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. Will Piper. Apartment 6F.
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.
Chapter 8
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
