Book of Souls

Chapter 4

The auction room at Pierce & Whyte was off the main hall on the ground floor of the Georgian mansion. Bidders signed in at a reception desk and entered a fine old room with fawn-colored hardwood floors, a high, plastered ceiling, and one entire wall lined with bookcases that required a ladder to reach the top shelves. The auction room faced the High Street, and with the drapes pulled back, yellow shafts of sunlight intersected with neat rows of brown wooden chairs making a chessboard pattern. There was space for seventy to eighty patrons, and on this fine bright Friday morning, the room was filling up briskly.

Malcolm Frazier had arrived early, anxious to get on with it. After registering with a pert girl who cheerfully ignored his surliness, he entered the empty room and sat down in the first row, directly in front of the auctioneer’s podium, where he absently twirled his paddle between a meaty thumb and forefinger. As more people arrived, it became increasingly apparent that Frazier was not the typical antiquarian book buyer. His fellow bidders didn’t look like they could bench-press four hundred pounds or swim underwater a hundred yards or kill a man with one weaponless hand. But Frazier was decidedly more nervous than his nearsighted, flabby brethren, since he had never attended an auction and was only vaguely aware of the protocol.

He checked the catalogue and found Lot 113 deep in the brochure. If this was the order of the day, he was afraid he’d have a long, agonizing sit. His posture was erect and stiff, his feet planted heavily beside his shoulder bag, a big block of a man with a face with more angles than curves. In the second row, the chair behind him stayed empty because he blotted out the view to the podium.

He had learned about the auction from a Pentagon e-mail flashed to his encrypted BlackBerry. He had been pushing a shopping cart at a suburban Las Vegas supermarket at the time, dutifully following his wife through the dairy section. The chime that went off on the device was the high-priority one, an insistent whoop that made his mouth go dry in a Pavlovian way. Nothing good ever followed this particular alert tone.

A long-forgotten Defense Intelligence filter that scanned all electronic media for the keywords “1527” and “book” had been triggered, and a low-level analyst at the DIA forwarded the finding up the line, curious but clueless why anyone in military intelligence would give a hoot over a Web-site listing of an old book coming to auction.

But to the cognoscenti at Area 51, this was a bombshell. The one missing volume. The needle in a haystack, found. Where had the book been all these years? What was its chain of possession? Did anyone know what it was? Could anyone figure it out? Was there anything special about this particular volume that could compromise the lab’s mission? Meetings were held. Plans were drawn. Paperwork was pushed up the line. Funds were allocated and wired. Operation Helping Hand was looming, and Frazier was personally chosen by the Pentagon for the job.

With the room near capacity, the auctioneers arrived and took their positions. Toby Parfitt, impeccably turned out, approached the podium and began adjusting the microphone and his auction implements. To his left, Martin Stein and two other senior members of the books department seated themselves at a draped table. Each dialed into a telephonic connection for off-site bidders and, with receivers pressed against ears, placidly awaited the start of the proceedings.

Peter Nieve, Toby’s junior assistant, positioned himself to his master’s right, a fidgeting dogsbody at the ready. Nieve made sure he was closer to his boss than the new lad, Adam Cottle, who had joined the department only a fortnight earlier. Cottle was a dull-eyed blond in his twenties with short hair and sausage fingers, by looks more of a butcher boy than a book dealer. Apparently his father knew the Managing Director, and Toby was told to take him on, even though he didn’t need the extra help, and Cottle lacked a university degree or, indeed, any relevant experience.

Nieve had been merciless to the fellow. He finally had someone lower on the pecking order, and he delegated his most mundane and humiliating chores to the colorless young man, who would quietly nod and get on with the task like a subservient oaf.

Toby surveyed the audience, nodding curtly to the regulars. There were a few new faces, none more imposing than the large, muscular gentleman seated in front of him, oddly out of place.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the appointed hour has arrived. I am Toby Parfitt, your auctioneer, and I am pleased to welcome you to Pierce & Whyte’s autumn auction of select antiquarian books and manuscripts, representing a diverse selection of high-quality literary collectables. Among the many featured offerings today is a veritable treasure trove of material from the collection of Lord Cantwell’s country house in Warwickshire. I would like to inform you, we are also accepting telephonic bids. Our staff is at the ready to assist you with any inquiries. So without further ado, let us begin.”

A rear door opened, and a pretty female assistant with white gloves entered with the first lot, demurely holding it out in front of her bosom.

