want to go to the auction and buy that book. Simon wants it. My guess is the Israelis are interested, too. If nothing else, it’s our ante into the game.”
“I agree. Do it. I’ll set up a line of credit. But, Cotton, keep the price reasonable. Okay?”
“Don’t I always?”
He walked back toward the house and could hear people all around him, some within their own dwellings, others out in the bright afternoon. Inside, he discovered that Elise Dubois was making rice and beans, along with a soup of potatoes, tomatoes, and meat, all simmering on a small electric stove. The house contained four rooms, sparsely furnished, everything clean and orderly.
He sat at the table with Dubois and the two children.
“What do you do?” his host asked.
He decided again not to burst Scott’s bubble. “I work with the same people Scott does.”
“You’re a secret agent?” Violine said, the young girl’s face alight with anticipation.
“Not like Scotty. He was higher up than me. But I do work for the same people.”
“Scotty taught us things,” Alain said. “Secret-agent things.”
The boy pushed back from the table and rushed from the room.
“They get excited,” Dubois said. “We not meet people like Scotty all the time.”
Elise brought the meal to the table.
Dubois squeezed his wife’s arm with affection. “She good teacher and good cook.”
Alain returned with some papers, which he eagerly displayed.
“Mr. Malone has no time for that,” the boy’s mother said. “Sit and eat your food.”
Malone smiled. “He’s fine.”
Alain pointed. “Can you read the messages?”
The three pieces of paper were all blank.
He shook his head. “Why don’t you read them for me.”
“It’s easy.”
The boy jumped up on his chair and held one of the blank sheets to the overhead light. Slowly, brown letters appeared on the paper.
HELLO ALAIN.
Then he knew. Lemon juice. Reacting to the heat of the bulb. “That is an old spy trick. Scotty should not have revealed that to you.”
“It’s a secret?” Violine asked.
“You use it, too?” Alain said as he hopped down. “Scotty said secret agents use this all the time.”
“He was right. We do. All the time. But you can’t tell anyone.”
“Scotty was a good man,” Elise said. “He spent a lot of time with the children. We were so sad when he died.”
He saw that she meant it. Obviously, Scott had forged an ally in Dubois and his family, cementing that with the right words, said at the right time, coupled, most likely, with a liberal sprinkling of money. The Magellan Billet? Interesting Scott had used that as his cover. What kind of con had his brother-in-law been working?
He doubted these people knew.
So he kept his mouth shut and allowed them to continue to think the best.
Malone entered La Villa St-Louis, the hotel located outside Cap-Haitien, on the coast, inside a stunning building with Spanish and French influences. More upscale than where he was staying, its lush grounds fenced and guarded. The auction was held in a paneled hall that could accommodate a few hundred comfortably. He estimated that fewer than seventy-five were there, many already seated and awaiting the first item. To his right and near the front sat Zachariah Simon. The other man, Rocha, was not in sight. Malone grabbed a chair to the left of the center podium, at the end of an aisle of eight seats.
A copy of the day’s
More people drifted in.
The auction began and four items were sold, three paintings and a beautiful piece of mahogany furniture, all from the same estate being liquidated. According to the catalog the 16th-century book would be the fifth offering, and it was brought in by a white-gloved attendant, who laid it before the auctioneer.
Bids were called for. Simon wasted no time.
“Five thousand.”
Malone waited to see if anyone else planned to make a bid. Seeing none, he offered his own.
“Six thousand.”
The auctioneer’s eyes raked the crowd and waited.
“Seven thousand” came Simon’s reply.
“Eight,” Malone quickly added.
“Ten.”
A new voice.
From behind.
He turned to see Matt Schwartz, standing, his arm raised to identify himself.
Simon spotted the newcomer, too, then said, “Twelve.”
Malone decided to see how bad the Austrian, and the Israelis, wanted the book. “Fifty thousand.”
Auctioneers were usually noted for their poker faces, but he’d clearly caught this one off guard. The surprise showed, but was quickly suppressed before he asked, “Any more bids?”
“Seventy-five thousand,” Schwartz said.
“One hundred thousand,” Simon countered.
Apparently they both wanted the book.
Silence.
Neither Schwartz nor Simon countered.
The auctioneer waited thirty seconds before asking for any further bids.
No reply.
“Sold.”
Malone accepted the book, nestled safely inside a clear plastic bag, wrapped in brown paper. The $150,000 had been transferred into the auction company’s account, thanks to an online account he’d accessed with the password Stephanie had provided.
She was going to kill him.
He’d just dropped a chunk of public money on a questionable purchase.
But at least he had everyone’s attention.
He exited the hall and, before leaving the hotel, detoured to the bathroom. There he entered one of the stalls, carefully opened the package, and passed the plastic-encased book beneath the divider. A hand grabbed the offering, then another book appeared — a French novel bought before arriving — which Malone stuffed into the brown wrapping. He left the stall and the bathroom. Dubois would wait five minutes then do the same, heading home with their prize.
He knew it would not be long and, just as he exited the hotel and followed a lighted path toward the street, someone called out.
“You paid far too much for that.”
He stopped and turned. “And you are?”
“The man you outbid. Zachariah Simon.”
