Book of Souls by Glenn Cooper (7 page)

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!”

FRAZIER PACED FURIOUSLY back and forth, oblivious to the crowded sidewalk on Kensington High Street, forcing pedestrians to scurry out of his steamroller way. He frantically worked his phone, trying to get his superiors to come to grips with the situation and formulate a plan. When he was finally connected to Secretary Lester, he had to duck into a quiet Boots pharmacy since the rumbling of a number 27 bus was making it impossible to hear.

He emerged into the din and diesel of the thoroughfare, his hands glumly thrust into his coat pockets. It was a sunny Friday lunch hour, and everyone he passed was in a far better mood than he. His orders bordered on the pathetic, he thought. Improvise. And don’t break any UK laws. He supposed the hidden message was, at least don’t get
caught
breaking them.

He returned to Pierce & Whyte and loitered in the reception hall, ducking in and out of the auction room until the session was over. Toby caught sight of him and gave the impression he wanted to avoid the snarling bidder. Just before he could escape through the rear staff door, Frazier caught up with him.

“I’d like to talk to the guy who beat me out on Lot 113.”

“Quite a duel!” Toby exclaimed, diplomatically. He deliberately paused, perhaps hoping that having been tackled, the man might explain his enthusiasm. But Frazier simply persisted.

“Can you give me his name and number?”

“I’m afraid we can’t. It’s against our confidentiality policy. However, if you authorize it, I can pass your particulars to the winning bidder should he wish to contact you.”

Frazier tried again, then made Toby visibly uncomfortable by suggesting he would make it worth his while. When Martin Stein approached, Toby hastily excused himself and moved away. As the two auctioneers chatted, Frazier edged close enough to overhear Stein say, “He was insistent on having the book sent to New York by courier for delivery tonight. He offered first-class return seats and hotel accommodations to a member of staff! He’s already holding a seat on BA 179 this evening.”

“Well I’m not doing it!” Toby said.

“Nor I. I have dinner plans,” Stein huffed.

Toby spotted his assistants across the room and waved them over. Nieve was giddy with excitement over the Cantwell book while Cottle was, as usual, a piece of wood. “I need someone to courier the 1527 book over to New York tonight.”

Cottle was about to speak, but Nieve opened his mouth first. “Christ, I’d love to go, Toby, but my passport’s not sorted out! Been meaning to do it.”

“I’ll go, Mr. Parfitt,” Cottle quickly offered. “I’ve got nothing on for the weekend.”

“Have you ever been to New York?”

“On a school trip once, yeah.”

“Well, okay. You’ve got the job. The buyer is prepared to have the duty fully paid at Kennedy Airport and have it added to his account. He’s providing you with a first-class ticket and deluxe hotel accommodations, so you shall not want. They’re quite security-conscious, so you’ll be picking up a letter from the BA desk at arrivals with the delivery address.”

“First class!” Nieve moaned. “Bloody hell! You owe me, Cottle. You really owe me.”

Frazier skulked off to the lobby. The girl at the reception desk was packing up the brochures and sign-in sheets. “I want to send a thank-you note to that young guy who works here. Cottle. He was very helpful. Can you give me his first name and tell me how to spell Cottle?”

“Adam,” she said, apparently surprised that anyone as insignificant as young Cottle could be helpful to a patron. She spelled out his last name. That was all he needed to know.

A few hours later, Frazier was in a taxi heading to Heathrow, wolfing down three Big Macs from the only High Street restaurant he trusted. Adam Cottle was in another taxi a hundred yards farther on, but Frazier wasn’t worried about losing him. He knew where the young man was going and what he was carrying.

Earlier, Frazier had reached the night duty officer at Area 51 and requested a priority search for an Adam Cottle, approximate age twenty-five, an employee of Pierce & Whyte Auctions, London, England.

The duty officer called him back within ten minutes. “I’ve got your man. Adam Daniel Cottle, Alexandra Road, Reading, Berkshire. Date of birth: March 12, 1985.”

“What’s his DOD?” Frazier asked.

“Funny you should ask, chief. It’s today. Your guy’s going down today.”

Frazier wearily thought, Why am I not shocked?