Toby acknowledged her, and began, “Lot 1 is a very nice copy of John Ruskin’s The Unity of Art, a lecture delivered at the Annual Meeting of the Manchester School of Art in 1859, published at Oxford in 1870. The copy is lightly browned in its original wrappers and would make a worthy acquisition for Ruskin aficionados and art historians alike. I would entertain starting bids of?100.”

Frazier grunted and steeled himself for an ordeal.

In New York City, it was five hours earlier, two hours before the sun would crack the chilly gloom over the East River. Spence and Kenyon had awoken early at their nighttime domicile, a Wal-Mart parking lot in Valley Stream, Long Island. In the bus’s kitchen, they made coffee and bacon and eggs, then hit the road to beat the rush hour into lower Manhattan. It was four thirty when they arrived at Will’s door. He was waiting at the curb, shivering from the cold but steaming from an early-morning argument.

It hadn’t been a great idea to argue with his wife while she was breast-feeding. He figured that out halfway through their contretemps. There was something mean-spirited about raising his voice and drowning out his son’s gurgling and sucking, not to mention wiping Nancy’s usual look of maternal serenity off her face. On the other hand, he’d made a promise to help Spence, and he argued that at least he hadn’t agreed to haul off to England. Nancy was hardly placated. For her, Doomsday was in the past, and the Library was best forgotten. She understood the danger of black groups like the watchers. She was all about the present and the future. She had a baby she loved and a husband she cherished. Life was pretty good right now, but it could turn on a dime. She told him not to play with fire.

Will was nothing if not stubborn. He had grabbed his jacket, stormed out of the apartment, then immediately started feeling rotten. But he refused to turn tail and apologize. The give-and-take of married life was a concept he understood intellectually, but it wasn’t ingrained, and might never be for all he knew. He mumbled something to himself about being pussy-whipped and hit the elevator down button hard, like he was trying to poke someone’s eye out.

As soon as he boarded the bus, Will admitted, “Good thing we’re not doing this in my place.”

“In the doghouse, Mr. Piper?” Spence asked.

“Just call me Will from now on, okay?” he answered moodily. “You got coffee?” He slouched on the sofa.

Kenyon poured while Spence touched GET DIRECTIONS on his GPS unit and pulled away from the curb. Their destination was the Queens Mall, where Will figured they could park the bus without much hassle.

When they arrived, it was still dark, and the mall was several hours from opening. The parking lot was wide open and Spence parked at the periphery. His cell phone had five bars, so they wouldn’t have to worry about signal quality.

“It’s 10:00 A.M.. in London. I’ll dial in,” Spence said, getting up and wheeling his oxygen box.

He placed the cell phone on the kitchen table on speaker mode, and the three of them sat around it while he punched in the international number. An operator connected them into the auction, and an officious voice answered, “Martin Stein here of Pierce & Whyte. With whom am I speaking?”

“This is Henry Spence calling from the United States. Hear me okay?”

“Yes, Mr. Spence, loud and clear. We’ve been expecting your call. If you could indicate which lots you intend to bid on, it would be most useful.”

“Just one, Lot 113.”

“I see. Well, I think we might not get to that item until well into the second hour.”

“I’ve got my phone plugged in and I’ve paid my wireless bill, so we’ll be okay on this end.”

In London, Frazier was fighting jet lag and boredom, but he was too disciplined and stoical to grimace, yawn, or squirm like a normal person. The old books kept marching past in one dull stream of cardboard, leather, paper, and ink. Histories, novels, travelogues, poetry, ornithology, works of science, mathematics, engineering. He seemed to be the only uninterested party. His compatriots were in a lather, bidding furiously against one another, each with a characteristic style. Some would flamboyantly wave their paddles. Others would raise them almost imperceptibly. The real hard-core regulars had facial expressions that were recognized by the staff as indications-a sharp nod, a twitch of the cheek, a raised brow. There was some serious disposable income in this town, Frazier thought, as bids on books he wouldn’t shove under a short table leg, rose into the thousands of pounds.

In New York, dawn had come, and daylight filled the bus. Every so often, Stein came onto the line with a progress report. They were getting closer. Will was getting impatient. He’d promised he’d be back before Nancy had to leave for work, and the clock was spinning. Spence’s body was noisy. He was wheezing, coughing, puffing on an inhaler, and whispering curses.

