Chapter 27
DeCorso pulled his car into the Hertz lot at Heathrow off the Northern Perimeter Road. It was 3:00 A.M… he was tired, and he wanted to get over to the Airport Marriott, wash the smell of accelerants off his body, and get a few hours of sleep before his rendezvous with Piper. Since it was the middle of the night, and there were no lot attendants, he carried his bag into the lobby. There was a single night clerk, a bored young Sikh in a turban and polo shirt, who mechanically checked him in and began to settle the bill.
The clerk’s demeanor changed and he started to glance at his terminal.
“Any problems?” DeCorso asked.
“Keeps freezing up on me. Just need to check the server. Won’t be a minute.”
He disappeared through a door. DeCorso swung the terminal around to have a look but the screen was blank. He shifted his weight from leg to leg in frustration and fatigue and drummed the counter with his fingers.
The speed with which the police arrived impressed him purely from a professional point of view. Blue lights flashed into the lot and surrounded the office. DeCorso knew that run-of-the-mill British cops didn’t pack, but these guys had assault weapons. Probably an airport antiterror unit. They meant business, and when they yelled for him to get down on the floor, he did, without hesitation, but that didn’t stop him from angrily swearing out loud.
When he was cuffed with plastic wristbands and hauled to his feet, he looked the ranking officer in the face. He was Special Branch, a deputy inspector who was looking as smug as the cat who’d caught the canary. DeCorso demanded, “What’s this about?”
“You ever been to Wroxall, in Warwickshire, sir?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Funnily enough, the local constabulary had a report from a member of the public of a suspicious vehicle loitering about up there on a country lane. Your vehicle, sir.”
“I can’t help you.”
“There was a fire with casualties a few hours ago at a house in Wroxall. The number plate of your Ford Mondeo matches the report. We’ve been waiting for you to turn up.” The DI sniffed a few times. “Do I detect a smell of kerosene, sir?”
DeCorso sneered at the officer. “I’ve got only one thing to say to you.”
“What would that be, sir?”
“I’ve got diplomatic immunity.”
Will awoke early at the Heathrow Marriott, unaware of the fire and its aftermath. Unimpeded, he caught the shuttle bus to Terminal 5, boarded the 9:00 A.M.. British Airways flight to JFK, and filled the first-class cabin with snores most of the way across the Atlantic.
Will landed in New York and cleared customs before noon, local time. He strode through the arrivals hall, pulled out his cell phone, then put it away without using it. He’d hop in a cab and surprise Nancy at work. That was the play.
It was just before noon in Nevada, and Frazier was at the Area 51 Ops Center in a panic. They were following local news feeds from the UK and had confirmation that the first part of DeCorso’s mission had been successful. Cantwell Hall, a stately old home in Shakespeare Country, was a smoking crime scene. But where the hell was DeCorso? It wasn’t like him to go dark on this kind of assignment. They tried raising him by phone and e-mail, but he was off the grid.
Frazier’s line lit up, and he answered, hopeful it was his man, but the familiar voice of an attache to the Secretary of the Navy was there instead, instructing him to hold for Secretary Lester. Frazier banged his fist against the desk in frustration. This was not a good time for Lester to be calling for an update.
“Frazier!” Lester boomed. “What the hell?”
Frazier was confused. What kind of way was that to start a conversation? “Sorry, sir?”
“I just got a call from the State Department, who got a call from the US embassy in London. One of your guys is in the slammer invoking diplomatic immunity!”
Will stepped from the terminal out into a drizzling, washed-out morning. He was beginning to head to the taxi stand, when he heard a deep honk and saw Spence’s bus rolling toward the terminal. He frowned with indignation. He’d get to them in time, but first he wanted to make amends to his wife and grab Philly and kiss his chubby little face. The bus door opened, and he had to deal with Spence’s fat, bearded face instead. Unexpectedly, Spence didn’t look pleased to see him. He urgently waved him on board.
Kenyon was hovering and said fussily, “We’ve been circling. Thank God you’re here, and thank God we found you.”
Will sat as Spence pressed the gas pedal. “Why didn’t you call my cell?”
“Didn’t dare,” Spence said. He looked gray. “They burned the house. It’s all over the UK news.”
Will’s gyroscopes went haywire, his equilibrium helter-skelter; he felt seasick, like throwing up. “The girl? Her grandfather?”
“I’m sorry, Will,” Kenyon said. “We don’t have much time.”
His eyes welled, and he started to shake. “Take me downtown to the Federal building. I’ve got to get my wife.”
“Tell us what you found,” Spence said emphatically.
“You drive, I’ll talk. Then we’re done. For good.”
Frazier ran through the corridors of the Truman Building, with two of his men trotting after him. They rode the elevator to the ground level and jumped into a waiting Humvee to take them out to the runway. A Learjet was scrambled and waiting on the tarmac, and Frazier ordered an immediate wheels-up. The pilots asked their destination. “New York City,” Frazier growled. “I don’t care how long it usually takes. Get there faster.”
Will condensed the previous days into a staccato military-style debrief. All the wonder of discovery, the exhilaration of the chase, the thrill of revelation were flattened by the crushing news. Had he caused their deaths by sticking his nose in? The notion flashed through his mind. Yes and no, he concluded bitterly, yes and no. Some goddamned, red-haired monk savant had written their names down on a piece of parchment a thousand years ago: Mors. Yesterday was their day. That’s all there was to it. Nothing could have changed their fate.
It could drive you crazy, he thought.
It should drive you crazy.
When he was done with his robotic briefing, he handed Kenyon the originals of the Felix letter, the Calvin letter, the Nostradamus letter, and Isabelle’s neatly handwritten translations. On the flight from London, he had split the Felix letter into two parts as he and Isabelle had found them, to recapture the drama of its discovery. Now, he didn’t much care about the impact of storytelling.
Will closed his eyes while Kenyon read aloud the translations and Spence drove, his teeth clenched, his heavy chest rising and falling, his oxygen lines sibilating.
Kenyon provided running commentary and gasping asides. Although it would be hard to find a more mild- mannered, mild-tempered man, the Cantwell letters were electrifying his thin body, turning his eyes wild.
The Felix letter thrilled them. In one fell swoop, all their years of speculative debate on the origin of the Library was replaced by a contemporaneous account. Kenyon cried: “You see, you big oaf, I was right! From God’s mind to a scribe’s hand. This is absolute proof. Finally, man has its answer to the age-old question.”
Spence shook his head. “Proof of what? Why God? Why not the supernatural or mystical with all this seventh-son business. Or extraterrestrials, for that matter? Why is it always God?”
“Oh, please, Henry! It’s as plain as the nose on your face.” Then, all of a sudden, he realized the letter wasn’t finished. “Where’s the end of this? Is there more?”
Will raised his lowered head to say, “Yeah, there’s more. Keep going.”
Kenyon tackled the Calvin letter next and he read the last of it with rising triumph in his voice.
“Maybe you’re not convinced, Henry, but the greatest religious scholar of his day damn well was!”
“What else was he going to think?” Spence huffed. “He fit it into the context he was familiar with. No surprises there.”
“You’re impossible!”
“You’re monolithic.”
