leave?” “An hour ago. He’s been asleep.” “I missed him so much.” She tried to pull away. “I want to see him!” “What about me?” “He’s numero uno. You’re numero dos.” He followed her into the bedroom and watched as she bent over the crib and kicked off her shoes. He’d noticed this before, but it really struck him at that moment: she had developed a serenity, a mature womanly beauty that, frankly, had snuck up on him. He impishly reminded her regularly that when they were first thrown together on the Doomsday case, she hadn’t exactly make him woozy with desire. She was on the plump side at the time, in the throes of freshman syndrome-new job, high stress, bad habits, and the like. Candidly, Will was always more of a lingerie-model sort of a guy. As an adolescent high-school football star, he had been imprinted with the body image of cheerleaders the way a duckling is imprinted by a mother duck. All his life, he saw a great body, he tried to follow it. Truth be told, he never thought about Nancy in a romantic way until a crash diet turned her into more of an hourglass. So I’m shallow, he would have admitted if anyone called him on it. But early on, looks weren’t the only impediment to romance. He also had to introduce her to cynicism. At first, her fresh-out-of-the-academy gung ho, eager-to-please personality sickened him, like a stomach virus. But he was a good and patient teacher, and under his tutelage she learned to question authority, play loose with the bureaucracy, and generally sail close to the rocks. One day, bogged down by the impossibility of the Doomsday case, he realized that this woman was doing it for him, punching all her buttons. She had gotten really pretty. He came to find her smallness sexy, the way he could envelop her in his arms and legs, almost making her disappear. He liked the silky texture of her brown hair, the way she blushed all the way down to her breastbone, her giggle when they made love. She was smart and sassy. Her encyclopedic knowledge of art and culture was intriguing, even to a man whose idea of culture was a Spider-Man movie. To top it off, he even liked her parents. He was ready to fall in love. Then Area 51 and the Library entered his consciousness and sealed the deal. It made him think about his life, about settling down. Nancy handled the pregnancy like a champ, eating healthy, exercising every day, almost right up to delivery. Postpartum, she quickly shed pounds and got herself back to fighting form. She was hell-bent on maintaining her physique and erasing motherhood as a career issue. She knew the Bureau couldn’t openly discriminate against her, but she wanted to make certain she wouldn’t be treated, even subtly, like a second-class citizen, flailing ineffectively in the musky testosterone pool of striving young men. The end result of all this physical and emotional flux was a maturation of mind and body. She returned to work stronger and more confident, emotionally like marble, solid and cool. As she would inform her friends, husband and infant were both behaving, and all was good. To hear Nancy tell it, falling in love with Will had been utterly predictable. His hunky, dangerous bad-boyishness was as alluring as a bug zapper to a moth and just as deadly. But Nancy was not going to let herself be incinerated. She was too tough and savvy. She had gotten comfortable with the age difference-seventeen years-but not the attitude difference. She could happily deal with the naughtiness. But she refused to permanently hook up with a Wrecking Ball, the sobriquet Will’s daughter, Laura, had bestowed on him in honor of years of destroyed marriages and relationships. She didn’t know or much care if his heavy drinking was a cause or an effect, but it was toxic, and he had to promise it would stop. He had to promise to be faithful. He had to promise to let her develop her career. He had to promise to let them stay in New York at least until she could get a transfer to someplace that floated both their boats. He didn’t have to promise to be a good father; she had a sense that wasn’t going to be a problem. Then she accepted his marriage proposal, her fingers crossed. While Nancy napped with the baby, Will finished the dinner prep and celebrated with a small Merlot to wet his whistle. The rice was steaming, the table was set and right on time, his daughter and son-in-law arrived. Laura was just beginning to show, all beaming and radiant. She looked like a willowy free spirit, a latter-day hippie in a gauzy dress and thigh-high boots. In truth, he thought, she looked a lot like her mother a generation ago. Greg was in town covering a story for the For Will, the book still stung, and as a kicker, whenever he looked at his copy, proudly displayed on an end table, he couldn’t help thinking about its role in cracking the Doomsday case. He’d shake his head and get a faraway look in his eyes, and Nancy would know where his mind was straying. Will picked up on Greg’s moodiness before he was over the threshold and shoved a glass of wine into his paw. “Cheer up,” Will told him, as soon as Laura and Nancy slipped into the bedroom for some baby time. “If I can do it, you can do it.” “I’m fine.” He didn’t look fine. Greg always had a lean and hungry look, caved-in cheeks, angular nose, sharply dimpled chin, the kind of face that cast shadows on itself. It didn’t look like he ever ran a comb through his hair. Will always thought he was a caricature of a beat reporter, caffeined-up and sleep-deprived, taking himself way too seriously. Still, he was a good guy. When Laura got pregnant, he stepped up to the plate and married her, no questions, no drama. Two Piper weddings in one year. Two babies. The men sat. Will asked what he was working on. Greg monotoned about some forum on climate change he was covering, and both of them got bored quickly. Greg was in early-career doldrums. He hadn’t found a big story yet, one he could latch onto to change his oblique trajectory. Will was well aware of this when Greg finally asked, “So Will, last time I checked, nothing ever materialized on the Doomsday case.” “Nope. Nothing.” “Never got solved.” “Nope. Never.” “The killings just stopped.” “Yep. They did.” “Don’t you find that unusual?” He shrugged. “I’ve been out of it for over a year.” “You never told me what happened. Why they took you off the case. Why they had a warrant out for you. How it all got resolved.” “You’re right. I never did.” He got up. “If I don’t stir that rice, we’re going to need chisels.” He left Greg behind in the living room to glumly finish his wine. Over dinner, Laura was ebullient. Her hormones were in fine fettle, stoked by holding Phillip in her arms and imagining her own. She ladled heaping spoonfuls of chili into her mouth and in between was gabby. “How’s Dad doing with retirement?” “He’s lost momentum,” Nancy observed. “I’m sitting right here. Why don’t you ask me?” “Okay, Dad, how’re you doing with retirement.” “I’ve lost momentum.” “See?” Nancy laughed. “He was doing so well.” “How many museums and concerts can a man stand?” “What kind of man?” Nancy asked. “A real one who wants to go fishing.” Nancy was exasperated. “Then go to Florida! Go fishing in the Gulf for a week! We’ll get the nanny to do more hours.” “What if they want you to do overtime?” “They’ve got me on identity theft, Will. I’m just online all day. There’s no chance of overtime till they put me back on real cases.” Will changed the subject, petulant. “I want to go every day, whenever I want.” She stopped smiling. “You just want us to move.” Laura kicked Greg under the table, his cue. “Do you miss it, Will?” he asked. “Miss what?” “Working. The FBI.” “Hell no. I miss fishing.” He cleared his throat. “Have you ever thought about writing a book?” “About what?” “About all your serial killers,” then off Will’s piercing stare, he quickly added, “except Doomsday!” “Why would I want to revisit that crap?” “They were infamous cases, popular history. People are fascinated.” “History! I think it’s sordid crap. Besides, I can’t write.” “Ghost it. Your daughter writes. I write. We think it’ll sell.” Will got angry. If he’d been drunk, he would have exploded, but the new Will just frowned and deliberately shook his head. “You guys need to make your own way. I’m not a meal ticket.” Nancy slapped his arm. “Will!” “That’s not what Greg was saying, Dad!” “No?” The apartment buzzer went off. Will pushed himself out of his chair and hit the intercom button hard with irritation. “Hello?” There was no response. “Hello?” The buzzer went off again. And again. “What the hell.” Will angrily rode the elevator down to the lobby and peered at the empty vestibule. Before he could jump onto the street for a look-about, he saw a business card stuck at eye level onto the lobby door with a piece of tape. THE 2027 CLUB. HENRY SPENCE, PRESIDENT. And a phone number with a 702 area code. Las Vegas. There was a handwritten note in small block letters: Mr. Piper, Please call me immediately. 2027. The date made him suck air through his teeth. He pushed the door open. Outside, it was cool and dark, a few men and women on the sidewalks bundled up against the chill, walking purposefully, the way people did in this residential neighborhood. There was no one loitering and no bus. His mobile phone was in his pocket, where he kept it during the day to trade baby calls with Nancy. He entered the number. “Hello, Mr. Piper.” The voice was upbeat, borderline jocular. “Who is this?” Will asked. “It’s Henry Spence. From the motor home. Thanks for returning my message so promptly.” “What do you want?” “I want to talk to you.” “About what?” “About 2027 and other topics.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Will was fast-walking to the corner to see if he could spot the bus. “I hate to be clichéd, Mr. Piper, but this is urgent, a life-and-death matter.” “Whose death?” “Mine. I have ten days to live. Please grant a soon-to-be-dead man’s wish and speak to me.” WILL WAITED UNTIL his daughter had left, the dishes were done, and his wife and son were asleep before he slipped out of the apartment to rendezvous with the man on the bus. He zipped his bomber jacket to his throat, stuffed his hands into his jeans for warmth, and paced back and forth, second-guessing the wisdom of humoring this Henry Spence fellow. Out of an abundance of caution, he had slung his holster over his shoulder and was getting reacquainted with the weight of steel over his heart. The sidewalk was empty and dark, and despite scattered traffic, he felt alone and vulnerable. A sudden siren from an ambulance navigating toward Bellevue Hospital startled him and he could feel the butt of the gun tight against his jacket lining, heaving with his accelerated breathing. Just as he was about to bag the whole thing, the bus arrived and slowed to a halt, its air brakes sighing. The passenger door opened with an hydraulic whoosh, and Will found himself staring at a bushy face high in the driver’s seat. “Good evening, Mr. Piper,” the driver called down. There was a shadow of activity from the rear. “That’s just Kenyon. He’s harmless. Come on board.” Will climbed up, stood next to the passenger seat, and tried to get a snapshot of the situation. It was a habit from the old days. He liked to swoop onto a new crime scene and suck it all in like a giant vacuum cleaner, trying to see everything at once. There were two men, the heavyset driver and a beanpole bracing himself against the kitchen counter midway up the rig. The driver, who seemed to be in his sixties, had the physique of a man who could fill a Santa suit without padding. He had a generous beard the color of squirrel fur, which spilled onto a Pendleton shirt and lay inanimate between a set of brown suspenders. He had a full head of gray-white hair, long enough for a ponytail, but he allowed it to flow over his collar. His skin tone was blotchy and slapped-cheek, his eyes tired and cloudy. But crinkle lines radiating from his eyes suggested a bygone sprightliness. Then there were his appliances. Pale green plastic tubes wrapped around his neck and plunged into his nostrils through prongs. The tubing snaked down his side and plugged into an ivory white box, which was softly chugging at his feet. The man was on oxygen. The other fellow, Kenyon, was also in his sixties. He was mostly skin and bones wrapped in a buttoned-up sweater. He was tall, awkward in posture, conservative in manner, clean-cut with crisply parted hair, jaw-jutting intensity, and the unapologetic eyes of a military man or a missionary or, a fervent believer in-something. The inside of the bus was pure recreational-vehicle eye candy, a box car of rolling opulence, black-marble tiles, polished maple-burl cabinets, white and black upholstery, flat-paneled video screens, cool recessed lighting. At the rear was a master suite, the bed unmade. There were dirty dishes in the sink and the lingering smell of onions and sausages in the cabin. The place looked lived-in, a road trip in progress. There were maps, books, and magazines on the dining-room table, shoes and slippers and balls of socks on the floor, baseball caps and jackets strewn on chairs. Will’s instant take was that he wasn’t in danger. He could safely play this out for a while to see where it went. A car honked. Then another. “Have a seat,” Spence said. His elocution was rounded and earnest. “New Yorkers aren’t the most patient folks.” Will obliged and sat on the passenger seat as Spence shut the door and lurched forward. At the risk of toppling, the tall man folded himself onto the sofa. “Where are we going?” Will asked. “I’m going to drive around in some sort of geometric pattern. You can’t imagine the complexities of parking this behemoth in New York.” “It’s been extremely challenging,” the other man added. “My name is Alf Kenyon. We are very pleased to meet you, sir, even though you almost got us arrested this morning.” While he didn’t feel threatened, Will wasn’t feeling comfortable either. “What’s this about?” he asked sharply. Spence slowed and braked at the red light. “We share an interest in Area 51, Mr. Piper. That’s what this is about.” Will kept his voice even. “Can’t say I’ve ever been there.” “Well, it’s not much to look at-aboveground at least,” Spence said. “Belowground is another story.” But Will wasn’t going to take the bait. “Is that right?” The light changed, and Spence headed uptown. “How’s the mileage on this thing?” “Is that what you’re curious about, Mr. Piper? The mileage?” Will worked his neck muscles to keep both men safely in view. “Look, fellows, I don’t have a clue what you know about me or what you think you know. Let’s just say for the record that I don’t know jack shit about Area 51. My guess is you’re lucky if you get five miles per gallon, so I can save you some money by getting off here and walking home.” Kenyon was quick to respond. “We’re sure you’ve signed confidentiality agreements. We’ve also signed them. We’re as vulnerable as you. We have families too. We know what they’re capable of. That puts us on equal footing.” Spence chimed in. “We’ll be in each other’s hands. I don’t have much time. Please help us.” The traffic on Broadway was light. Will liked being high up, observing the city from a throne chair. He was detached from New York; he wanted no part of it anymore. He imagined commandeering the bus, tossing these men out on their ears, swinging back to pick up Nancy and his son and driving south until the sparkling aquamarine waters of the Gulf of Mexico filled the giant windshield. “What is it you think I can do for you?” Spence answered, “We want to know the significance of 2027. We want to understand what’s so special about February 9. We want to know what happens on February 10. We think you also want to know these things.” “You must want to know!” Kenyon added emphatically. Of course he did. He thought about it every time he watched his son sleeping in his crib, every time he made love to his wife. The horizon. It wasn’t so far away, was it? Less than seventeen years. In a blink, it would be there. He’d be there too. He was BTH, beyond the horizon. “Your card said The 2027 Club. How do you get into that club?” “You’re already in it.” “That’s funny, I don’t recall getting my membership in the mail.” “Everyone who knows about the Library is a member. De facto.” Will was clenching his jaw hard enough to ache. “All right. Enough. Why don’t you tell me who you are?” OVER THE NEXT hour Will lost track of their route. He was vaguely aware of moving through Times Square, Columbus Circle, passing the dark, sprawling Natural History Museum, looping through Central Park a few times, the wide tires of the bus sending showers of brittle leaves shooting through the night air. He was listening so hard the city almost disappeared. At Princeton, Henry Spence had been a prodigy among prodigies, a teenager with an advanced case of precociousness. It was the early sixties, the Cold War in full bloom, and unlike many of his peers who applied their intellectual horsepower to the natural sciences, Henry immersed himself in foreign languages and politics. He mastered Mandarin and Japanese and had serviceable skills in Russian. He minored in international relations, and given his conservative Philadelphia Main Line roots, his earnestness and rectitude, he practically wore a flashing “recruit me” sign on his back, beckoning the local CIA