WILL PASSED THE string beans to his father-in-law. Joseph speared a few and smiled. They were just the way he liked them, buttered and
al dente,
which was not unexpected since his wife was the one who had made them. Mary had prepared the whole meal, actually, even the bread, and she had unpacked, reheated, and plated the feast in the kitchenette while the others fussed over Phillip.

The Lipinskis, newly minted grandparents, couldn’t get enough of their grandson, and they thought nothing of driving forty-five minutes from Westchester down to lower Manhattan on a Friday evening to get their fix. Mary wouldn’t saddle her beleaguered daughter with the cooking, so she made a lasagna and all the trimmings. Joseph brought the wine. Phillip was awake and on form and for the visitors; it was a slice of heaven.

Even though it was a family night, Mary was smartly dressed and had gone to the beauty parlor to get her hair done. She danced around the tiny kitchen in a cloud of perfume and hair spray, a heavier, rounder version of her daughter, still surprisingly pretty and youthful. Joseph’s wild and wavy white hair made him look like a mad scientist crawling on the floor in hot pursuit of the grinning baby.

Nancy and Will had been sitting next to each other on the sofa, a good foot apart, unsmiling, tightly clutching their wineglasses. It was spectacularly apparent to the Lipinskis that they had entered an argument hot zone, but they were doing their best to keep the evening light.

Joseph had sidled up to his wife, poured himself more wine, then tapped her between the shoulder blades to make sure she saw his raised eyebrows. She had clucked, and whispered, “It’s not so easy, you know. Remember?”

“I only remember the good things,” he had said, giving her a dry peck.

Over dinner, Mary watched Will’s hand pumping over his plate. “Will, you’re using salt before you even taste it!”

He shrugged. “I like salt.”

“I have to fill the shaker every week,” Nancy said in an accusatory way.

“I don’t think that’s healthy,” Joseph observed. “How’s your pressure?”

“I dunno,” Will said sullenly. “Never been a problem.” He wasn’t in the mood for dinner-party chitchat, and he wasn’t trying to hide it.

Nancy had not been pleased about the auction, and in retrospect, he wished he’d kept the details to himself. She’d fumed all day that Will was allowing himself to be sucked into something that was none of his business, and she red-lined when he casually mentioned he’d offered up the apartment for a late-night meeting.

“You agreed to let these people come into my home while Philly is sleeping ten feet away?”

“They’re harmless old men. They’ll be in and out in a few minutes. I’ll make sure they don’t wake you guys.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

It had gone downhill from there.

“So how’s work, honey?” Joseph asked his daughter.

“They’re treating me like I came back from brain surgery. My assignments are ridiculous. I had a baby, not a disease.”

“I’m glad they’re acting that way,” her mother said. “You’re a new mother.”

“You must be channeling my boss,” Nancy said bitterly.

Joseph tried to inject a dose of hope. “I’m sure you’ll get back to where you want to be.” When Nancy ignored him, he tried his luck on his son-in-law. “Retirement still treating you well, Will?”

“Oh yeah. It’s a laugh a minute,” Will answered sarcastically.

“Well, you’re my hero. In a couple of years, Mary and I plan to join you, so we’re watching and learning.”

In his foul mood, Will turned the comment over in his mind a couple of times, trying to decide if there was a coded insult lurking. He let it pass.

When they were alone, Nancy fussed over Phillip’s crib, then got herself ready for bed. She was giving Will the icy, silent treatment, trying to avoid contact. The problem with relegating him to the doghouse was that the whole apartment wasn’t much bigger than a doghouse to begin with.

Finally, she emerged from the bathroom, pink and exposed in her short nightdress. She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him. He was watching TV. Her folded arms were plumping her ripe breasts. He thought she looked awfully good, but her curdling expression wiped away any hope. “Please do not bring these people into the apartment.”

“They’ll be in and out. You won’t even know they’re here,” he said stubbornly. He wasn’t going to back down. It wasn’t the way he worked.

She shut the bedroom door crisply behind her. If the baby hadn’t been sleeping, she probably would have slammed it. Will let his eyes drift from the TV to the cabinet underneath, where his last bottle of scotch was ceremonially stored. He opened the cabinet with his mind and poured himself an imaginary few fingers.

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.