The Collectors

“Okay, that’s it, bedtime, junior.” Reuben slugged Trent flush in the jaw, knocking him out. He straightened up and said encouragingly to the book dealer, “Go right ahead.”

Chambers eyed the unconscious Trent. “Yes, I wonder that I am an old fool. Little by little, Albert told me how there was money to be made in selling what he called minor secrets. He explained that it wasn’t so much spying as just the normal course of business. He said in his position on the committee staff he’d met a man who had contacts in all the intelligence agencies and who was very interested in doing business with him. It turned out later that this man was very dangerous. But Albert said lots of people sold secrets, on both sides. It was almost expected.”

“And you believed that?” Stone said.

“A part of me didn’t. A part of me wanted to because book collecting is an expensive passion and the money could come in handy. I see clearly now that it was wrong, but back then it didn’t seem that bad. Albert said the problem was that all spies eventually got caught when they did a drop. He said he’d figured a way around that that depended on me.”

“Your skill as a conservator with rare books; you had expertise and access to the library,” Caleb said.

“Yes. And Albert and I were old friends, so there was nothing suspicious about him bringing me a book; that was my specialty, after all. Inside the books, certain letters were marked with a tiny dot. I’d take the coded letters he’d given me and put them in the library books using the chemical stain. With incunabula works I always loved the beautifully highlighted letters that the craftsmen created during the cradle of printing and beyond. To me they were really paintings in miniature, hundreds of years old, and with proper care they can look as vibrant today as the day they were first done. In my own way I’d been experimenting with materials like that for years, just as a hobby. There’s no market for that sort of thing anymore. It actually wasn’t too difficult to come up with a chemical to make the letters react under the right type of lenses, which I also constructed. Along with old books, chemistry and the power and manipulability of light have always fascinated me. I do so enjoy my work at the library.” He paused. “Well, at least I did enjoy it, as my career is now, of course, over.” He sighed heavily. “On the other end, Albert and his people arranged for people to come to the reading room with these special glasses. I understand they came in on a regular basis, not always simply to get the coded messages, so as not to raise suspicion.”

“Little old ladies and men coming in and reading rare books would never incite suspicion anyway,” Stone added. “They could take the secrets, put them in an old-fashioned letter to a ‘relative’ living out of the country, and not even the mighty NSA, with all its supercomputers and satellites, would ever know. It really was a perfect plan.”

“I would tell Albert which book was ready to go, and he would place little phrases on certain Internet sites that would tell them when to come in and what book to ask for. I’d deliver that book on the morning of their visit. I had an endless supply of volumes in for repair that were freely circulated in the reading room, so that was no problem. They came in, copied down the highlighted letters and went on their way. Some hours after that, the chemical wash evaporated and the evidence with it.”

“And you get paid very well, with the money sent to a foreign account,” Annabelle said.

“Something like that,” he admitted.

“But like you said, Vincent Pearl was a big success. Why not go with that identity full-time?” Stone asked.

“As I said, I loved the work I did at the library. And it was fun fooling everyone. I guess I wanted the best of both worlds.”

Caleb spoke up. “Spying is bad enough, but murder! Bob Bradley, Cornelius Behan, Norman Janklow, probably Jewell English? And Jonathan? You had Jonathan killed!”

“I didn’t have any of them killed!” Chambers protested fiercely. He pointed at Trent. “He did that; he and whoever he’s working with.”

“Mr. Foxworth,” Stone said slowly.

“But why Jonathan?” Caleb asked bitterly. “Why him?”

Chambers nervously rubbed his hands together. “He came into the conservation room unexpectedly after hours one night and saw me doctoring a book. I was just applying the chemicals to the pages. I tried to explain it away, but I’m not sure he believed me. I immediately told Albert what had happened, and the next thing I know, Jonathan was dead. Albert told me later that because the reading room was our base of exchange, they had to make the death seem natural. If we lost the reading room, we’d be out of business.”

“But you knew what had happened, and yet you still didn’t come forward?” Caleb said accusingly.

Chambers exclaimed, “How could I? I’d rot in jail.”

“Which you will now,” Stone said firmly. “And him,” he added, looking at the slumped-over Trent.

A voice said, “Or maybe not.”

They all whirled around and watched as Roger Seagraves stepped toward them, a pistol in each hand.

“Mr. Foxworth?” Caleb said.

“Shut up!” Seagraves said impatiently. His gaze settled on Trent, who was just coming around.

When he saw Seagraves, he said, “Thank God, Roger.”

Seagraves smiled. “Wrong deity, Albert.” He fired, hitting Trent in the chest. The man gasped and slipped off the chair onto the floor. Seagraves aimed his other pistol at Stone and Reuben, who’d made a move toward him. “I don’t think so.” He leveled his other pistol at Chambers. “Your services are no longer needed either.” As Chambers braced for the impact of the bullet, Stone stepped between him and Seagraves.

“I’ve already called the police, they’re on their way. If you’re planning to escape, now would be an excellent time.”

“That’s really touching; one Triple Six looking out for another?”

Stone stiffened slightly.

Seagraves smiled. “So it’s true. Then you know the first rule of our business: never leave any witnesses. But I am curious, how did you end up working in a cemetery? That’s a long fall for somebody like you.”