Stephen Leather - Nightfall

Wainwright laughed. Two pretty blondes in matching charcoal grey Armani suits were standing behind him. ‘Can I get you a drink, Jack?’ he drawled.

‘A whisky would be good.’

‘A man after my own heart.’ Wainwright twisted his head around. ‘Two whiskies, darling,’ he said. ‘Glenlivet.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Okay with you?’

‘In my experience, any malt beginning with a G or an M can’t be faulted,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ice in mine, please,’ he said to the stewardess, who flashed him a perfect gleaming white smile.

The plane was sitting on the Tarmac close to the private aviation terminal at Stansted airport. A black stretch Mercedes limousine had been waiting for Nightingale airside, and a uniformed chauffeur had driven him out to the Gulfstream. The plane was expensively outfitted with four white leather seats the size of armchairs, a three-seater white leather sofa, a large LCD television screen on the bulkhead, and oblong picture windows.

‘Can I offer you a cigar, Jack?’ asked Wainwright.

‘I’m a cigarette smoker,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is it okay to smoke in here?’

‘It’s my plane, we can do what we want.’

Nightingale took out his packet of Marlboro and lit one. The second stewardess placed a large crystal ashtray next to his briefcase.

‘So you’re Ainsley Gosling’s son?’ asked Wainwright. ‘How’s that working out for you?’

‘We weren’t close,’ replied Nightingale. The stewardess gave him his whisky and another beaming smile.

‘But he left you his library?’

‘He left me everything,’ said Nightingale.

Wainwright jabbed his cigar at Nightingale’s briefcase. ‘Is that it?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘It took some finding, I haven’t worked out his indexing system yet. It’s certainly not alphabetical.’ He put down his drink and cigarette and picked up the briefcase. Wainwright licked his lips as Nightingale took out the book. It was almost two feet long, eighteen inches wide and a good two inches thick, the pages yellowing, the white leather binding cracked and faded. It had taken Nightingale almost three hours to find it in the basement. As so many of the books’ spines didn’t show the title he’d had to take them down and open them one at a time.

Wainwright put down his cigar and took the book from him reverently, as if he was holding a baby. His eyes were wide and he had a faint smile on his lips. It was a smile of triumph, Nightingale realised.

‘Awesome,’ said Wainwright. ‘Do you know what it is, Jack?

‘The Formicarius,’ said Nightingale, ‘but that doesn’t mean much to me.’

‘This is a first edition, printed in 1475,’ said Wainwright, stroking the cover. ‘Written by Johannes Nider. It took him two years to complete and it was published eight years later. It was the second book ever to be printed that discussed witchcraft. Before The Formicarius, everyone thought only men served the devil.’

‘And that’s why it’s so valuable?’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘No, it’s not what’s written inside the book that’s so important. I have a second edition, and a third, so I already have the words. It’s the book itself I wanted. This book.’ He ran his fingertips down the spine. ‘Your father knew, too. That was why he was so determined to get it.’ He grinned. ‘It was supposed to be mine, you know? The bookseller in Hamburg had agreed to sell it to me but somehow your father got to him before I could wire the money. He was a very persuasive man, your father.’

‘So I’m told,’ said Nightingale.

‘He paid a million and half euros, you know that?’

‘I saw the receipt. So what is it about the book that makes it so special?’

‘Are you sure you want to know, Jack?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Why not?’

Wainwright smiled, relishing the moment, then he kissed the book’s front cover. ‘This isn’t leather,’ he said. ‘It’s human skin.’

Nightingale tried not to look surprised but he could see from the satisfaction on the American’s face that he hadn’t succeeded. ‘You don’t say.’

‘Your father paid a million and a half euros, so what say I give you two?’

‘Two sounds good,’ said Nightingale.

Wainwright smiled at a stewardess and she took a small aluminium suitcase from a cupboard and placed it on the table next to Nightingale’s chair. She opened it for him, then went to the rear of the plane. Normally Nightingale would have turned to glimpse her legs but he couldn’t take his eyes off the bundles of banknotes. ‘Wow,’ he said.

‘You’ve got to appreciate the euro,’ said Wainwright. ‘That five-hundred note makes moving cash around so much simpler. If I’d had to use hundred-dollar bills, we’d have needed another suitcase.’

‘It’s not a problem I’m normally faced with,’ said Nightingale.

‘Well, it could be,’ said Wainwright. ‘There’s a few other books in your late father’s library that I might be interested in buying. When you get the chance, can you give me an inventory? There’s not many I haven’t got, but your father was buying books before I was born. I’d be interested to see what he has in his collection.’

‘No problem,’ said Nightingale. He was still staring at the money. Two million euros. He tried to work out how many years he’d have to work to earn that sort of money. Thirty? Forty?

‘Do you want to count it, Jack?’ asked Wainwright.

‘Do I need to?’

Wainwright laughed. ‘If it’s short, give me a call, but it won’t be.’

Nightingale closed the case. ‘Can I keep the case? I don’t think it’ll all fit into mine.’

‘We’ll do a swap,’ said Wainwright. He put the book back into the briefcase that Nightingale had brought with him. ‘Any objections?’

‘I can always buy a new one,’ said Nightingale.

The stewardess who had given him the case stepped forward with a clipboard and a pen. ‘I’ll need you to sign an invoice and a receipt. I’ve copies of both for you,’ said Wainwright.

Nightingale took the pen, a Mont Blanc the size of a small flashlight, and signed his name four times. He frowned when he saw that he was signing in red. ‘Please tell me that’s not blood,’ he said.

‘I like red ink,’ said the American. ‘It’s a quirk of mine. Red is my lucky colour, always has been. Humour me.’

The stewardess took the pen and the clipboard from Nightingale, then gave him a copy of the invoice and the receipt.

‘My cellphone number is on there,’ said Wainwright, ‘and my personal email address. Soon as you have an inventory, I’d like a look. I’ll pay top dollar, cash on the nail.’

Nightingale folded the papers and put them into the inside pocket of his raincoat. He nodded at the briefcase. ‘This stuff works, does it?’

‘Some of it does, some of it doesn’t. It’s a process. It’s something you become better at the more you do it.’ He grinned. ‘That’s why they call it witchcraft. Because it’s a craft.’

‘It seems weird, sitting in a state-of-the-art jet with a suitcase of cash and talking about magic.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s weird, that’s all. Why didn’t you fly over on a broomstick?’

‘You’re thinking Harry Potter. Besides, have you ever tried joining the Mile High Club on a broomstick?’

‘I guess not,’ said Nightingale. ‘So flying broomsticks are bollocks?’

‘Of course they are. But if I wanted to move around the world without the benefits of a Gulfstream, yeah, that’s doable. Astral projection. It’s not easy and it takes a lot of practice, but I can do it. And remote viewing, seeing things at a distance. It’s easier than astral projection, but not as useful.’

‘You’re winding me up,’ said Nightingale, ‘or shitting me, as you Yanks are so fond of saying.’