man. The professor of Soviet Studies rubbed his hands in anticipation every time he saw the crew-cut young man smoking at the Ivy Club, his pale, intelligent face stuck in a book. To this day, Spence remained the youngest recruit in CIA history and some of the old-timers still talked about this genius kid, prancing around Langley with his giant ego and enormous analytical powers. It was probably inevitable that in time, he would be approached by a nondescript man in a suit, pressing an unlikely business card into his hand bearing the insignia of the US Navy. Spence, of course, wanted to know what the navy wanted with him, and what he was told set his life on its current arc. Will recalled the same puzzlement the day Mark Shackleton told him Area 51 was a naval operation. The military had its traditions, some of them stubbornly silly, and this was one of them. As Will had learned, in 1947, President Truman tapped one of his most trusted aides, James Forrestal, to commission a new, ultrasecret military base at Groom Lake, Nevada, in a remote desert parcel bordering Yucca Flats. Carrying the cartographic designation, Nevada Test Site-51, the base came to be called Area 51 for short. The Brits had found something extraordinarily troubling at an archaeological excavation on the Isle of Wight on the grounds of an ancient monastery, Vectis Abbey. They had opened their Pandora’s box a crack, then slammed it shut when they realized what they’d stepped into. Clement Atlee, the Prime Minister, recruited Winston Churchill to be the go-between with Truman to persuade the American President to take the trove of material off their hands, lest the postwar reconstruction of Britain be sidetracked by this monumental distraction. Project Vectis was born. Forrestal happened to be Secretary of the Navy when he got the assignment, and the project stuck to the Navy Department like paste, qualifying Area 51 as the driest, most land-locked naval base on the planet. The Project Vectis Working Group, personally chaired by Truman, hit upon an ingenious idea to shroud the Area 51 site in disinformation, a ruse that was still working after sixty years. They capitalized on the country’s mania about UFO sightings, orchestrated a staged little drama at Roswell, New Mexico, then spread the rumor that a brand-new base in Nevada might have something to do with alien spacecraft and the like. Area 51 got on with its real mission, the gullible public none the wiser. The Secretary of the Navy in every administration was, by practice, the Pentagon’s point man on all matters related to the base and one of a small handful of officials who had the slightest idea what all the clandestine fuss was about. Recruiting Henry Spence from the rival CIA was considered enough of a coup that Spence was ushered into the Secretary’s office for a meet and greet shortly after he signed on. The jaw-dropping truth of his new assignment was so fresh that he stumbled through the meeting with little subsequent recollection of its substance. Will listened intently as Spence described his first day in the Nevada desert, deep underground in the Truman Building, the main Area 51 complex. As a newbie, he was solemnly taken by his supervisor down to the Vault level and, flanked by humorless, armed guards, the watchers, led into the vast, quiet, chilled space, a high-tech cathedral of sorts, where he first laid eyes on seven hundred thousand ancient books. The most singular and peculiar library on the planet. “Mr. Spence, here is your data,” his supervisor had declared with a theatrical arm wave. “Few men are given the privilege. We’re expecting great things from you.” And Spence began his new life. Area 51 had found more than a talent-the organization had found a zealot. Every single day that he descended underground, for the better part of thirty years, Spence luxuriated in the privilege his old boss had described and the heady entitlement of being plugged into the most rarefied, secret institution in the world. His linguistic and analytical skills served him well, and in a few short years he was in charge of the China desk. Later, he would become the Director of Asian Affairs and would close out his career as the most decorated analyst in the history of the lab. In the seventies, he pioneered a comprehensive approach to obtaining person-specific data utilizing available, albeit primitive, Chinese databases and rudimentary census reports, combined with a vast network of human intelligence he developed in cooperation with the CIA. Maoist purges and population dislocations often forced him to rely on statistical models, but his greatest coup early on was his prediction in 1974 of the July 28, 1976 natural disaster in northeast China, in the mining town of Tangshan, which killed 255,000 people. As soon as the earthquake struck, President Ford was in a position to offer premobilized disaster support to Premier Hua Guofeng, solidifying the post-Nixonian US-China thaw. It was a heady time for Spence. He described, with morbid pride, the excitement he had felt when the first reports reached Nevada of the deadly earthquake, and when he saw the odd look on Will’s face, he added, “I mean, it wasn’t as if I’d In his youth, Spence was a cocky, good-looker who enjoyed life as a single man in boomtown Vegas. But ultimately, blue-blooded WASP that he was, a fish out of water in a new-money, grasping town, he gravitated to birds of a feather. At his country club, he met Martha, a wealthy developer’s daughter, and the two of them married and had children, all of them now accomplished adults. He was a grandfather, but sadly, Martha passed had away from breast cancer before the first grandchild was born. “I never looked up her date,” Spence insisted. “Probably could have gotten away with it, but I didn’t.” He left the lab when he hit the mandatory retirement age, shortly after 9/11. He probably would have stayed longer if they’d let him; it was his life. He had a voracious interest in Area 51 business and liked to insert himself into hot topics, even if they were off the Asia beat. During the summer of 2001, with retirement looming, he made a point to have lunch every day with folks from the US department, trading theories and predictions on the events that would soon kill three thousand people at the World Trade Center. When he retired, he was physiologically old but extremely wealthy thanks to his wife’s family fortune. Her death took a heavy toll on his constitution, and his lifelong two-pack-a-day habit gave him worsening asthmatic emphysema. Steroids and a weakness for rich food made him fat. In time, he’d be scooter- and oxygen-dependent. His dual retirement passions, he confessed, were his grandchildren and the 2027 Club. This bus, dubbed the grandpamobile, was his ticket to mobility and his far-flung family. Spence finished, and, on cue, Alf Kenyon leapt into his own story without giving Will a chance to interrupt. Will felt like he was being played. These guys were opening their kimonos to soften him up for something. He didn’t like it, but he was curious enough to go along. Kenyon was the son of Presbyterian ministers from Michigan. He grew up in Guatemala but was sent stateside for college. At Berkeley, he became fired up by the Vietnam War protest scene and mixed Latin-American studies with a growing sense of radicalism. Upon graduation, he ventured to Nicaragua to help peasants press land claims against the Somoza government. By the early seventies, the Sandinista rebels were starting to get some traction in the countryside, mobilizing antigovernment opposition. Kenyon was a strong sympathizer. His work in the central highlands, however, attracted the unwelcome attention of progovernment militias, and, one day, he was surprised to be visited in his village by a cherubic young American named Tony who was about his age. Tony mysteriously knew an awfully lot about him and offered some unsolicited, friendly advice on keeping a low profile. Kenyon was on the naïve side but worldly enough to recognize Tony as an agency man. The two young men were chalk and cheese, polar opposites politically and culturally, and Kenyon angrily sent him away. But when Tony returned a week later, Kenyon admitted to Will that he was happy to see him again, and brightly blurted out, “I don’t think either of us really knew we were gay!” Will assumed the Tony story had a broader purpose than a disclosure of the man’s sexual identity, so he let Kenyon ramble on in his slow, precise way. Despite their political differences, the men became friends, two lonely Americans on their opposing missions in the hostile rain forest, one Catholic, one Protestant, both devout. Kenyon came to understand that a different CIA man would have probably thrown him to the wolves, but Tony showed genuine concern about his safety and even tipped him off to a militia sweep. Then, with Christmas 1972 approaching, Kenyon made plans to spend a week in Managua. Tony came to visit, and begged, “Yes, begged me!” he said, not to go to the capital. Kenyon refused to listen until Tony told him something that would change his life. “There will be a disaster in Managua on December 23,” he said. “Thousands will die. Please don’t go.” “Do you know what happened on that day, Mr. Piper?” Will shook his head. “The great Nicaraguan earthquake. Over ten thousand killed, three-quarters of all buildings destroyed. He wouldn’t say how he knew, but he scared me silly, and I didn’t go. Afterward, when we became, shall I say, closer, he told me he had no idea how our government knew what was coming, but the prediction was in the system, and he understood it was as good as gold. Needless to say, I was intrigued.” Tony was eventually transferred to another assignment, and Kenyon would leave Nicaragua when full-blown civil war broke out. He returned to the States to get a Ph.D. at Michigan. Apparently Tony had put Kenyon’s name into the system, and Area 51 recruiters got wind of it because they were on the lookout for a Latin-American specialist. One fine day he was visited at his Ann Arbor apartment by a navy man who startled him by asking if he’d like to know how the government knew about the Managua quake. He most certainly did. The hook was set. He joined Area 51 a few years after Spence and was put to work on the Latin-American desk. He and Spence, both cerebral types who loved to talk politics, gravitated to each other and quickly became commuting buddies on the daily shuttle flights between Las Vegas and Groom Lake. Over the years, the Spence clan, for all intents and purposes, adopted the single man and hosted him at holidays and family occasions. When Martha died, Kenyon was Spence’s rock. They retired on the same day in 2001. At the EG amp;G shuttle lounge at McCarran Airport on their last return flight, the men hugged each other and got misty-eyed. Spence stayed at his country-club estate in Las Vegas, Kenyon moved to Phoenix to be near his only family, a sister. The men stayed close, bonded by their shared experiences and the 2027 Club. Kenyon stopped talking. Will expected Spence to pick up the stream again but he too was silent. Then, Kenyon asked, “Could I ask if you’re a religious man, Mr. Piper?” “You can ask, but I don’t see it as your business.” The man looked hurt. Will realized the two of them had been sharing their personal lives in hopes of getting him to open up to them. “No, I’m not very religious.” Kenyon leaned forward. “Neither is Henry. I find it remarkable that anyone who knows about the library isn’t.” “To each, his own,” Spence said. “We’ve had this discussion a thousand times. Alf is in the camp that the Library proves that God exists.” “There’s no other explanation.” “I don’t want to relitigate the matter just now,” Spence said wearily. “The thing that always tickled me,” Kenyon said, “is that I was born into the perfect religion. As a Presbyterian I was hardwired to incorporate the Library into my spiritual life.” “The man is still acting out the Protestant Reformation,” Spence joked. Will knew where he was going. Over the last year, he’d thought about these things himself. “Predestination.” “Precisely!” Kenyon exclaimed. “I was a Calvinist before I had a concrete justification for being one. Let’s just say the Library turned me into a High Calvinist. Very doctrinaire.” “And very opinionated,” his friend added. “I’ve spent my retirement becoming an ordained minister. I’m also writing a biography of John Calvin, trying to figure out how he had the genius to get his theology so right. Frankly, if it weren’t for Henry’s passing, I’d be happy as a clam. Everything makes sense to me, which is a nice place to be.” “Tell me about the 2027 Club,” Will said. Spence hesitated at the wheel as a light turned green. He had to decide whether to swing through the park again. “As I’m sure you know, the last book of the Library ends on the ninth of February, 2027. Everyone with no recorded date of death is BTH, beyond the horizon. Everyone who’s ever worked at the Library has endlessly speculated why the books ended and who was responsible for them in the first place. Was the work of these savants or monks or fortune-tellers or extraterrestrials-yes, Alf, my explanation is as good as yours-was it interrupted by external factors like war, disease, natural disaster? Or is there a more sinister explanation that maybe the people of earth ought to know about. As far as any of us are aware, there was never much of an official effort to understand the significance of the horizon, as it’s called. The Pentagon’s always too focused on mining the data and generating intelligence findings. There’s a lot of badness in the cards, megadisasters in the not-so-distant future that our folks are obsessing over. Something big is looming in Latin America, truth be told. Maybe as 2027 gets closer, it’s going to occur to these geniuses in Washington that we really ought to know what the hell is going to happen the day after. But let me tell you, Mr. Piper, one’s curiosity about the horizon doesn’t cease with retirement. The 2027 Club was formed in the 1950s by some ex-Area 51 types as part retirement social club, part amateur sleuthing group. It’s all very sub rosa, violates our retirement agreements and all that, but you can’t stamp out human nature. We’re curious as hell, and the only folks we can talk to are ex-employees. Plus it gives us a chance to get together and drink adult beverages.” The long soliloquy winded him. Will watched his chest heave. “So what’s the answer?” Will asked. “The answer is…” Spence paused for dramatics, “we don’t know!” He let out a belly laugh. “That’s why we’re driving around Manhattan trying to romance you.” “I don’t think I can help you.” “We think you can,” Kenyon said. “Look,” Spence added, “we know all about the Doomsday case and Mark Shackleton. We knew the guy, not well, mind you, but if someone was going to go off the reservation, it was going to be someone like Shackleton, a grade-A loser, if you ask me. You had some kind of connection to him beforehand, no?” “He was my college roommate. For a year. What’s your source of information on me?” “The Club. We’re networked like crazy. We know that Shackleton smuggled out the US database all the way to the horizon. We know that he set up a smoke screen by inventing a serial-killing spree in New York.” Kenyon sadly shook his head and interrupted. “I still can’t believe the rank cruelty of sending people postcards with their date of death!” Spence continued, “We know his real purpose was base: to make money from a life-insurance scheme! We know you exposed him. We know he was critically wounded by the watchers. We know you were allowed to retire from the FBI and presumably live an unfettered life. Therefore, Mr. Piper, we strongly suspect, virtually to the point of certainty, that you have unique leverage over the authorities.” “What would that be?” “You must have a copy of the database.” Momentarily, Will was back in Los Angeles, fleeing from the watchers, in the backseat of a taxi, urgently downloading Shackleton’s database from his laptop onto a memory stick. Shackleton: rotting away like a vegetable in some godforsaken back ward. “Not going to confirm or deny.” “There’s more to tell,” Kenyon said. “Go on, Henry, tell him everything.” “Back in the midnineties, I got friendly with one of the watchers, a man named Dane Bentley, to the point that he did me the ultimate Area 51 favor. I was insatiably curious. The only people with access to what I wanted to know were the people tasked with making sure we had no access! The watchers, as you know, are a grim lot, but this fellow, Dane, had enough humanity to break the rules for a friend. He looked up my date of death. October 21, 2010. At the time it seemed very, very far away. Kind of creeps up on you.” “I’m sorry.” “Thank you. I appreciate that.” He waited until the next red light before asking, “Did you look yourself up?” Will didn’t see the point in playing possum any longer. “I did. Given the circumstances, I felt I had to. I’m BTH.” “That’s good,” Kenyon said. “We’re relieved to hear that, aren’t we, Henry?” “Yes we are.” “I never wanted to know my date,” Kenyon said. “Preferred to leave it squarely in God’s hands.” “Here’s the thing,” Spence said energetically, banging his hands against the steering wheel. “I have ten days to learn the truth. I can’t postpone the inevitable, but goddamn it, I want to know before I die!” “I can’t see any way I can help you. I really can’t.” “Show him, Alf,” Spence demanded. “Show him what we found a week ago.” Kenyon opened a folder and took out a few pages, a printout from a Web site. He handed them to Will. It was an online catalogue from Pierce amp; Whyte Auctions, an antiquarian bookseller in London, announcing an auction on October 15, 2010, the day after tomorrow. There were multiple color photographs of Lot Number 113, a thick old book with the date 1527 tooled onto the spine. He studied the images and the detailed description of the item that followed. Will skimmed the text, but the gist of it seemed to be that although it was a unique item, the auction house didn’t know what it was. The indicated price range was £2,000 to £3,000. “Is it what I think it is?” Will asked. Spence nodded. “It was a well-known piece of trivia around the shop that one volume of the Library was missing. A book from 1527. With under two weeks to live, I discover the son of a bitch has surfaced at an auction! I’ve got to have it! The damned thing’s been floating out there for six centuries! The one missing book out of hundreds of thousands. Why did it get separated from the others? Where’s it been? Did anyone know what it was? Christ, it may tell us more than every other book sitting in the Vault in Groom Lake. