twentieth century prior to the last five years are on microfilm.”
Kerr frowned. “That creates a bit of a problem. I mean, you can’t very well have me bumbling around in your files during business hours, can you?”
“Actually, the archives are set off by themselves, so that is not the problem. No, the trouble comes from another direction. We no longer let independent researchers in. In fact, the last time we did officially was a decade ago, and of course, he had lied to us. He was actually searching for the company’s collusion with the Nazis?”
“And, of course, there was none,” Kerr echoed. “Not a shred of evidence.”
“Exactly. But as soon as the world learned he suspected that there was.
..” He did not finish the sentence.
“It must have been very bad for business. So the problem is that you’re willing to let me do my research, but you’d rather not let anyone know of it until I can credit the company generously in the novel?”
“Yes, yes. I am pleased you understand. We have had success in the past with allowing a few select researchers in at night to work after hours.
Would you be willing to do that?”
“Well … ” Kerr considered. “I suppose I can change my schedule. I am excited about the early history of Donk & Lapierre.”
“Very well. Then it is done. Our security will be alerted. I, myself, often work late. You must take no documents from the building though.
Our archivist will show you around so you can orient yourself and learn how to properly handle the oldest papers.” Kerr smiled. “Very gracious of you. How can I do anything but accept gladly?”
“When would you care to start?”
“Would tonight be too soon?”
“Tonight?” For a moment, there was a flicker of doubt in Lapierre’s face. “Of course. I will instruct my assistant to give you a letter and a badge. He will introduce you to the archivist, too.”
Dianne Kerr stood. “You’re most kind. I promise to not get in your way.”
“I trust you completely.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dianne Kerr presented herself at the locked front doors of Donk & Lapierre precisely at eight p. m., casually dressed in black jeans, a black turtleneck, black cotton socks, navy-blue running shoes, and a tan leather jacket.
She carried a briefcase.
The guard at the door nodded. “Good evening. Mevrouw Kerr, is it?” His English had a heavy Dutch accent.
“That I am.” She showed the letter and her badge.
“You will hang the badge around your neck, please, and open your briefcase.”
She opened it, revealing yellow writing pads, Post-it notes, a French dictionary, a Dutch-Flemish dictionary, current world almanac, and ballpoint pens.
The guard nodded. “A writer’s tools, /a?”
“Nothing changes.” Kerr smiled.
Once inside, she climbed to the top floor, where the archives were housed. Besides the chairman’s office, the archives were the only other occupant. Cavernous, filled with filing cabinets, the room smelled faintly antiseptic. The ventilation and temperature-control system burred softly in the background. According to the archivist, the system was oversized and had special filters to keep the air clean, which helped to preserve the documents.
Kerr took out a yellow writing pad and carried the very first handwritten file of Jan Donk Imports to a narrow table lined with rows of tall wood chairs. The documents were grayed and fragile. Handling them carefully, she read and made notes.
Four hours later, Monsieur Lapierre himself was finally gone, security had finished its midnight rounds, and the building was as silent as a vault. Kerr opened her briefcase once more and pressed a brass fitting.
A hidden compartment opened, and she extracted a miniature camera and a pair of thin, latex gloves. As she pulled on the gloves, she strode to the other end of the archives, to the last file cabinet, which housed current correspondence and reports.
It was fastened with a combination lock.
Kerr pressed her ear to the lock and turned the dial. She could feel its guts through her fingers … the faint click as a tumbler fell, then another, and another. Her heart rate accelerated, and the lock opened.
She thumbed through the folders until she found her target: Flying Dragon Enterprises, Shanghai. Looking quickly around, she removed the file. As she examined each paper inside, every tiny sound in the old building made her pause.
When she found the right document, a ship’s manifest, she allowed herself a quick smile of relief. She had no idea why it was wanted, but she was often able to uncover the reasons for her assignments eventually. Perhaps this one would give her the basis for another thriller. She photographed it, put it back into the file exactly where it had been, returned the file to the cabinet, and relocked it. Removing her gloves, she hurried back to her briefcase.
She packed it quickly and studied the archive room one last time to be sure she had left not the slightest trace. At last, she turned off the lights and headed for the door.
On the first floor, she made enough noise to alert the dozing security guard.
“You are finished, Mevrouw Kerr?”
“For tonight. There’s only so much reading and scribbling one can do.”
The guard chuckled and crooked his finger. Kerr opened her briefcase, and he leafed through her voluminous notes, made sure there were no original documents, nodded, and shut the lid. “You go home now?”
“I think an ale or two and then to bed.”
“Ja, goede nacht.”
Outside, Dianne Kerr smiled to herself. She would, of course, return at least twice more, to make certain her legend was believed. She did not stop for the two ales. Instead, she went straight home to her darkroom, where she developed the microfilm, made an eight-by-ten print, and faxed it to Washington. A fine night’s work for a desk-bound novelist, extremely well paid, and without a trace. With the possibility of further adventure tomorrow night, to steal the actual document and leave behind a meticulous copy so difficult to discern from the original it could pass for years undiscovered.
As usual, Fred Klein slipped into the West Wing through the kitchen staff entrance, from where the secret service whisked him straight up to the residence.
In the Treaty Room, President Castilla sat on a sofa, morosely contemplating his coffee. He looked up as soon as Klein entered. “You look as bad as I feel. Didn’t the fax come?”
Klein closed and locked the door. “Worse. It came. It’s not what we need. Antwerp has the fake manifest on file, too.”
Castilla swore. “I’d really hoped … ” He shook his head. “So we have nothing from Baghdad, Basra, or Antwerp.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe there’s been a mistake. Why would your operative bother to send the fake? Didn’t he know it was fake?”
“She. No, sir, she didn’t. I couldn’t tell her exactly what was in it, or why we wanted it, because she’s European operating in a European city. If something went wrong, if she were caught or said something… there was too much risk someone would find out about the Empress crisis. In Iraq, it didn’t matter. They already know why we want the manifest, and they’re not going to leak what we’re up to, because they want the chemicals.”
The president sighed. “Some days staying in bed sounds like an attractive idea. The news seems to be getting worse and worse. Sit and have some coffee with me, Fred.”
As Klein settled in next to him, the president poured and handed him a steaming cup. “Over at Bethesda, they tell me I have to cut down on my coffee. Even Cassie’s getting on me about it. But to hell with all of them.
