The Collectors (21 page)

CHAPTER 40

"Y
OU’RE LOOKING UNUSUALLY
happy this morning, Albert,” Seagraves said as they sat sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups in Trent’s office on the Hill.

“Stock market had a big rally yesterday; my 401(k)’s looking good.”

Seagraves slid a sheaf of papers across the table. “Good for you. Here’s the latest from Central Intelligence. We have two senior levels that’ll give the formal briefings. Your guys can take a week to digest the report, and then we’ll schedule the face-to-face.”

Trent took the pages and nodded. “I’ll check the members’ schedule and get back to you with some dates. Any surprises in here?” he added, tapping the pages.

“Read ’em for yourself.”

“Not to worry, I always do.”

Trent would take the pages home and shortly thereafter would have everything he needed to pass the stolen NSA secrets on to the next stage.

Outside, Seagraves jogged down the steps of the Capitol. And to think, spies used to just drop stuff in the park and pick up their money in cash either at the drop spot or from a P.O. box. And either place was usually where the arrest took place. Seagraves shook his head.
No way was he ever ending up on the wall at CIA with the likes of Aldrich Ames and other busted stooges playing at being spies.
As a government killer he’d agonized over even the smallest detail. As a spy he saw no reason to change his M.O.

Seagraves was obsessing over a detail right now. His mole at Fire Control, Inc., had called with some unwelcome information. Two guys had been caught sneaking into the storage facility last night, but the rental cops had had to turn them over to the FBI. Seagraves had checked with some of his contacts at the Bureau. According to them, no such arrest had ever happened. His mole had also told him that the rental cops had spotted another guy running away from Fire Control’s storage yard. He’d gotten into an old piece of junk, a Nova, his guy had told him. The description of both the car and the man fit someone well known to Seagraves, though he’d never met him. Now, he decided, would be a good time to remedy that situation. And in Seagraves’ world of sweating the details, you just never knew when a face-to-face might come in really handy later on.

Caleb arrived at work early to find Kevin Philips, the acting director, opening the doors to the reading room. They chitchatted a bit about Jonathan and ongoing projects at the library. Caleb asked Philips if he’d known about the new fire suppressant system going in, but Philips said he hadn’t. “I’m not sure they even kept Jonathan apprised of that information,” Philips told him. “I doubt he knew what gas was being used.”

“You can say that again,” Caleb whispered under his breath.

After Philips had left and before anyone else arrived, Caleb rummaged in his desk and withdrew a small screwdriver and a penlight. With his back to the surveillance camera he slipped these into his pocket and went inside the vault. Quickly making his way to the top floor, he stopped next to the air vent, his gaze averted from the spot where his friend had died. He used the screwdriver to open the vent, noting with satisfaction that the screws came out very easily, as though someone had removed the covering recently. He set the vent down next to the shelf column and shone his light inside the opening. At first he didn’t see anything unusual, but when he swung his light around a third time, he saw it: a small screw hole in the rear wall of the duct. That could have been used to suspend a camera. He held the vent cover back up and eyeballed it. Judging from the position of the screw and the bent grille, the camera would’ve had a clear field of vision of the room.

Caleb screwed the vent cover back on and left the vault. He called Stone and reported what he’d found. He was just settling down to work when someone came in.

“Hello, Monty. What’ve you got there?”

Monty Chambers, the library’s top book conservator, was standing by the front desk, carrying several items. He still had on his green work apron, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up.

“The
Doctrina
and the
Constable’s Pocket-Book,
” he said succinctly.

“You’ve been busy. I didn’t even know the
Doctrina
was out for preservation work.” The
Doctrina breve
had been written by Juan de Zumárraga, the first bishop of Mexico. It dated from 1544 and had the distinction of being the oldest complete book in the Western Hemisphere that has survived the centuries. The
Constable
dated from 1710.

“Kevin Philips ordered it,” Chambers replied. “Three months back. The
Constable
too. Minor stuff, I just had a backlog. You in the vault? Or me?”

“What? Oh, I’ll take them. Thanks.” Caleb carefully accepted the wrapped books from his colleague and set them on his desk. He tried not to think about the fact that between the
Doctrina
and the
Constable
he was in possession of a small fortune’s worth of history.