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but for all we know, it could be the key to finding out what the heck 2027 is all about! I’ve got a feeling, Mr. Piper, a strong feeling. And by Hades, before I die I’ve got to find out!” “What does this have to do with me?” “We want you to go to England tomorrow to buy the book for us at auction. I’m too sick to fly, and Alf here, the stubborn bastard, refuses to leave my side. I’ve got you booked in first class, coming back on Friday night. Nice hotel suite too at Claridge’s.” Will gave him a black look, started to reply, but Spence interrupted. “Before you answer, I want you to know that I want something else that’s even more important to me. I want to see the database. I know my own DOD, but I never looked up any of the people who matter to me. For all I know, that fucker, Malcolm Frazier, may Alf’s God strike him dead tomorrow, is onto us. Maybe it’s not my rotten lungs that are going to get me in ten days. Maybe it’s Frazier’s goons. I refuse to shuffle off this mortal coil without knowing if my children and grandchildren are BTH. I want to know if they’re safe. I’m desperate to know! You do these things for me, Mr. Piper, get the book and give me the database, and I’ll make you rich.” Will was shaking his head before the man even finished. “I’m not going to England tomorrow,” Will said flatly. “I can’t leave my wife and son on short notice. And I’m not touching the database. It’s my insurance policy. I’m not going to risk my family’s safety to satisfy your curiosity. I’m sorry, but it’s not going to happen, even though the rich part sounds pretty good.” “Take your wife too. And your son. I’ll pay for everything.” “She can’t get off work just like that. Forget about it.” He imagined how Nancy would react, and it wouldn’t be pretty. “Make a right onto Fifth Avenue and take me home.” Spence got agitated and started to shout and sputter. Will had to cooperate! The clock was ticking! Couldn’t he see that he was desperate! The man began to cough severely and wheeze to the degree that Will thought he might lose control and crash into parked cars. “Henry, calm down!” Kenyon implored. “Stop talking. Let me handle this.” Spence was speechless by then anyway. He dipped his mottled head and signaled Kenyon to take over. “Okay, Mr. Piper. We can’t force you to do something against your will. I thought you might not be inclined to get involved. We’ll bid on the book by telephone. At a minimum, allow us to have a courier hand-deliver it to your apartment on Friday night, where we’ll take possession. In the interim, do us the courtesy of considering the rest of Henry’s generous offer. He doesn’t need the entire database, just DODs for fewer than a dozen people. Please, sleep on it.” Will nodded and remained silent the rest of the way downtown, concentrating on Spence’s wheezing and the hiss of oxygen flowing through his nasal prongs. At that moment, Malcolm Frazier awoke with a start and a scowl, uncharacteristically disoriented. The credits were rolling on the in-flight movie, and the elderly woman in the middle seat was tapping his granite shoulder to get past him to the lavs. The coach seats on the American flight were not configured for his large, muscular body and his right leg was pressure-numb. He rose and shook out the pins and needles and cursed his superiors for not springing for business class. There was nothing about this assignment he liked. Sending the head of security at Area 51 on a mission to buy a book at auction seemed ludicrous. Even this book. Why couldn’t they have sent a lab toad? He would have gladly dispatched one of his watchers to babysit. But no. The Pentagon wanted The Caracas Event. It was T minus thirty days and counting. One of those seminal Area 51 predictions was bearing down on them, but this one was different. They weren’t in their usual reactive, defensive mode. They were going to capitalize on the data, go on the offense. The Pentagon was geared up. The Joint Chiefs were in perpetual session. The Vice President was personally chairing a task force. The full heft of the US government was pushing hard on this. It was the worst possible time for the one missing book to surface. Secrecy was always the top priority at Groom Lake, but no one wanted to be talking about a possible security breech with a month to go until Operation Helping Hand. What Pentagon spin doctor came up with that? If the missing book wound up in some egghead’s hands, who knew what kinds of questions might be asked, what kinds of facts might surface? So Frazier understood why he got the assignment. Still, he didn’t have to like it. The pilot announced they were approaching the coast of Ireland and would land at Heathrow in two hours. At his feet was an empty leather case, specially sized and padded for the job. He was already counting the hours until he was back in Nevada, the priceless 1527 book sitting heavy and snug inside his government-issued shoulder bag. THE AUCTION ROOM at Pierce amp; Whyte was off the main hall on the ground floor of the Georgian mansion. Bidders signed in at a reception desk and entered a fine old room with fawn-colored hardwood floors, a high, plastered ceiling, and one entire wall lined with bookcases that required a ladder to reach the top shelves. The auction room faced the High Street, and with the drapes pulled back, yellow shafts of sunlight intersected with neat rows of brown wooden chairs making a chessboard pattern. There was space for seventy to eighty patrons, and on this fine bright Friday morning, the room was filling up briskly. Malcolm Frazier had arrived early, anxious to get on with it. After registering with a pert girl who cheerfully ignored his surliness, he entered the empty room and sat down in the first row, directly in front of the auctioneer’s podium, where he absently twirled his paddle between a meaty thumb and forefinger. As more people arrived, it became increasingly apparent that Frazier was not the typical antiquarian book buyer. His fellow bidders didn’t look like they could bench-press four hundred pounds or swim underwater a hundred yards or kill a man with one weaponless hand. But Frazier was decidedly more nervous than his nearsighted, flabby brethren, since he had never attended an auction and was only vaguely aware of the protocol. He checked the catalogue and found Lot 113 deep in the brochure. If this was the order of the day, he was afraid he’d have a long, agonizing sit. His posture was erect and stiff, his feet planted heavily beside his shoulder bag, a big block of a man with a face with more angles than curves. In the second row, the chair behind him stayed empty because he blotted out the view to the podium. He had learned about the auction from a Pentagon e-mail flashed to his encrypted BlackBerry. He had been pushing a shopping cart at a suburban Las Vegas supermarket at the time, dutifully following his wife through the dairy section. The chime that went off on the device was the high-priority one, an insistent whoop that made his mouth go dry in a Pavlovian way. Nothing good ever followed this particular alert tone. A long-forgotten Defense Intelligence filter that scanned all electronic media for the keywords “1527” and “book” had been triggered, and a low-level analyst at the DIA forwarded the finding up the line, curious but clueless why anyone in military intelligence would give a hoot over a Web-site listing of an old book coming to auction. But to the cognoscenti at Area 51, this was a bombshell. The one missing volume. The needle in a haystack, found. Where had the book been all these years? What was its chain of possession? Did anyone know what it was? Could anyone figure it out? Was there anything special about this particular volume that could compromise the lab’s mission? Meetings were held. Plans were drawn. Paperwork was pushed up the line. Funds were allocated and wired. Operation Helping Hand was looming, and Frazier was personally chosen by the Pentagon for the job. With the room near capacity, the auctioneers arrived and took their positions. Toby Parfitt, impeccably turned out, approached the podium and began adjusting the microphone and his auction implements. To his left, Martin Stein and two other senior members of the books department seated themselves at a draped table. Each dialed into a telephonic connection for off-site bidders and, with receivers pressed against ears, placidly awaited the start of the proceedings. Peter Nieve, Toby’s junior assistant, positioned himself to his master’s right, a fidgeting dogsbody at the ready. Nieve made sure he was closer to his boss than the new lad, Adam Cottle, who had joined the department only a fortnight earlier. Cottle was a dull-eyed blond in his twenties with short hair and sausage fingers, by looks more of a butcher boy than a book dealer. Apparently his father knew the Managing Director, and Toby was told to take him on, even though he didn’t need the extra help, and Cottle lacked a university degree or, indeed, any relevant experience. Nieve had been merciless to the fellow. He finally had someone lower on the pecking order, and he delegated his most mundane and humiliating chores to the colorless young man, who would quietly nod and get on with the task like a subservient oaf. Toby surveyed the audience, nodding curtly to the regulars. There were a few new faces, none more imposing than the large, muscular gentleman seated in front of him, oddly out of place. “Ladies and gentlemen, the appointed hour has arrived. I am Toby Parfitt, your auctioneer, and I am pleased to welcome you to Pierce amp; Whyte’s autumn auction of select antiquarian books and manuscripts, representing a diverse selection of high-quality literary collectables. Among the many featured offerings today is a veritable treasure trove of material from the collection of Lord Cantwell’s country house in Warwickshire. I would like to inform you, we are also accepting telephonic bids. Our staff is at the ready to assist you with any inquiries. So without further ado, let us begin.” A rear door opened, and a pretty female assistant with white gloves entered with the first lot, demurely holding it out in front of her bosom. Toby acknowledged her, and began, “Lot 1 is a very nice copy of John Ruskin’s Frazier grunted and steeled himself for an ordeal. In New York City, it was five hours earlier, two hours before the sun would crack the chilly gloom over the East River. Spence and Kenyon had awoken early at their nighttime domicile, a Wal-Mart parking lot in Valley Stream, Long Island. In the bus’s kitchen, they made coffee and bacon and eggs, then hit the road to beat the rush hour into lower Manhattan. It was four thirty when they arrived at Will’s door. He was waiting at the curb, shivering from the cold but steaming from an early-morning argument. It hadn’t been a great idea to argue with his wife while she was breast-feeding. He figured that out halfway through their contretemps. There was something mean-spirited about raising his voice and drowning out his son’s gurgling and sucking, not to mention wiping Nancy’s usual look of maternal serenity off her face. On the other hand, he’d made a promise to help Spence, and he argued that at least he hadn’t agreed to haul off to England. Nancy was hardly placated. For her, Doomsday was in the past, and the Library was best forgotten. She understood the danger of black groups like the watchers. She was all about the present and the future. She had a baby she loved and a husband she cherished. Life was pretty good right now, but it could turn on a dime. She told him not to play with fire. Will was nothing if not stubborn. He had grabbed his jacket, stormed out of the apartment, then immediately started feeling rotten. But he refused to turn tail and apologize. The give-and-take of married life was a concept he understood intellectually, but it wasn’t ingrained, and might never be for all he knew. He mumbled something to himself about being pussy-whipped and hit the elevator down button hard, like he was trying to poke someone’s eye out. As soon as he boarded the bus, Will admitted, “Good thing we’re not doing this in my place.” “In the doghouse, Mr. Piper?” Spence asked. “Just call me Will from now on, okay?” he answered moodily. “You got coffee?” He slouched on the sofa. Kenyon poured while Spence touched GET DIRECTIONS on his GPS unit and pulled away from the curb. Their destination was the Queens Mall, where Will figured they could park the bus without much hassle. When they arrived, it was still dark, and the mall was several hours from opening. The parking lot was wide open and Spence parked at the periphery. His cell phone had five bars, so they wouldn’t have to worry about signal quality. “It’s 10:00 A.M… in London. I’ll dial in,” Spence said, getting up and wheeling his oxygen box. He placed the cell phone on the kitchen table on speaker mode, and the three of them sat around it while he punched in the international number. An operator connected them into the auction, and an officious voice answered, “Martin Stein here of Pierce amp; Whyte. With whom am I speaking?” “This is Henry Spence calling from the United States. Hear me okay?” “Yes, Mr. Spence, loud and clear. We’ve been expecting your call. If you could indicate which lots you intend to bid on, it would be most useful.” “Just one, Lot 113.” “I see. Well, I think we might not get to that item until well into the second hour.” “I’ve got my phone plugged in and I’ve paid my wireless bill, so we’ll be okay on this end.” In London, Frazier was fighting jet lag and boredom, but he was too disciplined and stoical to grimace, yawn, or squirm like a normal person. The old books kept marching past in one dull stream of cardboard, leather, paper, and ink. Histories, novels, travelogues, poetry, ornithology, works of science, mathematics, engineering. He seemed to be the only uninterested party. His compatriots were in a lather, bidding furiously against one another, each with a characteristic style. Some would flamboyantly wave their paddles. Others would raise them almost imperceptibly. The real hard-core regulars had facial expressions that were recognized by the staff as indications-a sharp nod, a twitch of the cheek, a raised brow. There was some serious disposable income in this town, Frazier thought, as bids on books he wouldn’t shove under a short table leg, rose into the thousands of pounds. In New York, dawn had come, and daylight filled the bus. Every so often, Stein came onto the line with a progress report. They were getting closer. Will was getting impatient. He’d promised he’d be back before Nancy had to leave for work, and the clock was spinning. Spence’s body was noisy. He was wheezing, coughing, puffing on an inhaler, and whispering curses. When Lot 112 came up, Frazier’s mind cleared, a surge of adrenaline goosing his respiratory rate. It was a large, old volume and at first he mistook it for his target. Toby sang the praises of the book, pronouncing its title fluently in Latin. “Lot 112 is a very fine copy of the anatomy book by Raymond de Vieussens, The bidding was brisk, with multiple interested parties. A dealer at the rear, a heavyset man with an ascot who had been particularly keen all morning on scientific offerings, led the way, aggressively bumping the price by hundred-pound increments. When the dust settled, he had it at £2300. Martin Stein came on the line, and announced, “Mr. Spence, we have reached Lot 113. Please stand by.” “Okay, gentlemen, this is it,” Spence said. Will looked anxiously at his watch. There was still time to get home and avoid a big domestic dustup. Frazier locked his eyes on the book the instant it was brought into the auction room. Even from a distance, he was certain. It was one of them. He’d spent two decades in and around the Library and there was no mistaking it. The time had come. He’d spent the morning watching the action and had learned the mechanics of bidding. Let’s get ready to rumble, he