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  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. T
he 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!”

  Chapter 5

  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?

  Chapter 6

  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 daug
hter 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.”