When Lot 112 came up, Frazier’s mind cleared, a surge of adrenaline goosing his respiratory rate. It was a large, old volume and at first he mistook it for his target. Toby sang the praises of the book, pronouncing its title fluently in Latin. “Lot 112 is a very fine copy of the anatomy book by Raymond de Vieussens, Neurographia Universalis, Hoc Est, Omnium Corporis, Humani Nervorum, published in 1670 in Frankfurt by G. W. Kuhn. There are twenty-nine engraved plates on contemporary vellum, some short tears, but otherwise a remarkable copy of an historic medical treatise. I will start the bidding at?1,000.”

The bidding was brisk, with multiple interested parties. A dealer at the rear, a heavyset man with an ascot who had been particularly keen all morning on scientific offerings, led the way, aggressively bumping the price by hundred-pound increments. When the dust settled, he had it at?2300.

Martin Stein came on the line, and announced, “Mr. Spence, we have reached Lot 113. Please stand by.”

“Okay, gentlemen, this is it,” Spence said. Will looked anxiously at his watch. There was still time to get home and avoid a big domestic dustup.

Frazier locked his eyes on the book the instant it was brought into the auction room. Even from a distance, he was certain. It was one of them. He’d spent two decades in and around the Library and there was no mistaking it. The time had come. He’d spent the morning watching the action and had learned the mechanics of bidding. Let’s get ready to rumble, he thought, psyching himself.

Toby spoke about the book wistfully, as if sorry to see it go. “Lot 113 is a rather unique item, a hand-inscribed journal, dated 1527, beautifully bound in calf hide, over a thousand pages of finest-quality vellum. There is, perhaps, an endpaper that has been replaced at some distant point. The book appears to be an extensive ledger of births and deaths, possessing an international flair, with multiple European and oriental languages represented. The volume has been in the family collection of Lord Cantwell perhaps since the sixteenth century, but its provenance cannot be otherwise ascertained. We have consulted with academic colleagues at Oxford and Cambridge, and there is no consensus as to its origin or purpose. It remains, if I may say, an enigma wrapped in mystery, but it is an outstanding curiosity piece which I now offer at a starting bid of?2,000.”

Frazier raised his paddle so obviously it almost made Toby jump. It was the first significant physical movement the large man had made in almost two hours.

“Thank you,” Toby said, “may I hear?2500?”

From their tinny speaker, Will heard Stein offering 2500, and Spence said, “Yes, that’s fine.”

Stein nodded to Toby who said, “There is a telephone bidder at 2500, may I hear 3,000?”

Frazier shifted uncomfortably. He’d hoped there wouldn’t be any competition. He raised his paddle.

“I have 3,000, looking for 3500,” then a quick “Thank you,” as he pointed to the rear. Frazier turned to see the heavy man with the ascot nodding. “Now looking for 4,000,” Toby said quickly.

Stein relayed the bid. “This is horseshit,” Spence whispered to his companions. “I bid 5,000.”

“I have 5,000 here,” Stein called out to the podium.

“Very well, then,” Toby continued smoothly. “Do we have a bid for 6,000?”

Frazier felt a spasm of anxiety. He had plenty of dry powder, but he wanted this to be a cakewalk. He raised his paddle again.

“I have 6,000, may I hear 7,000?”

The man in the ascot shook his head, and Toby turned to the phone desk. Stein was speaking, then listening, then speaking again until he announced rather grandly, “I have?10,000!”

“Let me take the liberty of asking for?12,000,” Toby said boldly.

Frazier swore under his breath and lifted his hand.

Spence’s palms were moist. Will watched him rub them on his shirt. “I don’t have time to play games,” he said.

“It’s your money,” Will observed, sipping his coffee.

“I’m jacking this up to 20,000, Mr. Stein.”

The announcement set the room buzzing. Frazier blinked in disbelief. He felt for the bulge of his cell phone in his pants pocket, but it was premature to reach for it. He still had plenty of room.

Toby’s moustache moved upward ever so slightly as his lip curled in obvious excitement. “Well, then, shall we say 30,000?”

Frazier didn’t hesitate. Of course he was in.

After several moments, the response came from the telephone desk. Stein announced, in a daze, “The bid has been raised to?50,000!”

The murmuring from the audience crescendoed. Stein and Toby looked at each other in disbelief, but Toby was able to maintain his indomitable composure, and simply said, “I have 50,000, may I ask for 60,000?” He beckoned Peter Nieve to his side and whispered for the lad to fetch the Managing Director.