“I’ll get to your Faulkner soon,” Chambers muttered. “Might take some time. Water damage, tricky.”

“Right, that’s perfectly fine. Thank you.” As Chambers turned to leave, Caleb said, “Uh, Monty.”

Chambers turned back around, looking a little impatient. “Yeah?”

“Have you checked our copy of the
Psalm Book
recently?” Caleb had had a horrible thought while in the vault, and taking the rare books from Chambers had forced this nightmarish theory to take the form of an awkward question.

Chambers looked suspicious. “The
Psalm Book
? What for? Anything wrong?”

“Oh, no, no. I just mean, well, I haven’t seen it in some time. Years, in fact.”

“Well, neither have I. You don’t just walk in and check out the
Psalm Book.
It’s in the national treasures section, for God’s sake.”

Caleb nodded. He had authority to look at virtually any book in the vaults, but the
Psalm Book
and some others were designated as “national treasures,” the library’s most important category of possessions. These works were numbered and housed in a special section of the vaults. In the event of war or natural catastrophe they would be whisked away to designated secure locations. Hopefully, there would be people left to enjoy them.

Chambers continued, with uncharacteristic loquaciousness, “I told them a long time ago we should repair the cover and redo the support stitches and reinforce the spine—all reversible, of course—but they never acted on it. Don’t know why not. But if they don’t do something, the
Psalm Book
won’t hold up much longer. Why don’t you tell them that?”

“I will. Thanks, Monty.” After Chambers had left, Caleb wondered what to do. If the library’s copy of the
Psalm Book
was missing? My God, it couldn’t be. He hadn’t seen the book in, what was it, three years at least. It certainly resembled the one he had found in Jonathan’s collection. Six of the eleven existing
Psalm Book
s were incomplete and in various stages of disrepair. Jonathan’s edition had been complete, though in a run-down condition, similar to the library’s. The only way to tell for sure was to take a look at the
Psalm Book
the library had. Kevin Philips would probably allow him to do that. He’d make up some excuse, maybe relaying what Monty had just told him. Yes, that would do it.

He put the books Chambers had brought him back in the vaults after signing them back in on the system. Then he called Philips. Though sounding a bit puzzled, Philips authorized Caleb to check the
Psalm Book.
For security purposes, and to preclude anyone from later accusing him of damaging the book, Caleb brought another library staffer with him. After examining the book he could confirm that what Chambers had said was true, the book did need preservation work. However, he could not tell if it was the book he’d remembered seeing three years ago. It looked like it. But then it also looked like the one in Jonathan’s collection. If Jonathan had somehow taken the library’s
Psalm Book
and substituted a forgery, the book Caleb had looked at three years ago wouldn’t have been the real one anyway.

Wait a minute. How stupid.
The library used a secret coding in its rare books on the exact same page to verify their ownership. He turned to that certain page and scanned down it. The symbol was there! He breathed a sigh of relief that was short-lived. It could’ve been forged too; particularly by someone like Jonathan. And did the
Psalm Book
in Jonathan’s collection have such a symbol as well? He would have to check. If it did, it would prove that Jonathan had stolen it from the library. Then what did Caleb do? He cursed the day he’d been appointed the man’s literary executor.
I thought you liked me, Jonathan.

He spent the rest of the afternoon working on several scholars’ requests, a major collector’s inquiry, handling a pair of international phone calls from universities in England and Switzerland and helping patrons of the reading room.

Jewell English and Norman Janklow were both there today. Though of the same age and both avid book collectors, they never spoke to each other; indeed, they avoided one another entirely. Caleb knew how the feud had started; it was one of the most painful moments of his professional life. English had expressed her enthusiasm about Beadle’s
Dime Novels
to Janklow one day. The old man’s response had been a little unexpected, to say the least. Caleb clearly recalled Janklow’s words. “Beadles are idiotic rubbish, candy wrappers for the bottom-feeding mindless masses, and poor candy wrappers at that.”

