John Grisham: Camino Island

The CEO cleared his throat and said, “Well, we’re on the hook for twenty-five million, but that’s for a complete loss. This is shaping up to be something far different.”

“Indeed it is,” Carlisle said with a smile. “Assuming the crook has all five, the math is easy. Of the twenty, how much might you be willing to kick in?”

Without hesitation, Lance said, “We’ll do half. No more.”

Half was more than Carlisle was hoping for, and as an academic he felt somewhat off balance trying to negotiate with a hardened CEO of an insurance company. He looked at Farley and said, “Arrange the other half.”

On the other side of Rue St.-Sulpice, and less than forty feet from the front door of Librairie Gaston Chappelle, was the Hôtel Proust, an old, quaint, four-story place with typically cramped rooms and a single elevator barely large enough for one adult and his or her luggage. Bruce used a fake Canadian passport and paid cash for a room on the third floor. In the window he set up a small camera aimed at the front of Gaston’s shop. He watched the live footage on his iPhone in his room at the Hôtel Delacroix, around the corner on Rue de Seine. Noelle, in her room at the Hôtel Bonaparte, watched it too. On her bed were the five manuscripts, each in a different type of bag.

At 11:00 a.m., she left with a shopping bag and went to the lobby, where she asked the front desk to keep the maids away from her room because her husband was sleeping. She left the hotel, crossed the street, and stopped at the window of a dress boutique. Bruce walked by and without stopping took the bag. She returned to her hotel room to protect the remaining manuscripts, and also to watch what happened at Gaston’s shop.

Strolling by the fountain in front of the classical church St.-Sulpice, and trying hard to blend in with the other tourists, Bruce burned some clock as he fortified himself for what was ahead. The next few hours would change his life dramatically. If he was walking into a trap, he would be hauled home in chains and sent away for years. But if he pulled it off, he would be a rich man and only Noelle would know it. He walked a few blocks, always circling back and covering his trail. Finally, it was time to begin the delivery.

He entered the bookstore and found Gaston poring over an old atlas, pretending to be busy but watching the street. There were no customers. His clerk had been given the day off. They stepped into his cluttered office in the rear and Bruce removed a cedar box. He opened it then opened the archival box inside, and said, “The first one, This Side of Paradise .” Gaston gingerly touched the top leaf and said, in English, “Looks fine to me.”

Bruce left him there. He opened and closed the front door, glanced up and down the narrow street, and walked away, as nonchalantly as possible. Noelle watched the video from the camera in the Hôtel Proust and saw nothing unusual.

Using a prepaid cell phone, Gaston called a number at the Credit Suisse bank in Geneva and informed his contact that the first delivery had been completed. As instructed by Bruce, the ransom war chest was sitting in a Zurich bank, waiting. As instructed, the first installment was wired to a numbered account at AGL Bank in Zurich, and upon its arrival it was wired to another numbered account in a bank in Luxembourg.

Sitting in front of a laptop in his hotel room, Bruce received an e-mail confirming the two wires.

A black Mercedes stopped in front of Gaston’s and Thomas Kendrick got out. He was in and out in less than a minute and left with the manuscript. He went straight to his office, where Dr. Jeffrey Brown was waiting, along with another Princeton librarian. They opened the boxes and marveled at the prize.

Patience was required, but the waiting was torturous. Bruce changed clothes and went for a long walk. At a sidewalk café on Rue des Écoles in the Latin Quarter, he managed to choke down a salad. Two tables away, Noelle sat down for a coffee. They ignored each other until he left, with a backpack she had placed in a chair. A few minutes after one, he entered Gaston’s again and was surprised to see him chatting with a customer. Bruce eased to the rear and placed the backpack on his office desk. When Gaston managed to slip away, they opened the second cedar box and looked at Fitzgerald’s scrawl. Bruce said, “ The Beautiful and Damned . Published in 1922 and perhaps his weakest effort.”

“Looks fine to me,” Gaston said.

“Make the call,” Bruce said and left. Fifteen minutes later the wire transfers were confirmed. Not long after that, the same black Mercedes stopped in the same place, and Thomas Kendrick fetched number two from Gaston.

Gatsby was next in order of publication, but Bruce was saving it for last. His fortune was coming together nicely, but he still worried about the final delivery. He found Noelle sitting in the shade of an elm tree in Luxembourg Gardens. Beside her was a brown paper bag with the name of a bakery on it. For good measure, the end of a baguette protruded out the top. He broke it off and chomped away as he headed for Gaston’s. At 2:30, he entered the bookstore, handed over the bag and what was left of the baguette, along with Tender Is the Night, to his friend, and hustled away.

To mix things up, the third wire went to a Deutsche Bank branch in Zurich, then to a numbered account in a London bank. When the two were confirmed, his fortune went from seven figures to eight.

Kendrick appeared again to pick up number three. Back in his office, Dr. Jeffrey Brown was giddy as the collection grew.

The fourth manuscript, that of The Last Tycoon, was hidden in a Nike gym bag Noelle carried into a Polish bookstore on Boulevard St.-Germain. While she browsed, Bruce carried it away and walked four minutes to Librairie Chappelle.

The Swiss banks would close at five. At a few minutes before four, Gaston called Thomas Kendrick and passed along some somber news. For Gatsby, his acquaintance wished to be paid in advance. Kendrick kept his cool but argued that this was not acceptable. They had an agreement, and so far both sides had behaved.

“True,” Monsieur Chappelle said politely. “But the danger, as my contact sees it, is that he makes the final delivery and those on your end decide to forgo the last installment.”

“And what if we wire the final payment and he decides to keep the manuscript?” Kendrick replied.

“I suppose that’s a risk you’ll have to take,” Gaston said. “He is rather adamant.”

Kendrick took a deep breath and looked at the horror-stricken face of Dr. Brown. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes,” he said to Gaston.

Dr. Brown was already on the phone to Princeton, where President Carlisle had not left his desk for the past five hours. There was really nothing to discuss. Princeton wanted Gatsby far worse than the crook needed another four million. They would take their chances.

Kendrick called Chappelle and passed along the news. When the final wire transfer was confirmed at 4:45, Chappelle called Kendrick back and informed him that he was holding the Gatsby manuscript in the rear seat of a taxi waiting outside his office building on Avenue Montaigne.

Kendrick bolted from his office with Dr. Brown and his colleague giving chase. They sprinted down the wide stairway, rushed past the startled receptionist and out the front door just as Gaston was emerging from the taxi. He handed over a thick briefcase and said that Gatsby was all there, with the exception of page 1 of chapter 3.

Leaning against a tree not fifty yards away, Bruce Cable watched the exchange and enjoyed a good laugh.

Eight inches of overnight snow had blanketed the campus, and by mid-morning crews were hustling with plows and shovels to clear the walkways and doorsteps so that classes could go on. Students in heavy boots and coats wasted little time between classes. The temperature was in the teens and the wind was biting.