thought, psyching himself. Toby spoke about the book wistfully, as if sorry to see it go. “Lot 113 is a rather unique item, a hand-inscribed journal, dated 1527, beautifully bound in calf hide, over a thousand pages of finest-quality vellum. There is, perhaps, an endpaper that has been replaced at some distant point. The book appears to be an extensive ledger of births and deaths, possessing an international flair, with multiple European and oriental languages represented. The volume has been in the family collection of Lord Cantwell perhaps since the sixteenth century, but its provenance cannot be otherwise ascertained. We have consulted with academic colleagues at Oxford and Cambridge, and there is no consensus as to its origin or purpose. It remains, if I may say, an enigma wrapped in mystery, but it is an outstanding curiosity piece which I now offer at a starting bid of £2,000.” Frazier raised his paddle so obviously it almost made Toby jump. It was the first significant physical movement the large man had made in almost two hours. “Thank you,” Toby said, “may I hear £2500?” From their tinny speaker, Will heard Stein offering 2500, and Spence said, “Yes, that’s fine.” Stein nodded to Toby who said, “There is a telephone bidder at 2500, may I hear 3,000?” Frazier shifted uncomfortably. He’d hoped there wouldn’t be any competition. He raised his paddle. “I have 3,000, looking for 3500,” then a quick “Thank you,” as he pointed to the rear. Frazier turned to see the heavy man with the ascot nodding. “Now looking for 4,000,” Toby said quickly. Stein relayed the bid. “This is horseshit,” Spence whispered to his companions. “I bid 5,000.” “I have 5,000 here,” Stein called out to the podium. “Very well, then,” Toby continued smoothly. “Do we have a bid for 6,000?” Frazier felt a spasm of anxiety. He had plenty of dry powder, but he wanted this to be a cakewalk. He raised his paddle again. “I have 6,000, may I hear 7,000?” The man in the ascot shook his head, and Toby turned to the phone desk. Stein was speaking, then listening, then speaking again until he announced rather grandly, “I have £10,000!” “Let me take the liberty of asking for £12,000,” Toby said boldly. Frazier swore under his breath and lifted his hand. Spence’s palms were moist. Will watched him rub them on his shirt. “I don’t have time to play games,” he said. “It’s your money,” Will observed, sipping his coffee. “I’m jacking this up to 20,000, Mr. Stein.” The announcement set the room buzzing. Frazier blinked in disbelief. He felt for the bulge of his cell phone in his pants pocket, but it was premature to reach for it. He still had plenty of room. Toby’s moustache moved upward ever so slightly as his lip curled in obvious excitement. “Well, then, shall we say 30,000?” Frazier didn’t hesitate. Of course he was in. After several moments, the response came from the telephone desk. Stein announced, in a daze, “The bid has been raised to £50,000!” The murmuring from the audience crescendoed. Stein and Toby looked at each other in disbelief, but Toby was able to maintain his indomitable composure, and simply said, “I have 50,000, may I ask for 60,000?” He beckoned Peter Nieve to his side and whispered for the lad to fetch the Managing Director. Frazier could feel his heart pounding in his barrel chest. He was authorized to go up to $200,000, about £125,000 which his masters had assumed would be an absurdly ample cushion given the upper estimate of £3,000. There wasn’t a penny more in the Pierce amp; Whyte escrow account that had been established for him. They were almost halfway there. Who the fuck is bidding against me, he thought angrily. He raised his paddle emphatically. Spence hit the mute button on his phone and loudly complained, “I wish I could look the son of a bitch who’s bidding against us in the face. Who in hell would pay that kind of money for something that looks like an old census book?” “Maybe someone else who knows what it is,” Will said ominously. “Not very likely,” Spence sniffed, “unless…Alf, what do you think?” Kenyon shrugged, “It’s possible, Henry, it’s always possible.” “What are you talking about?” Will asked. “The watchers. The goons from Area 51 could have gotten wind of it, I suppose. I hope not.” Then he declared, “I’m going to take this up a notch.” “Just how much money does he have?” Will asked Kenyon. “A lot.” “And you can’t take it with you,” Spence said. He unmuted the phone. “Stein, you go ahead and bid £100,000 for me. I don’t have the patience for this.” “Can I just confirm that you said £100,000?” Stein asked, his voice brittle. “That’s correct.” Stein shook his head, and announced loudly, “The telephone bid is now £100,000!” Frazier saw that Toby’s demeanor had turned from excitement to suspicion. He thought, this guy must have just figured out there’s more to the book than he bargained for. “Well, then,” Toby said evenly, looking straight into Frazier’s pugnacious face. “I wonder if sir would like to go to £125,000?” Frazier nodded, opened his mouth for the first time all morning, and simply said, “Yes.” He was nearly maxed out. The last time he had experienced anything close to panic was in his early twenties, a young commando on a SEAL Boat team off the eastern coast of Africa on a mission that had gone bad. Pinned down, outmanned thirty to one, taking RPG fire from some rebel assholes. This felt worse. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the Secretary of the Navy, who, at that moment, was playing an early-morning game of squash in Arlington. His mobile phone rang in a locker, and Frazier heard, “This is Lester. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” Stein presented the new bid of 125,000. Spence told him to hang on a second then muted the phone. “It’s time to finish this,” he growled to his companions. Will shrugged. It was his money. When he came back on the line with Stein he said, “I’m bidding £200,000.” When Stein announced the bid, Toby seemed to steady himself by placing both hands on the podium. The Managing Director of Pierce amp; Whyte, an unsmiling, white-haired patrician, was observing from the wings, tapping his fingers together nervously. Then Toby politely addressed Frazier, “Would sir care to go higher?” Frazier stood and made his way to an unoccupied corner. “I’ve got to make a call,” he said. His constricted voice, coming from this hulk of a man, was almost comically squeaky. “I can give sir a brief moment,” Toby offered. Frazier called Lester’s mobile again, then his Pentagon line, where he reached an assistant. He began pelting the hapless man with a torrent of urgent whispers. Toby watched patiently for a while, then asked, “Would sir like to raise his bid?” he asked again. “Hang on!” Frazier shouted. There was a hubbub from the other bidders. This was decidedly unusual. “Well, do we have it?” Spence asked over the phone. “The other bidder is seeking consultation, I believe,” Stein replied. “Well, tell him to hurry it up,” Spence wheezed. Frazier was in a cold sweat. The mission was on the brink of collapse, and failure wasn’t a contemplated option. He was used to solving problems with calculated force and violence but his usual bag of tricks was useless in a genteel hall in central London surrounded by pasty-faced bibliophiles. Stein arched his eyebrows to signal Toby that his telephone bidder was complaining. Toby, in turn, sought out the stern eyes of his Managing Director, and mutual nods sealed the decision. “I’m afraid, unless we hear a higher bid, I will have to close this lot at £200,000.” Frazier tried to ignore him. He was still whisper-shouting into his phone. Toby melodramatically raised his gavel hand, higher than usual. He spoke these words slowly, clearly and proudly: “Ladies and gentlemen, going once, twice, and Toby rapped the board with his gavel and the satisfying, hollow sound resonated for a moment before Frazier wheeled, and shouted, “No!” FRAZIER PACED FURIOUSLY back and forth, oblivious to the crowded sidewalk on Kensington High Street, forcing pedestrians to scurry out of his steamroller way. He frantically worked his phone, trying to get his superiors to come to grips with the situation and formulate a plan. When he was finally connected to Secretary Lester, he had to duck into a quiet Boots pharmacy since the rumbling of a number 27 bus was making it impossible to hear. He emerged into the din and diesel of the thoroughfare, his hands glumly thrust into his coat pockets. It was a sunny Friday lunch hour, and everyone he passed was in a far better mood than he. His orders bordered on the pathetic, he thought. Improvise. And don’t break any UK laws. He supposed the hidden message was, at least don’t get He returned to Pierce amp; Whyte and loitered in the reception hall, ducking in and out of the auction room until the session was over. Toby caught sight of him and gave the impression he wanted to avoid the snarling bidder. Just before he could escape through the rear staff door, Frazier caught up with him. “I’d like to talk to the guy who beat me out on Lot 113.” “Quite a duel!” Toby exclaimed, diplomatically. He deliberately paused, perhaps hoping that having been tackled, the man might explain his enthusiasm. But Frazier simply persisted. “Can you give me his name and number?” “I’m afraid we can’t. It’s against our confidentiality policy. However, if you authorize it, I can pass your particulars to the winning bidder should he wish to contact you.” Frazier tried again, then made Toby visibly uncomfortable by suggesting he would make it worth his while. When Martin Stein approached, Toby hastily excused himself and moved away. As the two auctioneers chatted, Frazier edged close enough to overhear Stein say, “He was insistent on having the book sent to New York by courier for delivery tonight. He offered first-class return seats and hotel accommodations to a member of staff! He’s already holding a seat on BA 179 this evening.” “Well I’m not doing it!” Toby said. “Nor I. I have dinner plans,” Stein huffed. Toby spotted his assistants across the room and waved them over. Nieve was giddy with excitement over the Cantwell book while Cottle was, as usual, a piece of wood. “I need someone to courier the 1527 book over to New York tonight.” Cottle was about to speak, but Nieve opened his mouth first. “Christ, I’d love to go, Toby, but my passport’s not sorted out! Been meaning to do it.” “I’ll go, Mr. Parfitt,” Cottle quickly offered. “I’ve got nothing on for the weekend.” “Have you ever been to New York?” “On a school trip once, yeah.” “Well, okay. You’ve got the job. The buyer is prepared to have the duty fully paid at Kennedy Airport and have it added to his account. He’s providing you with a first-class ticket and deluxe hotel accommodations, so you shall not want. They’re quite security-conscious, so you’ll be picking up a letter from the BA desk at arrivals with the delivery address.” “First class!” Nieve moaned. “Bloody hell! You owe me, Cottle. You really owe me.” Frazier skulked off to the lobby. The girl at the reception desk was packing up the brochures and sign-in sheets. “I want to send a thank-you note to that young guy who works here. Cottle. He was very helpful. Can you give me his first name and tell me how to spell Cottle?” “Adam,” she said, apparently surprised that anyone as insignificant as young Cottle could be helpful to a patron. She spelled out his last name. That was all he needed to know. A few hours later, Frazier was in a taxi heading to Heathrow, wolfing down three Big Macs from the only High Street restaurant he trusted. Adam Cottle was in another taxi a hundred yards farther on, but Frazier wasn’t worried about losing him. He knew where the young man was going and what he was carrying. Earlier, Frazier had reached the night duty officer at Area 51 and requested a priority search for an Adam Cottle, approximate age twenty-five, an employee of Pierce amp; Whyte Auctions, London, England. The duty officer called him back within ten minutes. “I’ve got your man. Adam Daniel Cottle, Alexandra Road, Reading, Berkshire. Date of birth: March 12, 1985.” “What’s his DOD?” Frazier asked. “Funny you should ask, chief. It’s today. Your guy’s going down today.” Frazier wearily thought, Why am I not shocked? WILL PASSED THE string beans to his father-in-law. Joseph speared a few and smiled. They were just the way he liked them, buttered and The Lipinskis, newly minted grandparents, couldn’t get enough of their grandson, and they thought nothing of driving forty-five minutes from Westchester down to lower Manhattan on a Friday evening to get their fix. Mary wouldn’t saddle her beleaguered daughter with the cooking, so she made a lasagna and all the trimmings. Joseph brought the wine. Phillip was awake and on form and for the visitors; it was a slice of heaven. Even though it was a family night, Mary was smartly dressed and had gone to the beauty parlor to get her hair done. She danced around the tiny kitchen in a cloud of perfume and hair spray, a heavier, rounder version of her daughter, still surprisingly pretty and youthful. Joseph’s wild and wavy white hair made him look like a mad scientist crawling on the floor in hot pursuit of the grinning baby. Nancy and Will had been sitting next to each other on the sofa, a good foot apart, unsmiling, tightly clutching their wineglasses. It was spectacularly apparent to the Lipinskis that they had entered an argument hot zone, but they were doing their best to keep the evening light. Joseph had sidled up to his wife, poured himself more wine, then tapped her between the shoulder blades to make sure she saw his raised eyebrows. She had clucked, and whispered, “It’s not so easy, you know. Remember?” “I only remember the good things,” he had said, giving her a dry peck. Over dinner, Mary watched Will’s hand pumping over his plate. “Will, you’re using salt before you even taste it!” He shrugged. “I like salt.” “I have to fill the shaker every week,” Nancy said in an accusatory way. “I don’t think that’s healthy,” Joseph observed. “How’s your pressure?” “I dunno,” Will said sullenly. “Never been a problem.” He wasn’t in the mood for dinner-party chitchat, and he wasn’t trying to hide it. Nancy had not been pleased about the auction, and in retrospect, he wished he’d kept the details to himself. She’d fumed all day that Will was allowing himself to be sucked into something that was none of his business, and she red-lined when he casually mentioned he’d offered up the apartment for a late-night meeting. “You agreed to let these people come into my home while Philly is sleeping ten feet away?” “They’re harmless old men. They’ll be in and out in a few minutes. I’ll make sure they don’t wake you guys.” “Have you lost your mind?” It had gone downhill from there. “So how’s work, honey?” Joseph asked his daughter. “They’re treating me like I came back from brain surgery. My assignments are ridiculous. I had a baby, not a disease.” “I’m glad they’re acting that way,” her mother said. “You’re a new mother.” “You must be channeling my boss,” Nancy said bitterly. Joseph tried to inject a dose of hope. “I’m sure you’ll get back to where you want to be.” When Nancy ignored him, he tried his luck on his son-in-law. “Retirement still treating you well, Will?” “Oh yeah. It’s a laugh a minute,” Will answered sarcastically. “Well, you’re my hero. In a couple of years, Mary and I plan to join you, so we’re watching and learning.” In his foul mood, Will turned the comment over in his mind a couple of times, trying to decide if there was a coded insult lurking. He let it pass. When they were alone, Nancy fussed over Phillip’s crib, then got herself ready for bed. She was giving Will the icy, silent treatment, trying to avoid contact. The problem with relegating him to the doghouse was that the whole apartment wasn’t much bigger than a doghouse to begin with. Finally, she emerged from the bathroom, pink and exposed in her short nightdress. She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him. He was watching TV. Her folded arms were plumping her ripe breasts. He thought she looked awfully good, but her curdling expression wiped away any hope. “Please do not bring these people into the apartment.” “They’ll be in and out. You won’t even know they’re here,” he said stubbornly. He wasn’t going to back down. It wasn’t the way he worked. She shut the bedroom door crisply behind her. If the baby hadn’t been sleeping, she probably would have slammed it. Will let his eyes drift from the TV to the cabinet underneath, where his last bottle of scotch was ceremonially stored. He opened the cabinet with his mind and poured himself an imaginary few fingers. THE CABIN CREW was buttoning down the first-class cabin of BA 179 for its descent to JFK. Young Cottle sat expressionless throughout the entire trip, his usual inanimate self, seemingly immune to the sublime charms of British Airways champagne, cabernet, duck in cherries, chocolate truffles, first-run movies, and a seat that turned into a bed, complete with down-filled duvet. Two cabins back, Malcolm Frazier was standing in a lengthy queue to use the toilet. He was rigid as a plank and terminally irritable from six hours wedged into a narrow, middle seat. The entire operation had been a disaster, and his masters had made it clear that he alone was responsible for pulling the chestnuts from the fire. And