Understandably, Jewell English had not taken this crushing rebuke to her life’s passion very well. And the old woman was not about to take it lying down. Well aware of Janklow’s favorite author, she’d told the old boy that Hemingway was
at best
a second-rate bum of a writer who used simplistic language because that’s all he knew. And the fact that he’d won a Nobel Prize for churning out that
crap
invalidated forever more the award in her mind. To add insult to injury, she also said that Hemingway wasn’t worthy to lick F. Scott Fitzgerald’s patent-leather shoes, and—Caleb cringed when he recalled it—she’d intimated that manly hunter and fisherman Ernest Hemingway preferred men over the ladies, the younger the better.

Janklow’s face had turned so red that Caleb had been certain the old man was going to keel over from a coronary. That was the first and only time that Caleb could ever remember having to separate two patrons of the Rare Books reading room, both of them well into their seventies. It really very nearly had come to blows, and Caleb had snatched up the rare books each had at their tables to prevent them from being used as weapons. He’d admonished them both about proper library etiquette and even threatened to suspend their reading room privileges if they didn’t back the hell off. Janklow looked like he wanted to take a swing at Caleb, but he’d held firm. He could’ve taken the old shriveled man, easy.

Caleb kept looking up from his work to ensure that nothing like that altercation happened again. But Janklow was happily going through his book, his big pencil strolling lazily over the notepaper, only stopping on occasion while he cleaned his thick glasses with a wipe. For her part Jewell English’s face was glued to her book. She looked up, saw him eyeing her, closed her book and motioned him over.

As he sat down next to her, she whispered, “That Beadle I was telling you about?”

“Yes, the number one?”

“I got it. I got it.” She clapped her hands silently.

“Congratulations, that’s wonderful. So it was in good condition?”

“Oh, yes, otherwise I would’ve called you in. I mean, you
are
an expert.”

“Well,” Caleb said modestly. She took hold of his hand in her gnarled one. The strength of her grip was surprising.

“Would you like to come and see it sometime?”

He tried to delicately extricate himself from her clawlike hand, but she wouldn’t budge. “Oh, um, I’ll have to check my calendar. I tell you what, next time you’re in, give me some dates and I’ll see what I have available.”

She said coquettishly, “Oh, Caleb, I’m
always
available.” She actually batted her false lashes at him.

“Isn’t that nice?” He again tried to wrench his hand free, but the elderly woman held firm.

“So let’s pick a date right now,” she said sweetly.

In desperation Caleb glanced over at Janklow, who was eyeing them suspiciously. He and Jewell typically fought over Caleb’s time like two wolves over a side of beef. He would have to spend a few minutes with Janklow before he left, to balance things out, or the man would complain about it for weeks. And yet as Caleb stared at the old gentleman, he had a sudden thought.

“Jewell, I bet if you asked him to, Norman would love to see your new Beadle. I’m sure he regrets his previous outburst terribly.”

She immediately released his hand. “I don’t talk shop with Neanderthals,” she said testily. She opened her bag for him to inspect and then stalked out of the room.

A smiling Caleb rubbed his hand and spent some time with Janklow, silently thanking the man for giving him the ability to ditch English. Then he returned to his work.

Yet his mind continued to jump from the mysterious
Psalm Book
to the dead Jonathan DeHaven to the equally dead Speaker of the House, Bob Bradley, and finally to Cornelius Behan, a rich, adulterous defense contractor who’d apparently murdered his neighbor.

And to think he became a librarian partly because he hated pressure. Maybe he should apply for a job at the CIA, just to catch a little downtime.

CHAPTER 41

A
NNABELLE HAD A ROOM
service dinner, showered, wrapped herself in a towel and started combing out her hair. As she sat in front of the vanity mirror, she started mulling things over. The fourth day had arrived, and Jerry Bagger was now aware that he was $40 million poorer. She should’ve been at least six thousand miles away from the man, but in fact was barely a short plane hop south. She had never failed to follow the exit plan before, but then again, she’d never had an ex-husband murdered before either.

She was intrigued by Oliver and Milton, though Caleb was a little “special” and Reuben was more than a little amusing with his puppy-dog crush. And Annabelle had to admit she kind of liked hanging around with the odd bunch. Despite having a loner personality, Annabelle had always been part of a team, and a side of her still needed that. It had started with her parents and had continued into adulthood when she began running her own crews. Oliver and the others were filling this need in her life, albeit in a different way. But she still shouldn’t be here.