Frazier could feel his heart pounding in his barrel chest. He was authorized to go up to $200,000, about?125,000 which his masters had assumed would be an absurdly ample cushion given the upper estimate of?3,000. There wasn’t a penny more in the Pierce & Whyte escrow account that had been established for him. They were almost halfway there. Who the fuck is bidding against me, he thought angrily. He raised his paddle emphatically.

Spence hit the mute button on his phone and loudly complained, “I wish I could look the son of a bitch who’s bidding against us in the face. Who in hell would pay that kind of money for something that looks like an old census book?”

“Maybe someone else who knows what it is,” Will said ominously.

“Not very likely,” Spence sniffed, “unless…Alf, what do you think?”

Kenyon shrugged, “It’s possible, Henry, it’s always possible.”

“What are you talking about?” Will asked.

“The watchers. The goons from Area 51 could have gotten wind of it, I suppose. I hope not.” Then he declared, “I’m going to take this up a notch.”

“Just how much money does he have?” Will asked Kenyon.

“A lot.”

“And you can’t take it with you,” Spence said. He unmuted the phone. “Stein, you go ahead and bid?100,000 for me. I don’t have the patience for this.”

“Can I just confirm that you said?100,000?” Stein asked, his voice brittle.

“That’s correct.”

Stein shook his head, and announced loudly, “The telephone bid is now?100,000!”

Frazier saw that Toby’s demeanor had turned from excitement to suspicion. He thought, this guy must have just figured out there’s more to the book than he bargained for.

“Well, then,” Toby said evenly, looking straight into Frazier’s pugnacious face. “I wonder if sir would like to go to?125,000?”

Frazier nodded, opened his mouth for the first time all morning, and simply said, “Yes.”

He was nearly maxed out. The last time he had experienced anything close to panic was in his early twenties, a young commando on a SEAL Boat team off the eastern coast of Africa on a mission that had gone bad. Pinned down, outmanned thirty to one, taking RPG fire from some rebel assholes. This felt worse.

He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the Secretary of the Navy, who, at that moment, was playing an early-morning game of squash in Arlington. His mobile phone rang in a locker, and Frazier heard, “This is Lester. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Stein presented the new bid of 125,000. Spence told him to hang on a second then muted the phone. “It’s time to finish this,” he growled to his companions. Will shrugged. It was his money. When he came back on the line with Stein he said, “I’m bidding?200,000.”

When Stein announced the bid, Toby seemed to steady himself by placing both hands on the podium. The Managing Director of Pierce & Whyte, an unsmiling, white-haired patrician, was observing from the wings, tapping his fingers together nervously. Then Toby politely addressed Frazier, “Would sir care to go higher?”

Frazier stood and made his way to an unoccupied corner. “I’ve got to make a call,” he said. His constricted voice, coming from this hulk of a man, was almost comically squeaky.

“I can give sir a brief moment,” Toby offered.

Frazier called Lester’s mobile again, then his Pentagon line, where he reached an assistant. He began pelting the hapless man with a torrent of urgent whispers.

Toby watched patiently for a while, then asked, “Would sir like to raise his bid?” he asked again.

“Hang on!” Frazier shouted.

There was a hubbub from the other bidders. This was decidedly unusual.

“Well, do we have it?” Spence asked over the phone.

“The other bidder is seeking consultation, I believe,” Stein replied.

“Well, tell him to hurry it up,” Spence wheezed.

Frazier was in a cold sweat. The mission was on the brink of collapse, and failure wasn’t a contemplated option. He was used to solving problems with calculated force and violence but his usual bag of tricks was useless in a genteel hall in central London surrounded by pasty-faced bibliophiles.

Stein arched his eyebrows to signal Toby that his telephone bidder was complaining.

Toby, in turn, sought out the stern eyes of his Managing Director, and mutual nods sealed the decision. “I’m afraid, unless we hear a higher bid, I will have to close this lot at?200,000.”

Frazier tried to ignore him. He was still whisper-shouting into his phone.

Toby melodramatically raised his gavel hand, higher than usual. He spoke these words slowly, clearly and proudly: “Ladies and gentlemen, going once, twice, and sold, to the telephone bidder for?200,000!”

Toby rapped the board with his gavel and the satisfying, hollow sound resonated for a moment before Frazier wheeled, and shouted, “No!”