now his mission had gotten considerably more complicated. It had morphed from a straightforward enterprise to secure the book into a full-blown investigation of who had paid an exorbitant sum and why. He was tasked with following the book to find the answers and, as usual, covering up his trail by whatever means necessary. And typically, everything was highest priority, and his boss’s mood was bordering on hysteria. Secretary Lester had demanded to be informed of every single piece of minutia. All this made Frazier surly. Angry enough to kill. At the boarding gate at Heathrow’s Terminal 5, Frazier had approached Cottle as the young man queued in the first-class check-in line. He was afraid Cottle might spot him on board and wanted to eliminate any suspicions. He also wanted to ask him a few “innocent” questions. “Hey!” Frazier said mock-cheerfully. “Look who’s here! I was at the auction earlier.” Cottle squinted back, “Of, course, sir. I remember.” “That was something, wasn’t it?” “Yes, sir. Very dramatic it was.” “So, we’re on the same flight! How about that?” He pointed to Cottle’s carry-on bag. “I’ll bet I know what’s in there.” Cottle looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir.” “Any chance I could find out who’s getting it? I’d still like to buy it, maybe make a deal with the guy who beat me out.” “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty, sir. Company policy and all.” There was an announcement for first-class boarding. Cottle waved his ticket at Frazier, and said, “Well, have a good flight then, sir,” before he inched away. Will jumped up from the sofa before the buzzer could ring a second time. It was almost eleven, and the boys from the bus were right on time. He waited for them in the apartment hallway to remind them to be quiet. When the elevator opened, he was taken aback at the sight of Spence hunched over on a fire-engine red, three-wheeled mobility scooter, his oxygen box strapped to the luggage rack. Kenyon was towering over him. “That doesn’t make noise, does it?” Will asked nervously. “It’s not a Harley,” Spence said dismissively, smoothly whirring forward. The three of them made awkward company in Will’s small living room. They spoke sparingly, in whispers, the eleven o’clock TV news on low. Kenyon had tracked BA 179 and confirmed its on-time arrival. Accounting for immigration and customs, and taxi time, the courier was due any time. Frazier used his federal ID to breeze through customs, then blended into the gaggle of people in the arrivals hall awaiting the deplaning passengers. One of his men, DeCorso, was already there. DeCorso was an aggressive-looking character in a padded-leather coat with a rough beard and a noticeable limp. He wordlessly handed over a heavy leather clutch. Frazier instantly felt relieved once again to have the tools of his trade at hand. He slipped the weapon into his empty shoulder bag, right where the Library book should have been. DeCorso stood by his side, a silent statue. Frazier knew his subordinate didn’t require idle conversation. He’d worked with him long enough to know he wasn’t a talker. And he knew when he issued an order, DeCorso would follow it to the letter. The man owed him. The only reason he was allowed back to Area 51 after medical leave was Frazier’s intervention. After all, he hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory. Will Piper had lit DeCorso up. Four to one, close quarters, and a lousy FBI agent had put all of them down. DeCorso had only been back on the job for a few months, with a jumble of hardware in his femur, a missing spleen, and a lifetime of Pneumovax shots to prevent infection. The other three men were on full disability. One of them had a permanent feeding tube sticking out of his stomach. As team leader, DeCorso had presided over a giant cluster-fuck. Frazier didn’t have to take him back, but he did. When Adam Cottle finally entered the hall with his roller case, looking like a dazed tourist, Frazier raised his chin, and said, “That’s him,” before tucking himself behind DeCorso’s frame to stay out of sight. They watched Cottle approach the British Airways information desk, where he was handed an envelope, then made for the exits. “My car’s at the curb, behind the taxi stand. I’ve got a cop watching I don’t get towed.” Frazier started walking. “Let’s find the cocksucker who outbid me.” They followed the yellow cab onto the Van Wyck Express-way. The traffic was light, so they were able to keep their mark comfortably in sight, no tense moments. DeCorso announced they were heading toward the Midtown Tunnel-a Manhattan destination. Frazier shrugged, dog-tired, and muttered, “Whatever.” Cottle’s taxi dropped him off in the middle of the block. The young man took his bag and asked the cabbie to wait. Apparently, the level of trust was insufficient. He was required to pay in full before the driver agreed to hold at the curb. Cottle stood on the sidewalk and double-checked a piece of paper before disappearing into the lobby of an apartment building. “You want me to go in?” DeCorso asked. They were across the street a short distance away, idling in their car. “No. His cab’s waiting,” Frazier growled. “Get me data on all the residents of the building.” DeCorso opened his laptop and established an encrypted connection with their servers. While he typed, Frazier closed his eyes, lulled by the soft clattering of thick fingers on the keyboard. Until, “Jesus!” “What?” Frazier asked, startled. DeCorso was passing the laptop. Frazier took it and tried to focus his bleary eyes on the line listings. He shrugged. “What?” “Near the bottom. See it?” Then he did. Frazier started kneading his lower face as if he were molding a block of clay. Then, a torrent of epithets. “I can’t fucking believe it. Fucking Will Piper! Did I tell those fucking idiots at the Pentagon they were crazy to let him go?” His mind filled with the infuriating image of Will sitting pretty in the plush cabin of Secretary Lester’s private plane, smugly sipping scotch at forty thousand feet, practically dictating terms. “You did. Yes you did.” “And now here he is, working us.” “Give me a shot at him, Malcolm.” DeCorso was almost pleading. He rubbed his right thigh, which still throbbed at the spot Will’s bullet had shattered the bone. “He’s BTH. Remember?” “That doesn’t mean I can’t seriously fuck him up.” Frazier ignored him. He was working angles in his head, scenarios. He was going to have to make some calls, push this way up the food chain to higher pay grades. “A retired FBI agent living in this neighborhood doesn’t have three hundred thousand bucks to lay down on an auction. He’s fronting for someone. We’ve got to play this out. Carefully.” He passed the laptop back to DeCorso. “Fucking Will Piper!” Young Cottle was sitting stiffly in an apartment in a strange city trading whispered pleasantries with a fat, sickly man on a scooter, his equally geriatric friend, and another younger man who was looming large and menacing. Will figured the kid was probably feeling more like a drug mule than an antiquarian book dealer. Cottle unzipped his bag. The book was swathed in bubble wrap, a soft, fat cube. The man on the scooter did a juvenile gimme with his hands, and Cottle obliged. Spence struggled to control its weight and immediately had to lower it onto the expanse of his lap, where he gingerly started to unwind the plastic, letting it slip to the floor. Will watched Spence peeling back the layers of the onion, getting closer and closer to calf hide. Despite the profundity of the moment, above all, he was worried that Kenyon might tread on the bubble wrap and wake Phillip in a volley of pops. The last layer removed, Spence gently opened the cover. He dwelled on the first page, taking it in. Over his shoulder, Kenyon had stooped low. He whispered a faint, “Yes.” Across the room, to Will, the ink scrawl was so dense the page almost looked black. Seeing the names in someone’s handwriting gave him a different perspective than reading them in modern sterile fonts on Shackleton’s computer database. A human being had dipped a feathered quill into a pot of black ink tens of thousands of times to fill these pages. What on earth was going on inside the writer’s mind? Who had he been? How was he able to accomplish this feat? Cottle broke the spell. Despite his dull expression, he was well-spoken. “They had experts. Oxbridge types. No one had a clue what it was or where it was from beyond the obvious that it’s a registry of births and deaths. We were wondering whether you have any knowledge of its origins?” Spence and Kenyon looked up at the same time. Spence said nothing, so Kenyon had to answer, diplomatically, obliquely. “We’re very interested in the period. A lot was going on in the early sixteenth century. It’s a unique book, and we’re going to do our research. If we find any answers, we’ll be happy to let you know.” “That would be appreciated. Naturally, we’re curious. A lot to lay out for a book of unknown significance.” Cottle checked out the room with his eyes. “Is this your flat, sir?” Will looked at Cottle suspiciously. Something about his comments struck him as over the line. “Yeah. All mine.” “Are you from New York, as well, Mr. Spence?” Spence was evasive. “We’re from out West.” He decided to change the subject. “Actually, you can help us.” “If I can.” “Tell us about the seller, this Cantwell fellow.” “I’ve only been with the company a short while, but I’m told he’s typical of many of our clients, land rich but cash poor. My supervisor, Peter Nieve, visited Cantwell Hall to review the consignment. It’s an old country house in Warwickshire that’s been in the family for centuries. Lord Cantwell was there, but Nieve mostly dealt with his granddaughter.” “What did they say about this book?” “Not much, I think. It’s been in their possession as far back as Lord Cantwell remembered. He imagined his family has had it for generations, but there’s no particular oral history associated with it. He thought it was some sort of city or town registry. Possibly Continental, given the assortment of languages. He wasn’t all that attached to it. Apparently his granddaughter was.” “Why’s that?” Spence asked. “She told Peter she always felt an attachment to the book. She said she couldn’t explain it, but she felt it was special and didn’t want to see it go. Lord Cantwell felt otherwise.” Spence closed the cover. “And that’s it? That’s all these people knew about the book’s history?” “That’s all I was told, yes.” “There was another bidder,” Spence said. “Another main bidder,” Cottle answered. “Who was he?” “I’m not permitted to say.” “What nationality,” Kenyon asked. “Can you at least tell us that?” “He was American.” When Cottle left, Will said, “He was kind of curious about us, don’t you think?” Spence laughed. “It’s killing them that someone knows more about it than they do. They’re probably scared shitless they sold it cheap.” “They have,” Kenyon said. “An American was bidding against you,” Will said. Spence shook his head. “Hope to hell the son of a bitch doesn’t work in Nevada. We’ve got to be careful, keep our guard up.” He tapped the book’s cover with his finger. “So Will, want to have a look?” He picked it off Spence’s lap and sat back on his sofa. There, he opened it to a random page and lost himself for a few minutes in a litany of lives, long gone, a book of souls. COTTLE HOPPED BACK into the waiting taxi and asked to be taken to the Grand Hyatt, where he had a reservation. He was planning to have a quick wash and a good tramp around the city. Perhaps he’d find a club or two before he surrendered to the fatigue of an unexpectedly long day. As the cab pulled away, he left a brief message for Toby Parfitt on his office voice mail, letting him know the delivery was successful. He had a second call to make but he’d wait until he was alone in his hotel room. Frazier had to make a field decision: follow the courier and extract potentially important information or go straight for Piper and the book. He needed to know whether Piper was alone. What kind of situation would he be getting into if he did a forced entry? He’d be crucified if he wound up dealing with the police tonight. He wished he had a second team in place, but he didn’t. He went with his gut, the knowledge of Cottle’s DOD, and decided to go with the courier first. When DeCorso pulled away from Will’s building, Frazier looked up at the lit windows on the sixth floor and silently promised he’d be back later. In midtown, the taxi deposited Cottle at the elevated Vanderbilt Avenue entrance of the Hyatt, where the young man took the escalator down to the cavernous lobby. While he checked in, Frazier and DeCorso watched him from the elevator bank. He’d have to come to them. Frazier whispered to DeCorso, “Intimidate him, but you don’t have to beat the crap out of him. He’ll talk. He’s just a courier. Find out what he knows about Piper and why he wanted the book. See if anyone else was in his apartment. You know the drill.” DeCorso grunted, and Frazier slipped into the corner lobby bar before Cottle could make him. Frazier ordered a beer and found an unoccupied table to nurse it. He drank half of it before his phone rang. One of his men at the Ops Center was on the line with an urgent press of words. “We just dug up some info on your mark, Adam Cottle.” It wasn’t easy to surprise Frazier, but the news wrong-footed him. He ended the conversation with a simple and irritated, “All right,” then stared at the BlackBerry, trying to decide whether to call DeCorso. He put the phone on the table and drank the other half of the beer in a couple of gulps. It was probably too late to abort. He’d let it ride. There might be hell to pay, but he’d have to let it ride. Fate’s the damnedest thing, he thought, the damnedest thing in the world. DeCorso followed Cottle onto the elevator and looked squarely up at the ceiling where he figured the security camera was affixed. If anything went wrong, the police would focus on him-one hundred percent-once they eliminated everyone else on the elevator. It didn’t matter. He didn’t exist. His face, his prints: nothing about him inhabited any database other than his Groom Lake personnel file-all the watchers were off the grid. They’d be looking for a ghost. Cottle hit the button for his floor, and politely asked DeCorso, “Where to?” because he was the only one who hadn’t pushed a button. “Same as you,” DeCorso said. They both exited at twenty-one. DeCorso hung back, pretending to look for his room key while Cottle consulted the hallway sign and made a left. The corridor was long and deserted. He looked free and light as he pulled his bag behind him, a single bloke with an expense account and a night on the town. He was getting his second wind at just the right time. He slid his room key into the slot, and the lights blinked green. His bag hadn’t cleared the threshold when a sound made him look back. The man from the elevator was three feet away, closing fast. Cottle saw him, and uttered, “Hey!” DeCorso kicked the door shut behind them, and quickly said, “This isn’t a robbery. I need to talk to you.” Inexplicably, Cottle didn’t look frightened. “Oh yeah? Then get the fuck out of here and call me on the telephone. You deaf, mate? Get the fuck out.” DeCorso registered disbelief. Something didn’t compute. The kid should have been a quivering mass, begging for his life, offering his wallet. Instead, he held his ground. DeCorso demanded, “Tell me what you know about Will Piper, the guy you just saw.” Cottle dropped his bag and clenched and unclenched his fists a few times as if he were limbering them for a dustup. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you’re either going to leave on your own account, or I’m going break you in two and throw out each half.” DeCorso was dumbstruck at the kid’s aggression, but he warned, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You stepped into dogshit, pal. You’re just going to have to go with the flow.” “Who do you work for?” Cottle demanded. DeCorso shook his head in disbelief. “You’re asking me questions? You’ve got to be kidding.” It was time for escalation. He pulled a folding knife out of his coat pocket and flicked the blade out with the snap of his wrist. “The book. Why did Piper want it? Was anyone with him tonight? Tell me, and I’m gone. Play with me, and you’ll regret it.” Cottle answered by making himself low and compact and suddenly charging at DeCorso, smashing him into the door. The force of impact made him drop the folding knife onto the carpet. Instinctively, DeCorso smashed his fists against the back of Cottle’s neck and got some separation by throwing a knee up into his chin. They were two feet apart; both men had only a moment to look at each other before colliding again. DeCorso saw Cottle assume the crouched posture of a trained fighter, a professional, and this only furthered his confusion. He glanced down at the knife, and Cottle used that instant to attack again, unleashing a flurry of punches and kicks, all of them aimed at the neck and the groin. DeCorso used his superior body mass to fend Cottle off and move him away from the door. He scanned the room for another weapon. The guy wasn’t going to let him get the knife back. And DeCorso wasn’t going to neutralize him with his bare hands. This kid was too good for that. DeCorso lunged forward, and Cottle had the misfortune to step backward onto his roller bag and lose his footing. His landed awkwardly on his back, his head near the night table. DeCorso threw all 250 pounds of his hard body on top of the smaller man and heard a whoosh as the air expelled from Cottle’s compressed chest. Before Cottle could land any counterkicks or punches, DeCorso reached for the digital clock radio on the night-stand and ripped its plug out of the wall. In a wild frenzy, he brought the chunky plastic box down hard on Cottle’s cheek, then kept smashing him again and again like a pile-driver until the box had pulverized into plastic shards and circuit boards and Cottle’s face was a mass of blood and broken bones. Through secretions, he heard Cottle groaning and swearing. DeCorso fell to his knees and twisted his waist to look for the knife. Where was it? And then he saw it, slashing toward him from Cottle’s fist. The blade cut through his overcoat and got hung up in fabric long enough for DeCorso to get both hands on Cottle’s forearm and snap it down hard against his own knee. Cottle’s primal yell made DeCorso lose control. Years of training and discipline suddenly washed away like a bridge knocked off its piers by floodwaters. The knife was in DeCorso sat and watched, panting and fighting for air as Cottle bled out and died. When he was able to compose himself, he took Cottle’s wallet and passport, and for show, rifled through his suitcase, scattering the contents. He found the paperwork with Piper’s address and pocketed it. Then he left, still breathing hard. The newspapers would carry the story for two days, before the metro reporters would lose interest. A young foreign businessman was the unfortunate victim of a violent hotel robbery. Tragic, but these things happened in the big city. Will would never even notice the story. He was preoccupied. Back in London, alarms started going off after the normally reliable Cottle failed to make his second phone call. The Duty Officer got concerned enough to call Cottle’s mobile phone but got no response. It was the middle of the night, deep within the grand modern SIS building at Vauxhall Cross, where the lights perpetually burned brightly. Cottle’s SIS section chief finally had an assistant ring the Grand Hyatt to see if he’d checked in. A desk clerk was dispatched to Cottle’s room, pounded on the door, and let himself into a hellish scene. KENYON HAD THE BOOK. He was turning the pages with his long fingers, curled over it in a reverential posture. In all his years at Area 51, he had never had the luxury of holding one of the books without the harsh stares of a watcher jangling his nerves. The three men were not making any noise, but Will was still unpleasantly surprised when the bedroom door opened. Nancy was squinting at them in her robe. “I’m sorry,” Will said. “I thought we were being quiet.” “I couldn’t sleep.” She looked at Spence on his scooter and Kenyon on the sofa with the open book on his lap. Spence spoke up. “Mrs. Piper, I apologize for intruding. We’ll be leaving now.” She moodily shook her head and disappeared into the bathroom. Will looked guilty, a husband in trouble. At least Phillip wasn’t crying. “Can you rewrap it, Alf? We should go,” Spence said. Kenyon ignored him. He was absorbed. He was comparing the endpapers on the front and back covers, pressing down on them with the fleshy pulp of his fingers. “There’s something wrong with the back cover,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen one like this.” He carried it over to the scooter and put it on Spence’s lap. “Show me,” Spence demanded. “It’s too thick. And it’s spongy. See?” Spence pushed down on the back endpaper with his pointer finger. “You’re right. Will, do you have a sharp knife?” “You want to cut it?” Kenyon asked. “I just paid $300,000 for the privilege.” Will had a beautiful little William Henry folding knife, sharp as a razor, a Christmas present from his daughter. While he rummaged for it in the coffee-table drawer, Nancy came out of the bathroom and pierced him with a look as pointed as the knife blade before clicking the bedroom door shut. Spence took the pocketknife and boldly cut an eight-inch slit through the edge of the endpaper. Then he inserted the blade, tented up the paper, and tried to get some light in. “I can’t see well enough. Do you have tweezers?” Will sighed and went to the bathroom to get Nancy’s. Spence stuck the tweezers through the slit, probing and clamping until something started to emerge. “There’s something in here!” He slowly pulled it through. A folded piece of parchment. The creamy sheet was surprisingly fresh and pliable, long protected from the light and the elements. He unfolded it once, twice. It was written in a flowing archaic script, perfectly centered on the page, executed with care. “Alf. I don’t have my glasses. What is it?” He handed it to his friend. Kenyon studied it, shaking his head in disbelief. He read it to himself, then muttered. “This is incredible. “What?” Spence wheezed impatiently. “What!” His friend’s eyes were moist. “It’s a poem, a sonnet actually. It’s dated 1581. It’s about the book, I’m sure of it.” “Hell you say!” Spence exclaimed, too loud, making Will wince. “Read it to me.” Kenyon read it out loud, his voice hushed but husky with emotion. Kenyon was shaking with excitement. “W. Sh! Holy Christ!” “This means something to you?” Will asked. Kenyon could hardly speak. “Fellows, I think this was written by Shakespeare! William Shakespeare! Do either of you know what year he was born?” They did not. “Do you have a computer?” Will found his laptop under a magazine. Kenyon literally grabbed it from him to get online, then leapt onto a Googled Shakespeare site. His eyes danced over the first few paragraphs. “Born 1564. He’d be seventeen in 1581. Early life a mystery. Didn’t surface in London till 1585 as an actor. Stratford-upon-Avon’s in Warwickshire! That’s where Cantwell Hall is.” He returned to the parchment. “Forsooth such secrets surely can’t be well. It’s a pun! Can’t be well-Cantwell. Shakespeare was a big punster, you know. This is a puzzle poem. He’s writing about a series of clues, and I’m certain they’re about the origin of this book! They were hidden in Cantwell Hall, I’m sure of it, Henry!” Spence’s jaw was slack. He turned up his oxygen flow a notch for fortification. “Goddamn it! I was right about this book-it He said “we,” but he was staring directly at Will. When DeCorso met him at the car, Frazier didn’t have to ask how it went. It was written all over his face in welts. “What happened?” “He was a pro.” “Is that right?” DeCorso touched his swollen lip. “He was a pro!” he said defensively. “Did you get anything out of him?” “No.” “Why not?” “He put up a fight. It was him or me.” Frazier shook his head. “For fuck’s sake.” “I’m sorry.” He handed Frazier DeCorso’s papers. Frazier examined the wallet. A license and credit card, some cash. His UK passport looked routine. DeCorso was reliving the experience in his head. “The guy had commando training. I got lucky. It could’ve been me.” “He was SIS.” “When did you find that out?” “A minute before you went in.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I knew you’d be okay.” DeCorso angrily folded his arms across his heaving chest and clammed up. Frazier shook his head. Could a simple operation get more screwed up? Frazier had been biding his time in the bar by composing a list. Now, he tossed it to DeCorso, who was looking shaky in the driver’s seat, parked at a curb a few blocks from the hotel. “Look up these DODs for me.” “Who are they?” “Will Piper’s family. All his relatives.” DeCorso worked quietly, still seething and breathing hard. In a few minutes, he said, “I just outputted it to your BlackBerry.” The device chimed as he spoke. Frazier opened the email and studied the dates of death for everyone in the world who mattered to Will. “At least EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Will slipped out of bed to get in a run before his family awoke. The sun was already so bright and inviting it shone like a golden sword through the gap between the bedroom curtains. He turned on the coffeemaker and hypnotically watched the liquid drip through the filter into the pot, so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Nancy until she opened the fridge to get orange juice. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said quickly. “They got their book, and they left.” She ignored him. That’s the way this was going to go. He gamely pressed on. “The book was the real McCoy. It was incredible.” She didn’t want to know about it. “There was a poem hidden in the book. They think it was written by William Shakespeare.” He could tell she was struggling to look disinterested. “If you want to see it, I scanned it on the printer and left a copy in the top drawer of the desk.” When she didn’t respond to that, he changed his tack and gave her a hug, but she kept her body unyielding, her juice glass in her outstretched hand. He let go, and said, “You’re not going to be happy about this either, but I’m going to England for a couple of days.” “Will!” He had the speech rehearsed. “I already called Moonflower this morning. She can give us all the time we need. Henry Spence is paying for it, plus he’s giving me a slug of cash, which we can definitely use. Besides, I’ve been itching for something to do. Be good for me, don’t you think?” She was furious, pupils constricted, nostrils flared. She came out of her corner, throwing big hooks and crosses. “Do you have any idea how this makes me feel?” she fumed. “You’re putting us at risk! You’re putting Philly at risk! Do you honestly think these people in Nevada aren’t going to find out you’re fooling around in their sandbox?” “I’m not going to be doing anything that bumps up against my agreements with them. Just a little research, try to answer a few questions for a dying man.” “Who?” “You saw him in his wheelie thing and oxygen. He knows his date. It’s in a week. He’d do the trip himself if he were healthy.” She was unmoved. “I don’t want you to go.” They stared at each other in a standoff. Then Philly started crying, and Nancy stomped away, literally stomping her feet on the kitchen tiles, leaving him alone with his black coffee and matching mood. It infuriated Frazier that with the vast resources of the US government at their disposal, he had to double up in a hotel room because New York City hotel rates busted through their departmental per diems. It was a second-rate hotel, at that, with a grimy, squishy carpet harboring a lord-knows-what-brew of old emissions. Frazier was sprawled on his twin bed, drinking an awful cup of room-service coffee in his boxers. On the other bed, DeCorso was working away at his laptop, his head wrapped in a good pair of acoustic headphones. His mobile phone rang and displayed Secretary Lester’s private line at the Pentagon. He felt his small intestine clench in involuntary spasm. “Frazier, you’re not going to believe this,” Lester said with the controlled anger of a lifelong bureaucrat. “That Cottle guy worked for the Firm! He was SIS!” “That’s what they get for spying on their friends,” Frazier said. “You don’t sound surprised.” “That’s because I knew.” “You knew? Before or after?” “Before.” “And you still had him killed? Is that what you’re telling me?” “I didn’t have him killed. He attacked my man. It was self-defense, and anyway, it was his day to die. If it weren’t us, it would have been a steak sandwich or a fall in the shower. He was dead anyway.” Lester paused long enough for Frazier to wonder whether the call had dropped. “Jesus, Frazier, this stuff can make you crazy. You should have told me, anyway.” “It’s on my head, not yours.” “I appreciate that, but still, we’ve got a problem. The Brits are pissed.” “Do we know what his mission was?” “They’re being cagey,” Lester said. “They’ve always had a chip on their shoulder about Vectis, at least the old-timers.” “Do they knew the book was from the Library?” “Sure. There’s enough institutional memory within their MOD and Military Intelligence services for them to whisper Vectis whenever we come up with some crazy-ass, forward-looking scenarios-and then they come true! We’re getting it now on Helping Hand. They’re sure we know more about Caracas then we’re letting on, and, frankly, we’re sick of their questions and their griping. You and I know damn well the Brits would take the Library back in a heartbeat.” “I’m sure they would.” “They were fools to give it to us in 1947, but that’s ancient history.” “What was their plan?” “They embedded their man at the auction house to keep an eye on the book. They probably found out about it the same way we did, through an Internet filter. Maybe they were going to do a snatch and grab on you and hold us hostage. Who knows. They’ve got to know you’re from Groom Lake. When another buyer got it, they followed their noses to see where the trail led. They definitely wanted to get leverage on us, that much I’m sure.” “What do you want me to do?” Frazier asked. “Get the book back. And find out what that son of a bitch, Will Piper, is up to. Then immunize us. The Caracas Event is right around the corner, and I don’t need to tell you that anyone who’s involved in screwing up Helping Hand is as good as buried. I want to hear from you every few hours.” Frazier hung up. Caracas was driving everyone into a frenzy. The whole point of data mining at Area 51 was using knowledge of future events to guide policy and preparation. But Helping Hand was taking their mission to an unprecedented level. Frazier wasn’t a political animal, but he was pretty sure a leak right now would blow up the government. Blow it to hell. He glumly looked over at DeCorso; the man was lost in his headphones. His face looked like it belonged in a meat locker. He’d been feeding Frazier a steady stream of surveillance information all morning: Piper had called the nanny to arrange for extra hours. He was going away for a few days, didn’t say where. Finally, another team of watchers had flown in. One of their men had followed Piper jogging along the river. He’d gone food shopping with his wife and baby. Typical Saturday stuff. But now DeCorso had something bigger. He spent a few minutes online getting answers to the questions he knew Frazier would ask. When he was done, he removed his headphones. It wasn’t just bigger, it was seismic. In their world, a mag-eight quake. Frazier could see by his face he had something important. “What? What now?” “You know Henry Spence, right?” DeCorso asked. Frazier nodded. He knew all about the 2027 Club, a harmless bunch of old coots, as far as he was concerned. The watchers checked up on them from time to time, but the consensus was that Spence ran nothing more than a glorified retirement social club. No harm, no foul. Hell, he’d probably join when he hung up his spurs, if they’d have him-not likely! “What about him?” “He just called Piper, cell phone to landline, so they’re clueless he’s being tapped. Spence is in New York. He bought Piper a first-class ticket with an open return for London. He’s leaving tonight.” Frazier rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake! I knew Piper wasn’t alone in this, but Henry Spence? Does he have that kind of cash, or is he fronting for someone else?” “He’s seriously loaded. Dead wife’s money. There’s more.” Frazier shook his head and told him to spit it out. “He’s been sick. His DOD’s in eight days. Wonder if it’s gonna be natural causes or us.” Frazier was shoving his legs into his trousers. “God only knows.” WILL FELT GOOD to be out on the road, traveling light, like the old days. He’d had an excellent night’s rest in a cushy first-class sleeper seat which, by a twist of fate he’d never know, was originally intended for young, dead Adam Cottle. He wasn’t an experienced international traveler, but he’d been to the UK and Europe a few times on Bureau business. He’d even given a talk at New Scotland Yard a few years back, titled “Sex and the Serial Killer-The American Experience.” It had been well attended, and, afterward, a bunch of ranking detectives had taken him out on a pub crawl that predictably ended in amnesia. Now he was chugging through the flat English countryside in a Chiltern Rail first-class car an hour out of Marylebone Station on the Birmingham line. The gray sprawl of London had given way to the earth tones of cultivated land, a palette of greens and browns muted by the wash of a wet autumn day. At full throttle, the rainwater on the train’s windows streaked horizontally. His eyelids grew heavy watching the tilled fields, rolls of hay, and drab, utilitarian farm buildings whizzing by. Small villages filled the window for seconds, then were gone. He had the compartment to himself. It was a Sunday, and this was low season for tourists. Back home, he imagined that Nancy would be up soon, and later in the morning she would take Phillip out in the stroller, that is, if it weren’t pouring there too. He’d forgotten to check the forecast before he left but regardless, he was certain Nancy would have her head in a personal little rain cloud. When he got done with his treasure hunt, he planned to spend some time in Harrods figuring out how to buy his way out of his mess. Anyway, he could afford it. He was embarrassed to tell her, but Spence had made an off-the-scale offer. He’d