She stopped combing her hair, slipped off the towel and pulled a long T-shirt on. She crossed to the window and looked out at the busy street below. In the swirl of traffic and fast-walking pedestrians, she mentally retraced what she’d done so far: Impersonated a magazine editor, knowingly aided Oliver in breaking into the Library of Congress, committed a felony by impersonating an FBI agent, and she was now supposed to come up with a way for Caleb to look at the security tapes to try and figure out what had happened to Jonathan. And if Oliver was right, some people who might be even more dangerous than Jerry Bagger could be aligned against them.

She turned back from the window, sat on the bed and started putting lotion on her legs. “This is crazy, Annabelle,” she told herself. “Bagger will move the ends of the earth to kill you, and here you are, not even out of the damn country.” And yet she had promised the others to help them. Actually, she reminded herself, she’d insisted on being part of it. “Should I stick it out and take a chance that Jerry’s radar doesn’t hit D.C.?” she said out loud. Someone had killed Jonathan. And she wanted revenge if for no other reason than she was furious that someone had made the decision to end his life long before it should have been over.

She had a sudden thought and checked her watch. She had no idea what time zone he was in, but she needed to know. She ran to the desk against one corner and snatched up her cell phone. She punched in the numbers and waited impatiently while it rang. She’d given him this number and an international phone so they could keep in contact for a while after the con. If one heard anything about Jerry, he or she was supposed to call the other.

Leo finally answered. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. I didn’t think you were going to pick up.”

“I was in the pool.”

“In the pool, nice. Where in the pool?”

“The deep end.”

“No, I meant where in the world?”

“No can answer. What if Bagger’s standing right there?”

“I see your point. Heard from anybody else?”

“Not a peep.”

“How about Bagger?”

“No, I took old Jerry off my Rolodex,” he said dryly.

“I meant, have you heard any of the fallout?”

“Just some scuttlebutt. Didn’t want to get too close, you know. You can bet the dude’s homicidal.”

“You know he’ll never stop looking for us as long as he’s breathing.”

“Then let’s pray for a massive heart attack. I don’t want the guy to suffer.” Leo paused and said, “Something I should’ve told you before, Annabelle. Now, don’t get pissed.”

She sat up straighter. “What did you do?”

“I sort of let it slip to Freddy a little about your history.”

She stood. “How much of my history?”

“Your last name, your stuff with Paddy.”

She screamed into the phone, “Are you out of your damn mind?”

“I know, I know, it was stupid. It just came up. I just wanted him to know that you weren’t like your old man. But I didn’t tell Tony. I’m not that dumb.”

“Thanks, Leo, thanks a hell of a lot.”

She clicked off and stood in the middle of the room. Freddy knew her last name and also that her father was Paddy Conroy, Jerry Bagger’s mortal enemy. If Jerry got to him, he’d make Freddy talk. And then the man would come for her, and she could predict her fate with reasonable accuracy. Jerry would feed her into a wood chipper body part by body part.

Annabelle started packing her bag.
Sorry, Jonathan.

When Caleb returned to his condo later that night, he found someone waiting for him out in the parking lot.

“Mr. Pearl, what are you doing here?”

Vincent Pearl didn’t look like Professor Dumbledore this evening, principally because he wasn’t wearing a long lavender robe. He had on a two-piece suit, open-collared shirt, shiny shoes, and his long thick hair and beard were carefully combed. He looked thinner in the suit than he had in the robe. The chubby Caleb made a mental note never to start dressing in robes. Pearl’s spectacles were halfway down his nose as he silently studied Caleb with such a condescending look that the librarian started getting a little perturbed.

“Well?” Caleb finally asked.

In a deep, offended voice Pearl said, “You haven’t returned my calls. I thought a personal appearance would help remind you of my interest in the
Psalm Book.
”

“Right, I see.”

Pearl looked around. “A parking lot seems hardly appropriate to engage in conversation about one of the world’s most important books.”

Caleb sighed. “Very well, come on up.”

They rode the elevator to Caleb’s floor. The two men sat across from each other in the small living room.

“I was afraid that you’d decided to go straight to Sotheby’s or Christie’s with the
Psalm Book.
”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I haven’t even been back to the house after you were there. I didn’t call you because I’m still thinking.”

