Book of Souls

Chapter 7

The cabin crew was buttoning down the first-class cabin of BA 179 for its descent to JFK. Young Cottle sat expressionless throughout the entire trip, his usual inanimate self, seemingly immune to the sublime charms of British Airways champagne, cabernet, duck in cherries, chocolate truffles, first-run movies, and a seat that turned into a bed, complete with down-filled duvet.

Two cabins back, Malcolm Frazier was standing in a lengthy queue to use the toilet. He was rigid as a plank and terminally irritable from six hours wedged into a narrow, middle seat. The entire operation had been a disaster, and his masters had made it clear that he alone was responsible for pulling the chestnuts from the fire.

And now his mission had gotten considerably more complicated. It had morphed from a straightforward enterprise to secure the book into a full-blown investigation of who had paid an exorbitant sum and why. He was tasked with following the book to find the answers and, as usual, covering up his trail by whatever means necessary. And typically, everything was highest priority, and his boss’s mood was bordering on hysteria. Secretary Lester had demanded to be informed of every single piece of minutia.

All this made Frazier surly. Angry enough to kill.

At the boarding gate at Heathrow’s Terminal 5, Frazier had approached Cottle as the young man queued in the first-class check-in line. He was afraid Cottle might spot him on board and wanted to eliminate any suspicions. He also wanted to ask him a few “innocent” questions.

“Hey!” Frazier said mock-cheerfully. “Look who’s here! I was at the auction earlier.”

Cottle squinted back, “Of, course, sir. I remember.”

“That was something, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Very dramatic it was.”

“So, we’re on the same flight! How about that?” He pointed to Cottle’s carry-on bag. “I’ll bet I know what’s in there.”

Cottle looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir.”

“Any chance I could find out who’s getting it? I’d still like to buy it, maybe make a deal with the guy who beat me out.”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty, sir. Company policy and all.” There was an announcement for first-class boarding. Cottle waved his ticket at Frazier, and said, “Well, have a good flight then, sir,” before he inched away.

Will jumped up from the sofa before the buzzer could ring a second time. It was almost eleven, and the boys from the bus were right on time. He waited for them in the apartment hallway to remind them to be quiet. When the elevator opened, he was taken aback at the sight of Spence hunched over on a fire-engine red, three-wheeled mobility scooter, his oxygen box strapped to the luggage rack. Kenyon was towering over him.

“That doesn’t make noise, does it?” Will asked nervously.

“It’s not a Harley,” Spence said dismissively, smoothly whirring forward.

The three of them made awkward company in Will’s small living room. They spoke sparingly, in whispers, the eleven o’clock TV news on low. Kenyon had tracked BA 179 and confirmed its on-time arrival. Accounting for immigration and customs, and taxi time, the courier was due any time.

Frazier used his federal ID to breeze through customs, then blended into the gaggle of people in the arrivals hall awaiting the deplaning passengers. One of his men, DeCorso, was already there. DeCorso was an aggressive-looking character in a padded-leather coat with a rough beard and a noticeable limp. He wordlessly handed over a heavy leather clutch. Frazier instantly felt relieved once again to have the tools of his trade at hand. He slipped the weapon into his empty shoulder bag, right where the Library book should have been.

DeCorso stood by his side, a silent statue. Frazier knew his subordinate didn’t require idle conversation. He’d worked with him long enough to know he wasn’t a talker. And he knew when he issued an order, DeCorso would follow it to the letter. The man owed him. The only reason he was allowed back to Area 51 after medical leave was Frazier’s intervention. After all, he hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory.

Will Piper had lit DeCorso up. Four to one, close quarters, and a lousy FBI agent had put all of them down. DeCorso had only been back on the job for a few months, with a jumble of hardware in his femur, a missing spleen, and a lifetime of Pneumovax shots to prevent infection. The other three men were on full disability. One of them had a permanent feeding tube sticking out of his stomach. As team leader, DeCorso had presided over a giant cluster-fuck.

Frazier didn’t have to take him back, but he did.

When Adam Cottle finally entered the hall with his roller case, looking like a dazed tourist, Frazier raised his chin, and said, “That’s him,” before tucking himself behind DeCorso’s frame to stay out of sight. They watched Cottle approach the British Airways information desk, where he was handed an envelope, then made for the exits.

“My car’s at the curb, behind the taxi stand. I’ve got a cop watching I don’t get towed.”

Frazier started walking. “Let’s find the cocksucker who outbid me.”

They followed the yellow cab onto the Van Wyck Express-way. The traffic was light, so they were able to keep their mark comfortably in sight, no tense moments. DeCorso announced they were heading toward the Midtown Tunnel-a Manhattan destination. Frazier shrugged, dog-tired, and muttered, “Whatever.”

Cottle’s taxi dropped him off in the middle of the block. The young man took his bag and asked the cabbie to wait. Apparently, the level of trust was insufficient. He was required to pay in full before the driver agreed to hold at the curb. Cottle stood on the sidewalk and double-checked a piece of paper before disappearing into the lobby of an apartment building.

“You want me to go in?” DeCorso asked. They were across the street a short distance away, idling in their car.

“No. His cab’s waiting,” Frazier growled. “Get me data on all the residents of the building.”

DeCorso opened his laptop and established an encrypted connection with their servers. While he typed, Frazier closed his eyes, lulled by the soft clattering of thick fingers on the keyboard.

Until, “Jesus!”

“What?” Frazier asked, startled.

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.