never considered himself someone who could be seduced by money, but then again, no one had ever thrown cash his way before. As a new experience, it wasn’t unpleasant. The price tag for the assignment? A check for $50,000 and the title to the bus! As soon as Spence kicked it, the motor home was his. He didn’t know how he’d afford to gas it up, but worst case, he’d plant the thing in an RV park in the Florida panhandle and make it their vacation getaway. The bigger carrot was still on the stick. Spence wanted the DODs for his clan, but on that request, Will would not relent. The number Spence put on the table made him gasp for air, but there wasn’t enough money on the planet. If he flagrantly violated his confidentiality agreements, then he was afraid Nancy’s assessment would be correct: he’d be putting their heads on the chopping block. Awakening from a doze, he heard the conductor over the loudspeaker and blinked at his watch. He’d been out for the better part of an hour, and the train was slowing as it approached the outskirts of the large market town. Stratford-upon-Avon. Shakespeare country. The irony made him smile. He’d gotten into Harvard because he could clobber a running back who was trying to get a football past him, not because of his aptitude in literature. He’d never read a word of Shakespeare in his life. Both his ex-wives were theater nuts, but it wasn’t contagious. Even Nancy tried to get him to see a crowd-pleaser, The station was Sunday-quiet, with only a handful of cabs at the stand. A driver was standing next to his car, smoking a cigarette in the drizzle, his cap soaked through. He flicked away the butt and asked Will where he was heading. “Going to Wroxall,” Will said. “A place called Cantwell Hall.” “Didn’t figure you for a Willie Wonka tourist,” the cabbie said, looking him up and down. Will didn’t get his meaning. “You know, Willie Shake Rattle and Roll, the great bard and all that.” Everyone’s a profiler, these days, Will thought. Wroxall was a small village about ten miles north of Stratford, deeper into the ancient Forest of Arden, now hardly that, the forest cleared centuries ago for agriculture. The Normans had called Arden the beautiful wild country. The best description it could muster today would be pleasant and tame. The taxi sped along the secondary roads past dense hedgerows of field maple, hawthorn, and hazel, and plowed, stubbly fields. “Lovely weather you brung with you,” the cabbie said. Will didn’t want to do small talk. “Most folks going to Wroxall go to the Abbey Estate conferencing center. Beautiful place, all done up ’bout ten years back, stately hotel and all. Christopher Wren’s country digs.” “Not where I’m going.” “So you said. Never been up to Cantwell Hall, but I know where it is. What brings you here, if I may ask?” What would this guy say if he told him the truth, Will thought? I’m here to solve the greatest mystery in the world, driver. Meaning of life and death. Beginning and end. Throw in the existence of God while you’re at it. That’s why I’m here. “Business,” he said. The village itself was a blip. A few dozen houses, a pub, post office, and general store. “Entering and leaving Wroxall village,” the cabbie said with a nod. “Just two miles on now.” The entrance to Cantwell House was unmarked, a couple of brick pillars on either side of a threadbare gravel lane with a central row of untamed grass. The lane plunged through an overgrown, wet meadow dotted with the fading hues of late-season wildflowers, limp, blue speedwells mostly, and the occasional clump of fleshy mushrooms. In the distance, around a sharp curve, he caught sight of gables peeking above a high hedge of hawthorn that obscured most of the building. As they got closer, the sheer magnitude of the house jumped out at him. It was a hodgepodge of gables and chimneys, pale, weathered brick rendered over a visible Tudor exoskeleton of dark purplish timbers. Through the hedge, he could see that the central face of the house was completely clad in ivy cut away from white-framed leaded windows by someone who seemed to lack a facility for right angles and straight lines. The pitched and multiangled slate roof was slimy and moss green, more animate than inanimate. What he could see of the tangled front garden beds suggested they were, at best, lightly tended. Passing through a generous, hedge-formed portico, the lane turned into a circular drive. The cab crunched to a halt on gravel near a latticed, oak door. The front windows were dead and reflective. “Dark as a tomb in there,” the driver said. “Want me to wait?” Will got out and paid. There was a wisp of smoke coming from one of the chimneys. He cut the man loose. “I’m good,” he said, shouldering his bag. He pressed the buzzer and heard a faint interior chime. The taxi disappeared through the second hedged portico, back to the lane. The entrance was unprotected from the elements, and while he listened for signs of life, his hair was slicking with rain. After a good minute, he pressed the buzzer again, then used his knuckles for emphasis. The woman who opened the door was wetter than he was. She’d obviously been caught in the shower and without time to towel off had thrown on a pair of jeans and a shirt. She was tall and graceful, a cultured, expressive face with confident eyes, skin, young and fresh, the color of buttermilk. Her clavicle-length blond hair was dripping onto her cotton shirt, and the outline of her breasts showed through its wet translucency. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “It’s Mr. Piper, isn’t it?” She’s gorgeous, he thought, not what he needed right now. He nodded, and said, “Yes ma’am,” like a polite Southern gentleman, and followed her inside. THE HOUSEKEEPER’S AT CHURCH, Granddad’s deaf as a post, and I was in the shower, so you, I’m afraid, were left standing out in this wretched weather.” The entrance hall was indeed dark, a two-story paneled vault with a staircase ascending to a gallery landing. Will felt that it was as inviting as a museum, and he started worrying he’d clumsily knock over a porcelain plate, a clock, or a vase. She flicked a switch, and a giant Waterford chandelier started glowing over their heads as if a bottle rocket had exploded. She took his coat and hung it on a hatstand and parked his bag though he insisted on keeping his briefcase with him. “Let’s get you to the fire, shall we?” The centerpiece of the dimly lit Tudor Great Hall was a massive hearth, large enough to roast a pig. The fireplace frame was as dark as ebony, ornately carved, and shiny with antiquity. It had a chunky mantel and a straight-lined, medieval appearance, but at some point in its history someone had been stricken with a Continental bug and overlain the hardwood fascia with a double row of blue-and-white Delft tiles. There was a modest fire, which seemed small and disproportionate to the size of the vault, going. The chimney wasn’t drawing well, and wisps of smoke were backing into the room and floating up to the high, walnut-beamed ceiling. Out of courtesy he tried not to clear his throat, but he couldn’t suppress it. “Sorry about the smoke. Got to do something about that.” She pointed him to a soft, lumpy arm chair closest to the flames. When he sat on it, he detected a whiff of urine, astringent and acid. She bent over and placed another couple of logs on the fire and prodded the stack with a poker. “I’ll just put a pot of coffee on and make myself a bit more presentable. I promise I won’t be long.” “Take your time, I’m fine, ma’am.” “It’s Isabelle.” He smiled at her. “Will.” Through watery, irritated eyes, Will took in the room. It was windowless, densely packed with furniture and centuries of bric-a-brac. The zone near the hearth seemed the place that was most functional and lived-in. The sofas and chairs were twentieth-century, designed for cushioned comfort, a few high-intensity reading lights, tables littered with newspapers and magazines, tea and coffee mugs scattered about, careless white rings from wet glasses imprinting the wood. The middle and borders of the Great Hall were more museumlike, and if Henry VIII had just arrived from a hunt, he would have felt at ease with its Tudor airs and splendor. The coffered, walnut walls were covered to the beams in tapestries, taxidermy, and paintings, dozens of dour-faced and bearded Cantwells peering down from their sooty canvases in their frilly collars, robes, and doublets, a gallery of men’s high fashion throughout the ages. The mounted stags’ heads, locked in surprise at their moment of death, were a reminder how these men had spent their leisure. A majority of the furnishings stood on or around a massive, Persian rug, worn at the edges but pristine at the center, protected by an oak trestle banqueting table ringed by high chairs covered in red cloth. Each cushion back was adorned with a single embroidered Tudor rose. Atop both ends of the table was a pair of silver candlesticks, large as baseball bats, with thick white candles half again as tall. After a while, Will got up and took a tour of the dark recesses of the room. There was a layer of dust everywhere, blanketing all surfaces and objets d’art. It would take an army of feather dusters to make a dent. Through a doorway, he looked into another darkened room, the library. He was about to wander in when Isabelle returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits. Her hair was drier, pulled back into a ponytail, and she had hastily applied some makeup and lip gloss. “I should put more lights on. It’s like a mausoleum in here. This room was built in the fifteenth century. They seemed to have no desire whatsoever to let any light in-I expect they thought it was healthier to seal themselves away.” Over coffee, she inquired about his trip and told him how surprised and intrigued they had been to receive a call from the buyer of their book. She was keen to hear more, but she put Will off until her grandfather awoke from his nap. He was something of an insomniac, and it wasn’t unusual for him to fall asleep at dawn and awake at midday. They marked time by sharing their backgrounds, and each seemed intrigued by the other’s life. Isabelle seemed fascinated she was conversing with a living, breathing ex-FBI agent, the kind of person who, to her, existed only in films and novels. She gazed into his magnetically blue eyes as he regaled her in his soft drawl with stories about old cases. When the conversation turned to her life, Will found her charming and winsome, with a selfless, admirable streak, a young woman so devoted to her grandfather she took a year off from university to care for him in this remote, drafty old house and help him adjust to life without his wife of fifty years. She’d been slated to start her last year at Edinburgh, reading European history, when Lady Cantwell suffered a fatal stroke. Isabelle’s parents were in London and tried to get the old man to come down, but he vehemently objected. He was born at Cantwell Hall and, like a good Cantwell, would die there too. Eventually, something would have to give, but Isabelle volunteered a temporary solution. She’d always loved the house and would reside there for a year, doing spadework for a future doctoral dissertation on the English Reformation and comforting the grieving old man. The Cantwells, she told Will, were a microcosm of the sixteenth-century Catholic-Protestant divide, and the house had born witness to some of that cataclysm. A fear of hers was when Lord Cantwell passed, the inheritance taxes would force the family to sell it to a developer, at worst, or the National Trust, at best. In either case, it would be the end of a family lineage that stretched back to the thirteenth century, when King John granted the first Cantwell, Robert of Wroxall, a baronial tract of land, upon which he built a square stone tower, on this very spot. Finally, she opened up about the book. They were over the moon it had fetched an astronomical price at auction but she was desperately unhappy to see it pass out of family hands. Even as a girl, she’d been captivated by it, always finding it strange and mysterious, and she offered that its 1527 date had fueled her interest in that period of British history. She had hoped one day to discover what the book represented and how it came to rest at Cantwell Hall. Still, she admitted, the auction proceeds would keep the estate functioning for a while longer though it didn’t solve some very expensive and pressing structural issues. There was rising damp, rotting timbers, the roof had to be redone, the electricals were a disaster, the plumbing a bloody mess. She joked they’d probably have to sell off every piece inside the house to afford to fix the house itself. Will was taking guilty pleasure in the conversation. This woman was his daughter’s age! Despite his spat with Nancy, he was a happily married man with a new son. His days as a rover and a cad were behind him, no? He almost wished that Isabelle weren’t quite so stimulating. Her long, sensual body and rapier-sharp mind were a twin-barreled shotgun aimed at the mass of his chest. He feared he was a double-trigger pull from being blown away. At least he was sober. That helped. He was itching to get on with business and wondered when Lord Cantwell would make his grand appearance. Provocatively, he asked a question that caught her off guard. “How much would it take to fix the place up and clear out your future tax problems?” “What an odd question.” He pressed for an answer. “Well, I’m not a builder or an accountant, but I’d imagine it’s in the millions!” Will smiled impishly. “I may have something in my bag that’ll solve your problems.” She arched her eyebrows, suspiciously, and said dryly, “Wouldn’t that be marvelous. Why don’t I see what’s keeping Granddad?” Just as she rose to find him, the old man shuffled into the Great Hall, staring quizzically at Will. “Who’s that?” he called out. She answered at a volume he could hear. “It’s Mr. Piper from America.” “Oh, right. Forgot about that. Long way to come. Don’t know why he didn’t just use the telephone.” She ushered Lord Cantwell over for introductions. He was well into his eighties, mostly bald except for an unruly fringe of silvery hair. His red, eczematous face was a weed garden of hairy tufts the razor missed. He was dressed for a Sunday afternoon, twill trousers, herringbone sports coat and an ancient university tie, shiny with wear. Will noticed his trousers were too large for him, and he was using a fresh belt hole. Recent weight loss, not a good sign in an older fellow. He was stiff with arthritis and had the gait of a man who hadn’t loosened up yet. When Will shook his hand, he got a stronger whiff of urine and concluded he’d been sitting on the fellow’s favorite chair. Will ceded Cantwell his usual seat, a courtesy Isabelle approvingly noticed. She poured her grandfather a coffee, then improved the fire and offered Will her chair, pulling up a footstool for herself. Cantwell was not given to subtlety. He took a loud slurp of coffee and boomed, “Why in hell did you want to spend 200,000 quid on my book? Obviously pleased you did, but for the life of me, I don’t see the value.” Will spoke up to penetrate the man’s hearing impediment. “I’m not the buyer, sir. Mr. Spence called you. He’s the buyer. He’s very interested in the book.” “Why?” “He thinks it’s a valuable historical document. He has some theories, and he asked me to come over here and see if I could find out more about it.” “Are you an historian like my Isabelle? You thought the book was worth something, didn’t you, Isabelle?” She nodded and smiled proudly at her grandfather. Will said, “I’m not an historian. More like an investigator.” “Mr. Piper used to be with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Isabelle offered. “J. Edgar Hoover’s gang, eh? Never liked him.” “He’s been gone for a while, sir.” “Well, I don’t think I can help you. That book’s been in our family as long as I can remember. My father didn’t know its provenance, nor did my grandfather. Always considered it a one-off oddity, some sort of municipal registry, possibly Continental in origin.” It was time to play his cards. “I have something to tell you,” Will said, looking each one of them in the eye, playing out a melodrama. “We found something hidden in the book, which may be of considerable value and might help answer questions about the book’s origins.” “I went through every page!” Isabelle protested. “What was hidden? Where?” “Under the back endpaper. There was a sheet of parchment.” “Bugger!” Isabelle cried. “Bugger! Bugger!” “Such language,” Cantwell scolded. “It was a poem,” Will continued, amused by the girl’s florid exasperation. “There wasn’t time to vet it, but one of Mr. Spence’s colleagues thinks it’s about the book.” He was milking it now. “Guess who it’s written by?” “Who?” Isabelle demanded impatiently. “You’re not going to guess?” “No!” “How about William Shakespeare.” The old man and the girl first looked to each other for reaction, then turned back to the certifiable American. “You’re joking!” Cantwell huffed. “I don’t believe it!” Isabelle exclaimed. “I’m going to show it to you,” Will said, “and here’s the deal. If it’s authentic, one of my associates says it’s worth millions, maybe tens of millions. Apparently there isn’t a single confirmed document that exists in Shakespeare’s