Glenn Cooper - Book of Souls

“And what if they don’t want to know?”

“I wouldn’t force it on anyone.”

“Did you look yourself up?”

“I did,” he answered. “I’m good until at least 2027.”

“And what if you had found out that it was next week, or next month or next year instead?”

“I’m sure everyone would have a different reaction, but I think I’d take it in stride and live every day I had to the fullest. Who knows, maybe they’d be the best days of my life.”

She smiled at the answer, nodding in agreement, “Twenty twenty-seven. You said the books stop in 2027.”

“That’s correct. On February 9 of that year.”

“Why do they stop?”

“I’m not sure anyone knows.”

“There was some reference to an apocalyptic event.”

“I’m sure people need to look at that,” Will said evenly. “It’s pretty sketchy stuff, so I don’t think folks should get all bent out of shape.”

“Hopefully not. And you say that little is known about the people who produced these books.”

He shook his head. “They obviously possessed an extraordinary power. Beyond that, I couldn’t speculate. There’re going to be men and women a lot more qualified to give opinions than me. I’m just a retired federal agent.”

Neville set her famous jaw. “Are you a religious man?”

“I was brought up a Baptist but I’m not really religious.”

“Can I ask if you believe in God?”

“Some days more than others I guess.”

“Does the Library change your views?”

“It tells me there are things about the world we don’t understand. I guess that’s not all that surprising.”

“What was your personal reaction when you learned about the existence of the Library?”

“Probably the same as most people. I was shaken. I still am.”

“Tell me about Mark Shackleton, the government employee who stole the database and was shot and seriously wounded.”

“I knew him from college. I was there when he was shot. He seemed like a sad fellow, I’d say pathetic.”

“What motivated him to perpetrate the hoax of the Doomsday case?”

“I think it was greed. He said he wanted a better life.”

“Greed.”

“Yes. He was a very smart man. He was in a position to pull it off.”

“If you hadn’t broken the case.”

“I had help-my partner, Special Agent Nancy Lipinski.” He sought her out with his eyes from behind one of the cameras and smiled at her. “She’s my wife now.”

“Fortunate woman,” Cassie said coquettishly. “The US government doesn’t want us to know about the Library.”

“I think that’s pretty obvious, yes.”

“And people within the government were willing to kill to keep the secret.”

“People have died.”

“You were a target.”

“I was.”

“Is that why you went public, why you gave the story to the press?”

He leaned forward as much as he could. “Look, I’m a patriot. I was in the FBI. I believe in law and order and our system of justice. The government can’t be judge, jury, and executioner even if they’re protecting classified data. I have every reason to believe that they were going to silence me, my family, and my friends if I didn’t act. They killed people trying to get at me. I’d rather my fate be in the hands of my fellow citizens.”

“I’m told that you’re not going to answer questions about Mr. and Mrs. Lipinski or about how you got wounded. You’re recovering well, I trust?”

“Yeah. All of that will come out eventually, I guess. And thanks, I’m going to be fine.”

“When you were briefing the press on the supposed Doomsday case, they called you the Pied Piper. Are you?”

“I can’t play the flute, and I don’t particularly like rats.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m sure as heck not a follower, but I’ve never thought of myself as a leader either.”

“That may change tonight. Tell me, why did you choose to give this to a very young reporter at The Washington Post who broke the story yesterday in that remarkable front-page article?”

“He’s my daughter’s husband. I figured this might give his career a kick.”

She laughed, “What honesty!” Then she got serious again. “So, Will, last words: what should be done? Is the Library going to be released to the public? Should it be released to the public?”

“Will it be? Maybe somebody ought to ask the President that tonight. Should it be? I’d say, put a lot of smart and good people from all over the world in a big room and sort it out. It’s not for me to decide. It’s for the people to decide.”

When the tungsten lights were off, and Will’s lapel mike was shed, Nancy came out of the shadows, embraced him, and held on for dear life. “We got them,” she whispered. “We got the bastards. There’s nothing they can do to us now. We’re safe.”

The President of the United States gave a brief speech, heavy on national-security themes about the dangers the country faced from foreign enemies and the vital importance of intelligence operations. He obliquely acknowledged the role of Area 51 in the grand scheme of intelligence assets and promised to consult with congressional and world leaders in the coming days and weeks.

At his flat in Islington, Toby Parfitt, read his home-delivered copy of The Guardian while a croissant warmed in the toaster oven. A journalist had found the old Internet auction listing from the Pierce & Whyte catalogue. On the front page was a picture of the 1527 book with a “no comment” comment from Toby, who had been rung by the reporter the evening before for his views.

In fact he had strong views, though none for public consumption. He had held the book in his hands! He had felt an emotional connection to it. It was undoubtedly one of the most valuable books on the planet! And now there were claims that a Shakespearean sonnet had been secreted in its endpapers!

Two hundred thousand pounds! He’d sold it for only two hundred thousand pounds!

His hand shook as he lifted his cup of breakfast tea to his lips.

In a few days, the Post announced that no one was getting access to its copy of the database until a federal lawsuit seeking its return wended its way through the system, presumably all the way to the Supreme Court. In the meantime, the paper’s newest star reporter, Greg Davis, began doing interviews and proved to be good at them.

And the media circus and the public outcry did not abate, nor would they for a very long time. Life and death were very hot topics.

On Garden Street, north of Harvard Square, most of the staff at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics were having lunch at the campus cafeteria or at their desks.

Neil Gershon, an associate professor of astrophysics at Harvard and the Assistant Director of the Minor Planet Center, was cleaning a gob of mayo off his keyboard which had squirted out the end of his roast beef wrap. One of his grad students came into his office cubicle and watched with amusement.

“I’m happy to entertain you, Govi. Can I help you with something?”

The young Indian researcher smiled and accommodated his boss’s forgetfulness. “You told me I could see you lunchtime, remember?”

“Oh yeah. February ninth, 2027.”

Astrophysicists were suddenly popular.

The Post article and the Piper interview had unleashed a torrent of academic and amateur speculation on humanity-eliminating events. To dampen down the hysteria, governments turned to scientists, and scientists turned to their computer models. While they worked on the problem the popular press blithely dived in.

That very morning, USA Today published a survey of three thousand Americans asking about their favorite hypotheses concerning that suddenly famous date. There were a lot of theories ranging from the plausible to the ridiculous; a quarter of Americans believed that an alien invasion was in the cards, War of the Worlds — style. Divine retribution and the Last Judgment scored fairly high too. Asteroids were also in the double digits.