Glenn Cooper - Book of Souls

Will watched Spence peeling back the layers of the onion, getting closer and closer to calf hide. Despite the profundity of the moment, above all, he was worried that Kenyon might tread on the bubble wrap and wake Phillip in a volley of pops.

The last layer removed, Spence gently opened the cover. He dwelled on the first page, taking it in. Over his shoulder, Kenyon had stooped low. He whispered a faint, “Yes.”

Across the room, to Will, the ink scrawl was so dense the page almost looked black. Seeing the names in someone’s handwriting gave him a different perspective than reading them in modern sterile fonts on Shackleton’s computer database. A human being had dipped a feathered quill into a pot of black ink tens of thousands of times to fill these pages. What on earth was going on inside the writer’s mind? Who had he been? How was he able to accomplish this feat?

Cottle broke the spell. Despite his dull expression, he was well-spoken. “They had experts. Oxbridge types. No one had a clue what it was or where it was from beyond the obvious that it’s a registry of births and deaths. We were wondering whether you have any knowledge of its origins?”

Spence and Kenyon looked up at the same time. Spence said nothing, so Kenyon had to answer, diplomatically, obliquely. “We’re very interested in the period. A lot was going on in the early sixteenth century. It’s a unique book, and we’re going to do our research. If we find any answers, we’ll be happy to let you know.”

“That would be appreciated. Naturally, we’re curious. A lot to lay out for a book of unknown significance.” Cottle checked out the room with his eyes. “Is this your flat, sir?”

Will looked at Cottle suspiciously. Something about his comments struck him as over the line.

“Yeah. All mine.”

“Are you from New York, as well, Mr. Spence?”

Spence was evasive. “We’re from out West.” He decided to change the subject. “Actually, you can help us.”

“If I can.”

“Tell us about the seller, this Cantwell fellow.”

“I’ve only been with the company a short while, but I’m told he’s typical of many of our clients, land rich but cash poor. My supervisor, Peter Nieve, visited Cantwell Hall to review the consignment. It’s an old country house in Warwickshire that’s been in the family for centuries. Lord Cantwell was there, but Nieve mostly dealt with his granddaughter.”

“What did they say about this book?”

“Not much, I think. It’s been in their possession as far back as Lord Cantwell remembered. He imagined his family has had it for generations, but there’s no particular oral history associated with it. He thought it was some sort of city or town registry. Possibly Continental, given the assortment of languages. He wasn’t all that attached to it. Apparently his granddaughter was.”

“Why’s that?” Spence asked.

“She told Peter she always felt an attachment to the book. She said she couldn’t explain it, but she felt it was special and didn’t want to see it go. Lord Cantwell felt otherwise.”

Spence closed the cover. “And that’s it? That’s all these people knew about the book’s history?”

“That’s all I was told, yes.”

“There was another bidder,” Spence said.

“Another main bidder,” Cottle answered.

“Who was he?”

“I’m not permitted to say.”

“What nationality,” Kenyon asked. “Can you at least tell us that?”

“He was American.”

When Cottle left, Will said, “He was kind of curious about us, don’t you think?”

Spence laughed. “It’s killing them that someone knows more about it than they do. They’re probably scared shitless they sold it cheap.”

“They have,” Kenyon said.

“An American was bidding against you,” Will said.

Spence shook his head. “Hope to hell the son of a bitch doesn’t work in Nevada. We’ve got to be careful, keep our guard up.” He tapped the book’s cover with his finger. “So Will, want to have a look?”

He picked it off Spence’s lap and sat back on his sofa. There, he opened it to a random page and lost himself for a few minutes in a litany of lives, long gone, a book of souls.

Cottle hopped back into the waiting taxi and asked to be taken to the Grand Hyatt, where he had a reservation. He was planning to have a quick wash and a good tramp around the city. Perhaps he’d find a club or two before he surrendered to the fatigue of an unexpectedly long day. As the cab pulled away, he left a brief message for Toby Parfitt on his office voice mail, letting him know the delivery was successful. He had a second call to make but he’d wait until he was alone in his hotel room.

Frazier had to make a field decision: follow the courier and extract potentially important information or go straight for Piper and the book. He needed to know whether Piper was alone. What kind of situation would he be getting into if he did a forced entry? He’d be crucified if he wound up dealing with the police tonight.

He wished he had a second team in place, but he didn’t. He went with his gut, the knowledge of Cottle’s DOD, and decided to go with the courier first. When DeCorso pulled away from Will’s building, Frazier looked up at the lit windows on the sixth floor and silently promised he’d be back later.

In midtown, the taxi deposited Cottle at the elevated Vanderbilt Avenue entrance of the Hyatt, where the young man took the escalator down to the cavernous lobby. While he checked in, Frazier and DeCorso watched him from the elevator bank. He’d have to come to them.

Frazier whispered to DeCorso, “Intimidate him, but you don’t have to beat the crap out of him. He’ll talk. He’s just a courier. Find out what he knows about Piper and why he wanted the book. See if anyone else was in his apartment. You know the drill.”

DeCorso grunted, and Frazier slipped into the corner lobby bar before Cottle could make him.

Frazier ordered a beer and found an unoccupied table to nurse it. He drank half of it before his phone rang.

One of his men at the Ops Center was on the line with an urgent press of words. “We just dug up some info on your mark, Adam Cottle.”

It wasn’t easy to surprise Frazier, but the news wrong-footed him. He ended the conversation with a simple and irritated, “All right,” then stared at the BlackBerry, trying to decide whether to call DeCorso. He put the phone on the table and drank the other half of the beer in a couple of gulps. It was probably too late to abort. He’d let it ride. There might be hell to pay, but he’d have to let it ride. Fate’s the damnedest thing, he thought, the damnedest thing in the world.

DeCorso followed Cottle onto the elevator and looked squarely up at the ceiling where he figured the security camera was affixed. If anything went wrong, the police would focus on him-one hundred percent-once they eliminated everyone else on the elevator. It didn’t matter. He didn’t exist. His face, his prints: nothing about him inhabited any database other than his Groom Lake personnel file-all the watchers were off the grid. They’d be looking for a ghost.

Cottle hit the button for his floor, and politely asked DeCorso, “Where to?” because he was the only one who hadn’t pushed a button.

“Same as you,” DeCorso said.

They both exited at twenty-one. DeCorso hung back, pretending to look for his room key while Cottle consulted the hallway sign and made a left. The corridor was long and deserted. He looked free and light as he pulled his bag behind him, a single bloke with an expense account and a night on the town. He was getting his second wind at just the right time.

He slid his room key into the slot, and the lights blinked green. His bag hadn’t cleared the threshold when a sound made him look back. The man from the elevator was three feet away, closing fast.