handwriting, and this puppy’s signed, at least partially-W. Sh. Mr. Spence is going to keep the book, but he’s willing to give the poem back to the Cantwell family if you’ll help us with something.” “With what?” the girl asked suspiciously. “The poem is a map. It refers to clues about the book, and the best guess is that they were hidden in Cantwell Hall. Maybe they’re still here, maybe they’re long gone. Help me with the Easter egg hunt, and, win or lose, the poem’s yours.” “Why would this Spence give us back something he rightfully paid for?” Cantwell mused. “Don’t think I would.” “Mr. Spence is already a wealthy man. And he’s dying. He’s willing to trade the poem for some answers, simple as that.” “Can we see it?” Isabelle asked. He pulled the parchment from his briefcase. It was protected by a clear, plastic sleeve, and, with a flourish, he handed it to her. After a few moments of study, her lips began to tremble in excitement. “Can’t be well,” she whispered. She’d found it immediately. “What was that?” the old man asked, irritably. “There’s a reference to our family, Granddad. Let me read it to you.” She recited the sonnet in a clear voice, fit for a recording, with nuances of playfulness and drama as if she had read it before and rehearsed its delivery. Cantwell furrowed his brow. “Fifteen eighty-one, you say?” “Yes, Granddad.” He pressed down hard on the armrests and worked himself upright before Will or Isabelle could offer assistance, then started shuffling toward a dim corner of the room. They followed, as he muttered to himself. “Shakespeare’s grandfather, Richard was from the village. Wroxall’s Shakespeare country.” He was scanning the far wall. “Where is he? Where’s Edgar?” “Which Edgar, Granddad? We’ve had several.” “You know, the Reformer. Not our blackest sheep, but not far off. He would have been lord of the manor in 1581. There he is. Second from the left, halfway up the wall. You see? The fellow in the ridiculously high collar. Not one of the most handsome Cantwells-we’ve had some genetic variation over the centuries.” Isabelle switched on a floor lamp, casting some light upon a portrait of a dour, pointy-chinned man with a reddish goatee standing in an arrogant, puffy-chested, three-quarter pose. He was dressed in a tight, black tunic with large gold buttons and had a conical Dutch-style hat with a saucer-shaped brim. “Yes, that’s him,” Cantwell affirmed. “We had a chap in from the National Gallery a good while back who said it might have been painted by Robert Peake the Elder. Remind your father of that when I pop off, Isabelle. Could be worth a few quid if he needs to flog it.” From across the room, a woman’s foghorn voice startled them. “Hallo! I’m back. Give me an hour, and I’ll have lunch ready.” The housekeeper, a short, sturdy woman, was still in her wet scarf, clutching her handbag, all business. Isabelle called to her, “Our visitor is here, Louise.” “I can see that. Did you find the clean towels I put out?” “We haven’t been upstairs yet.” “Well, don’t be rude!” she scolded. “Let the gentleman have a wash. He’s come a long way. And send your grandfather to the kitchen for his pills.” “What’s she going on about?” “Louise says, take your pills.” Cantwell looked up at his ancestor and shrugged emphatically. “To be continued, Edgar. That woman strikes fear in my heart.” The upstairs guest wing was cool and dark, a long, paneled hall with brass valances and dim-watted bulbs every few yards, rooms on either side, hotel-style, long, worn runners. Will’s room faced the rear. He gravitated toward the windows to watch the intensifying storm and absently brushed dead flies off the sills. There was a brick patio below and a wild expanse of garden beyond, fruit trees leaning in the stiff wind and sideways rain. In the foreground, off to his right, he could see the edge of what looked like a stables, and over its roof, the top of an outbuilding, some sort of spired structure, indistinct in the downpour. After he splashed some water on his face he sat on the four-poster and stared at the single bar of service on his mobile phone, probably just enough for a call home. He imagined the awkward conversation. What would he say that wouldn’t just get him into more trouble? Better to get this over with and start to thaw out his marriage in person. He settled for a text message: The bedroom was old-ladyish, lots of dried flowers and frilly pillows, gossamer, lace curtains. He kicked off his shoes, laid out his heavy body on top of the floral bedspread, and dutifully napped for an hour until Isabelle’s voice, chiming like a small bell, called him for lunch. Will’s appetite took everything that Louise could throw at him and more. The Sunday roast dinner sat well with his meat-and-potatoes predilection. He ate a small mountain of roast beef, roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and gravy but stopped himself from drinking a third glass of Burgundy. Isabelle asked her grandfather, “Is there any history of Shakespeare visiting Cantwell Hall?” The old man answered through a mouthful of peas. “Never heard of anything like that, but why not? This would have been his stomping ground in his youth. We were a prominent family that largely maintained its Catholicism throughout that dreadful period, and the Shakespeares were probably closeted Catholics as well. And even back then, we had a splendid library that would have interested the fellow. It’s perfectly plausible.” “Any theories why Edgar Cantwell would have gone to the trouble of having a poem written, hiding clues, then stashing the poem in the book?” Will asked. Cantwell swallowed his peas, then drank the rest of his wine. “Sounds to me like they had the inkling the book was dangerous. Those were trying times, easy to get killed for your beliefs. I suppose they couldn’t bring themselves to destroy the book. Thought it better to hide its significance in a fanciful way. Probably a rubbish explanation, but that’s what I think, anyway.” Isabelle was beaming. “I have visions of my dissertation taking a rather more interesting turn.” “So what do you say?” Will asked. “Do we have a deal?” Isabelle and Lord Cantwell nodded. They had discussed the matter while Will had napped. “Yes, we do,” Isabelle answered. “Let’s begin our little adventure after lunch.” THEY BEGAN IN the library. It was a generous room, with bare, plank floors shiny with wear, a few good rugs, and one front-facing exterior wall that let gray, stormy light in through diamond-paned leaded windows. The other walls were lined with bookshelves except for the space above the fireplace, which had a soot-darkened canvas of a traditional English hunting party. There were thousands of books, most of them premodern, but one section on the side wall had a smattering of contemporary hardcovers and even a few paperbacks. Will took it all in with heavy, postprandial eyes. Lord Cantwell had already announced his afternoon nap, and despite Will’s anxiousness to get the job done and get home, the thought of flopping in one of the overstuffed library chairs in a darkened corner and shutting his eyes again was appealing. “This was my magic place when I was a child,” Isabelle told him as she drifted through the room, lightly touching book spines with her fingertips. “I love this room.” She had a slow, dreaminess, a languid contrast to the reference set in his mind of flighty college kids. “I played in here for hours at a time. It’s where I spend most of my time now.” She pointed at a long table crowded with notebooks and pens, a laptop computer, and stacks of old books with slips of paper sticking out, marking passages of interest. “If your poem’s authentic, I might have to start from scratch!” “Sorry. You’re not going to be able to use it. I’ll explain later.” “You’re joking! It would launch my career.” “What is it you want to do?” “Teach, write. I want to be a proper academic historian, a stuffy old professor. This library’s probably responsible for that odd ambition.” “I don’t think it’s odd. My daughter’s a writer.” He didn’t know why, but he added, “She’s not much older than you,” which made her giggle nervously. He headed off the politely inevitable questions about Laura by abruptly saying, “Show me where the book was kept?” She pointed at a gap in one of the eye-level shelves in the middle of the long wall. “Was it always there?” “As long as I remember.” “And the books next to it? Was there a lot of rearranging?” “Not in my lifetime. We can ask Granddad, but I don’t recall any shifting about. Books stayed in their place.” He inspected the books on either side of the gap. An eighteenth-century botany book and a seventeenth-century volume on monuments of the Holy Land. “No, they’re not contemporaneous,” she observed. “I doubt there’s an association.” “Let’s start with the first clue,” Will said, retrieving the poem from his case. “The first one bears Prometheus’s flame.” “Right,” she said. “Prometheus. Stole fire from Zeus and gave it to mortals. That’s my sum total.” Will gestured around the room, “Anything come to mind?” “Well, it’s rather broad, isn’t it? Books on Greek mythology? Hearths? Torches? The barbecue pit!” He gave her a “very funny” look. “Let’s start with the books. Is there a catalogue?” “Needs to be one, but there isn’t. Another problem, of course, is that Granddad has been rather vigorous in his selling.” “Nothing we can do about that,” Will said. “Let’s be systematic. I’ll start on this end. Why don’t you start over there?” While they focused on the first clue, for the sake of efficiency, they kept the others in mind to prevent redoing the exercise if possible. They kept a lookout for any Flemish or Dutch-themed books and any text that seemed to refer to a prophet of any sort. They had no inkling how to tackle the “son who sinned” reference. The process was laborious, and an hour into it, Will was growing discouraged by its needle-in-a-haystack quality. And often, it wasn’t as easy as pulling a book out, opening the title page, and shoving it back. He needed Isabelle’s help with every book in Latin or French. She would come over, give a quick peek, and hand it back with a light, “Nope!” The afternoon light, as muted as it was, faded completely, and Isabelle responded by turning on every fixture and taking a match to the fireplace kindling. “Behold, I give you fire!” she said as the flames licked the logs. By early evening, they were done. Despite a not-very-old volume of “All right,” she said agreeably. “We’ll have a look at all the old fireplaces. Hidden panels, false mantels, loose stones. I’m having fun! You?” He checked his phone again for a text messages from Nancy. There were none. “Having a blast,” he answered. By Isabelle’s reckoning, there were six fireplaces that predated 1581. Three were on the ground level, the library, the Great Hall and the dining room, and three were on the first floor-in her grandfather’s bedroom above the Great Hall and in a second and third bedroom. They began their inspection in the library, standing before the roaring fire and wondering what to do. “Why don’t I just knock on the panels for hollow bits?” she suggested. It sounded like a perfectly good idea to him. The ancient walnut mantel sounded solid to her knuckles. They checked the bevels of the mantelpiece for hidden latches or hinges, but it appeared to be one immovable carpentered board. The stones of the hearth floor were solid and level, and all of the mortar looked similar. The fire was still going, so they wouldn’t be checking the brickwork in the firebox for a while, but nothing stood out to cursory inspection. The fire in the Great Hall had long died out. Lord Cantwell was half-reading, half-dozing in his chair, and he seemed nonplussed over their investigative work as they tapped and felt their way around the massive fireplace. “Really!” he snorted. The surround was beautifully fluted and shiny with age, and the mantelpiece was a massive beveled slab, hewn from one huge timber. Isabelle hopefully tapped on the blue-and-white square tiles, which were inlaid on the surround, each one bearing a little decorative country scene, but they all had the same timbre. Will volunteered to hunch over and crab-walk into the huge firebox, where he tapped at the bricks with a poker. But for his efforts he was rewarded only with patches of soot on his shirt and trousers. Isabelle pointed the smudges out and watched in amusement as he tried to brush them away with his palm. The three other fireplaces got the same treatment. If something were hidden in one of them, they’d need a wrecking crew to find it. It had gotten dark. The rain had stopped, and a cold front was racing through the heart of the country, bringing frigid, howling winds. Cantwell Hall lacked central heating, and the drafty rooms were getting chilly. Louise loudly announced she would serve tea in the Great Hall. She had restarted the fire and switched on the electric heater by Lord Cantwell’s chair, then made clear she was anxious to be off for home. Will joined Isabelle and her grandfather in a light assortment of meat-and-pickle sandwiches, shortbread biscuits, and tea. Louise scurried around, doing some last-minute chores, then inquired if they intended to stay in the Great Hall for the evening. “For a while longer,” Isabelle answered. “I’ll light the candles then,” she offered, “as long as you’re careful to blow them out before you turn in.” As they munched, Louise used a disposable plastic lighter to light a dozen candles throughout the room. With the wind whistling outside, the fireplace hissing, and the ancient room in its windowless gloom, the candles seemed reassuring points of light. Will and Isabelle watched Louise as she ignited the last candlestick and retreated from the room. Suddenly, they looked at each other, and simultaneously exclaimed, “Candlesticks!” Lord Cantwell asked if they’d gone mad, but Isabelle answered him with an urgent question. “Which of our candlesticks are sixteenth-century or earlier?” He scratched at his fringe of hair and pointed toward the center of the room, “The pair of silver-gilt ones on the table, I should think. Believe they’re Venetian, fourteenth-century. Tell your father that if I pop off, they’re worth a few quid.” They rushed to the candlesticks, blew them out, and removed the thick, waxy candles, placing them on a silver tray. They were pricket style, with big spikes on bowls spearing enormous five-inch-diameter candles. Each candlestick had an elaborately tooled, six-petaled base of gold-coated silver. From each base rose a central column that progressively widened out into a Romanesque tower resembling the peak-windowed spire of a church, each of the six windows rendered in blue enamel. Above each spire, the column extended into the cup and pricket of the candleholder. “They’re light enough, they could be hollow,” Will said, “but the bases are solid.” He closely inspected the joined segments of the complicated column. She urged him on, “Go ahead, give it a twist,” she whispered. “Turn your back to Granddad. I don’t want to give him a heart attack.” Will wrapped his left hand around the windowed spire and tried to turn the base with his right hand, gently at first, then with more force, until his face reddened. He shook his head and put it down. “No joy.” Then he tried hers with the same maneuver. It held firm as if it were forged from a single piece of metal. He relaxed his shoulder and arm muscles when a spasm of frustration made him try one more furious twist. The column turned. Half a rotation, but it turned. She whispered, “Go on!” He kept up the pressure until the column was spinning freely and the nongilded sleeve of a tube within a tube became visible. Finally, the base gave way completely. He had one half of a candlestick in each hand. “What are you two up to?” Cantwell called out. “Can’t hear a thing.” “Just a minute, Granddad!” Isabelle shouted. “Hang on!” Will put the base down and peered into the hollow-tubed spire. “I need a light.” He followed her over to one of the standing lamps, stuck his index finger inside the tube, and felt a firm, circular edge. “There’s something in there!” He pulled his finger out and tried to have a look, but the incandescent bulb didn’t help. “My finger’s too big to get it. You try.” Hers was thin, and she slid in all the way and closed her eyes to heighten the tactile impressions. “It’s something rolled, like paper or parchment. I’m in the middle of it. There! I’ve got it turning.” She slowly twisted the candlestick around her finger, applying firm, gentle pressure with the pulp of her fingertip. A yellowed scroll began to emerge. It was cylindrical, about eight inches long, multiple sheets of parchment tightly rolled. In shocked excitement, she started to hand it to him, but he said, “No, you.” She slowly unrolled the cylinder. The parchment was dry but not brittle, and it unspooled easily enough. She flattened the sheets with both hands and Will tilted the lamp shade for more light. “It’s in Latin,” she said. “That makes me especially glad you’re here.” She read the heading on the first page and translated it aloud: An Epistle from Felix, Abbot of Vectis Abbey, written in the year of our Lord, 1334. He felt light-headed. “Jesus.” “What is it, Will?” “Vectis.” “You know the place?” “Yeah, I know it. I think we hit the mother lode.” |
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