Glenn Cooper - Book of Souls

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. The 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!”

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.”