John Grisham: Camino Island

“Indeed.”

Kendrick smiled as his thoughts raced away. “And the delivery would take place where?”

“Here. Paris. The delivery will be carefully planned and all instructions must be strictly adhered to. Obviously, Mr. Kendrick, we’re dealing with a criminal who is in possession of priceless assets, and he prefers not to get caught. He is very clever and calculating, and if there is the slightest misstep or confusion or hint of trouble, the manuscripts will disappear forever. Princeton will have only this one chance to retrieve the papers. Notifying the police would be a grave mistake.”

“I’m not sure Princeton will get involved without the FBI. I don’t know this, of course.”

“Then there will be no deal. Period. Princeton will never see them again.”

Kendrick stood and stuffed his fine shirt deeper into his tailored slacks. He walked to a window, glanced out at nothing, and said, “What’s the price?”

“A fortune.”

“Of course. I have to give them some idea.”

“Four million per manuscript. And not negotiable.”

For a pro who wrangled with lawsuits worth billions, the amount of the ransom did not faze Kendrick. Nor would it scare Princeton. He doubted his university had that much mad money lying around, but there was a twenty-five-billion-dollar endowment and thousands of wealthy alumni.

Kendrick moved away from the window and said, “Obviously, I need to make some calls. When do we meet again?”

Chappelle stood and said, “Tomorrow. And I caution you again, Mr. Kendrick, that any involvement by the police here or in the U.S. would be catastrophic.”

“I hear you. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Chappelle.” They shook hands and said good-bye.

At ten the following morning, a black Mercedes sedan stopped on Rue de Vaugirard in front of the Luxembourg Palace. From the backseat, Thomas Kendrick emerged and began walking along the sidewalk. He entered the famous gardens through a wrought-iron gate and drifted with a throng of tourists to the Octagonal Lake, where hundreds, both Parisians and visitors alike, whiled away the morning, sitting and reading, taking in the sun. Children raced their toy boats across the water. Young lovers sprawled and groped on the lake’s low concrete walls. Packs of joggers hustled about, talking and laughing. At the monument to Delacroix, Kendrick was joined without a greeting by Gaston Chappelle, briefcase in hand. They walked on, ambling along the wide pathways and moving away from the lake.

“Am I being watched?” Kendrick asked.

“There are people here, yes. The man with the manuscripts has accomplices. Am I being watched?”

“No. I assure you.”

“Good. I assume your conversations went well.”

“I leave for the U.S. in two hours. Tomorrow I will meet with the folks at Princeton. They understand the rules. As you might guess, Mr. Chappelle, they would like some type of verification.”

Without stopping, Chappelle pulled a folder from his briefcase. “This should suffice,” he said.

Kendrick took it as they walked. “May I ask what’s inside?”

Chappelle offered a wicked smile and said, “It’s the first page of chapter 3, The Great Gatsby . As far as I can tell, it is authentic.”

Kendrick stopped cold and mumbled, “Good God.”

Dr. Jeffrey Brown practically jogged across the Princeton campus and bounded up the front steps of Nassau Hall, the administration building. As the director of the Manuscripts Division at the Firestone Library, he could barely remember his last visit to the president’s office. And, he knew for a fact that he had never been summoned for a meeting described as “urgent.” His job had never been that exciting.

The secretary was waiting and escorted him to the grand office of President Carlisle, who was also standing and waiting. Dr. Brown was quickly introduced to the university’s in-house counsel, Richard Farley, and to Thomas Kendrick. For Brown, at least, the tension in the room was palpable.

Carlisle gathered the four around a small conference table and said to Brown, “Sorry for the short notice, but we’ve been given something that needs verification. Yesterday, in Paris, Mr. Kendrick was handed a single sheet of paper that is said to be the first page of the third chapter of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s original manuscript of The Great Gatsby . Take a look.”

He slid over a folder and opened it. Brown, gasping, looked at the page, gently touched the top right corner, and buried his face in his hands.

Two hours later, President Carlisle convened a second meeting at the same table. Dr. Brown had been excused, and in his chair sat Elaine Shelby. Next to her was Jack Lance, her client and the CEO of the insurance company with twenty-five million on the line. She was still smarting from her brilliant but botched scheme to nail Bruce Cable, but she was also rallying quickly with the hint that the manuscripts might be in play. She knew Cable was not on Camino Island but did not know he was in France. The FBI knew he had flown to Nice but had not followed him. They had not shared this information with Elaine.

Thomas Kendrick and Richard Farley sat opposite Elaine and Lance. President Carlisle handed over the folder and said, “This was given to us yesterday in Paris. It’s a sample from Gatsby and we have verified its authenticity.” Elaine opened the folder and took a look. Lance did too and neither reacted. Kendrick told the story of meeting with Gaston Chappelle and laid out the terms of the deal.

When he finished, Carlisle said, “Obviously, our priority is getting the manuscripts. Catching the crook would be nice, but right now that doesn’t really matter.”

Elaine said, “So, we’re not including the FBI?”

Farley said, “Legally, we don’t have to. There is nothing wrong with a private transaction, but we’d like your thoughts. You know them much better than we do.”

Elaine shoved the folder a few inches away and thought about her response. She spoke slowly, every word measured. “I talked to Lamar Bradshaw two days ago. The three men who stole the manuscripts are in custody and one has cut a deal. The two accomplices have not been found but the FBI has their names and the search is on. As far as the FBI is concerned, the crime has been solved. They will frown on such a private deal, but they will understand. Frankly, they’ll be relieved if the manuscripts are returned.”

“You’ve done this before?” Carlisle asked.

“Oh yes, several times. The ransom is secretly paid. The goods are returned. Everybody is happy, especially the owner. And the crook, too, I suppose.”

Carlisle said, “I don’t know. We have a great relationship with the FBI. They’ve been superb from the beginning. It just doesn’t seem right to exclude them at this point.”

Elaine replied, “But they have no authority in France. They’ll be forced to bring in the authorities over there and we’ll lose control. A lot of people will get involved and it could get messy. One small mistake, something no one can predict beforehand, and the manuscripts are gone.”

Farley asked, “Assuming we get them back, how will the FBI react when it’s over?”

She smiled and said, “I know Lamar Bradshaw pretty well. If the manuscripts are safely tucked away in your library and the thieves are in prison, he’ll be a happy boy. He’ll keep the investigation open for a few months and maybe the crook will make a mistake, but before long he and I will have a drink in Washington and share a good laugh.”

Carlisle looked at Farley and Kendrick, and finally said, “Okay. Let’s proceed without them. Now the sticky question of the money. Mr. Lance?”