Pearl looked very relieved by this statement. “At the very least it would behoove us to obtain definitive tests on the
Psalm Book.
I know several firms with impeccable reputations that can do this. And I see no need to wait.”

“Well,” Caleb said hesitantly.

“The longer you procrastinate, the less control you have over the public learning about the existence of a twelfth
Psalm Book.
”

“What do you mean by that?” Caleb said sharply as he sat forward.

“I’m not sure you adequately realize the significance of this discovery, Shaw.”

“On the contrary, I realize very clearly the enormity of it.”

“I mean that there might be leaks.”

“How? I’ve certainly told no one.”

“Your friends?”

“They’re completely trustworthy.”

“I see. Well, pardon me if I don’t share your confidence. But if there is a leak, people might start making accusations. Jonathan’s reputation may suffer considerably.”

“What sort of accusations?”

“Oh, for heaven sakes, man, let me just spell it out for you: accusations that the book was stolen.”

Caleb’s thoughts leaped to his own theory about the library’s
Psalm Book
being a forgery. Yet he said as earnestly as he could, “Stolen? Who would believe such a thing?”

Pearl took a deep breath. “No other owner of one of those treasures in the long and celebrated history of book collecting has ever kept it a secret. Until now.”

“And you think it’s because Jonathan stole it? Preposterous. He’s as much a thief as I am.”
Please, please, let that be true.

“But he might have purchased it from someone who
had
stolen it, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps not. At least he might have had a suspicion, which would explain the secrecy he kept about owning the book.”

“And where exactly would the book have been stolen from? You said you checked with the other places that own one.”

“What the hell would you expect them to say?” Pearl snapped. “Do you think they would admit it to me if their
Psalm Book
had been stolen? And maybe they don’t even know. What if a very clever forgery was left in its place? It’s not like these places check their literary treasures daily to assure their authenticity.” He added, “Did you find any paperwork relating to the book? A bill of sale? Anything to show where it came from?”

“No,” Caleb admitted, his heart sinking. “But I haven’t looked through Jonathan’s personal papers. My work was limited to the book collection.”

“No, your work
extends
to all evidence of ownership of his books. Do you really think that Christie’s or Sotheby’s will put a
Psalm Book
up for auction without being absolutely certain of both its authenticity and the legal authority under which Jonathan DeHaven’s estate will be selling the book?”

“Of course, I was aware that they would need to know that.”

“Well, Shaw, if I were you, I would set about immediately to find that evidence. But if you can’t, the clear impression will be that Jonathan came by it through means that are not verifiable. And in the rare book field that is tantamount to saying that he stole it himself or knowingly purchased it from someone who did.”

“I suppose I could ask his attorneys if I could search through his papers. Or perhaps they could do it if I told them what to look for.”

“If you go that route, they will want to know why. And when you tell them, you will have most certainly lost control of the situation.”

“Do you expect me to look all by myself?”

“Yes! You’re his literary executor, start acting like it.”

“I don’t care to be talked to in that manner,” Caleb said angrily.

“Are you paid a percentage of the sale price of auction?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Caleb retorted.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Well, if you try to auction this
Psalm Book
off without finding ironclad proof that DeHaven came by it honestly and it’s later found that he didn’t, it won’t only be
his
reputation down the toilet, will it? When a great deal of money is involved, people always assume the worst.”

Caleb didn’t say anything as this slowly sank in. As repugnant as he found Pearl’s remarks, the man had a point. It was devastating to think that his deceased friend’s reputation would suffer a shipwreck, but Caleb certainly didn’t want to sink to the bottom along with it.

“I suppose I could go through Jonathan’s things at his house.” He knew that Oliver and the others had already searched the house, but they hadn’t been looking for ownership documents for the book collection.

“Will you go tonight?”

“It’s late already.”
And he’d given the key to Reuben.

“Well, tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Very well. Please let me know what you find. Or
don’t
find.”

After Pearl had left, Caleb poured himself a glass of sherry and drank it while eating a bowl of greasy potato chips, one of his favorite snacks. He was under too much pressure to adhere to any sort of diet now. As he sat drinking, he ran his gaze over his own small collection of books he kept on a set of shelves in his den.

Who would’ve thought book collecting could get so damn complicated?