Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“So where did Jonathan get the book?” Caleb asked.

Pearl shook his head. “How could I possibly know that?” He looked at the others. “As your friend may have told you, there are only eleven existing Bay Psalm Book s in the world out of the original print run. Just think about that, gentlemen. By comparison there are 228 Shakespeare First Folios, but only eleven Psalm Book s on the entire earth. And of that number only five are in complete condition.” He held up the fingers of his right hand. “Only five,” he added with great solemnity.

As Stone stared at the luminous black eyes that seemed to pour out of the deep sockets like oil escaping the earth, it was clear to him that a spiritual diagnosis of Vincent Pearl would clearly reveal that he too suffered from bibliomania.

The bookseller turned back to Caleb. “And since all eleven are accounted for, I can hardly see how one made its way to the collection of Jonathan DeHaven.”

“So why keep a forgery locked up in a vault?” Caleb countered.

“Perhaps he thought it was real.”

“The head of the Rare Books Division fooled by a forged book?” Caleb said contemptuously. “I seriously doubt that.”

Pearl was unperturbed. “As I said before, the library was nearly deceived into buying a fake Oath. People will believe what they want to believe, and book collectors are not immune to that impulse. In my experience self-delusion knows no boundaries.”

“Maybe it would be better if you came by Jonathan’s house so you can see for yourself that the Psalm Book is an original,” Caleb said stubbornly.

Pearl stroked his unruly beard with the long, delicate fingers of his right hand while he kept his withering gaze on Caleb.

“And of course, I would welcome your expert opinion on the rest of the collection,” Caleb added in a calmer tone.

“I believe I might have some time tomorrow evening,” Pearl said in a clearly disinterested manner.

“That would be fine,” Caleb said, handing him a card. “Here’s my number at the library, just call to confirm. Do you have Jonathan’s address?”

“Yes, in my files.”

“I think it best not to mention the existence of the Psalm Book to anyone, Mr. Pearl, at least for now.”

“I rarely mention anything to anyone,” Pearl said. “Particularly things that are not true.”

Caleb turned absolutely scarlet as Pearl ushered them quickly out.

“Okay,” Reuben said outside as he pulled on his motorcycle helmet. “I think I just met Professor Dumbledore.”

“Who?” Caleb exclaimed, obviously still furious from Pearl’s parting shot.

“Dumbledore. From Harry Potter, you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” Caleb snapped.

“What a bloody muggle,” Reuben muttered as he slipped on his goggles.

Caleb said, “Well, Pearl obviously doesn’t believe the Psalm Book is authentic.” He paused, and then he said in a less confident tone, “And maybe he’s right. I mean, I only looked at the thing for a few moments.”

Reuben piped in, “Well, the way you told Pearl off in there you better be right.”

Caleb flushed. “I can’t believe I did that. I mean, he’s famous in the book field. I’m just a government librarian.”

“A first-rate librarian at one of the world’s greatest institutions,” Stone added.

“He may be terrific in his field, but he really needs to get a computer. And a printer that’s not from the sixteenth century,” Milton added.

The Nova pulled off. As Reuben kick-started the Indian, Stone, on the pretense of adjusting his tall body better in the sidecar, glanced behind him.

As they drove off, the van continued to follow.

When the Chevy Nova and the motorcycle split up, the van tailed the bike.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Stone instructed Reuben to drop him near the White House instead of his caretaker’s cottage at Mt. Zion Cemetery. He’d noticed the van following them and wanted to do something about it.

He quietly explained the situation to Reuben as he was getting out of the sidecar, describing the van to his friend.

Stone said, “Keep an eye out. If the van follows you, I’ll call you on your cell phone.”

“Shouldn’t you call Alex Ford for some backup? After all, we did make him an honorary member of the Camel Club.”

“Alex is no longer assigned to the White House. And I don’t want to call him out on what might be nothing. But there are other Secret Service personnel here that can help me.”

When Reuben pulled away, Stone slowly passed his tent, with the sign “I want the truth” next to it. No other protesters were here tonight, including his friend Adelphia. Then he made his way quickly toward a statue in the park of a Polish general who’d aided the Americans in the Revolutionary War. His reward for this good service had been a large memorial on which hundreds of birds crapped daily. Climbing up on the statue’s pedestal, he saw that the van remained parked on 15th Street, outside the 1600 block of Pennsylvania Avenue closed to traffic.

Stone climbed back down and approached one of the uniformed guards who protected the White House perimeter.

“What’s up tonight, Oliver?” the man said. He’d been guarding the White House for almost ten years and was well acquainted with Stone. For his part Stone was always polite and adhered strictly to the rules of the protest permit that he carried in his pocket.

“Hello, Joe, I wanted to give you the heads-up on something. It might not be anything, but I know the Service doesn’t like to take chances.” He quickly explained about the van, but without pointing toward it. “I thought you should know in case you wanted to check it out.”

“Thanks, Oliver. I owe you.”

As Stone had learned in all his years here, there was no detail too small for the Secret Service when it came to guarding the president. Thus, a couple minutes later he watched from nearby as Joe, joined by another armed guard, approached the D.C. Public Works van. Stone wished he had thought to bring his binoculars tonight, but they sat on his desk back at the cottage. He tensed when the driver’s window of the van came down.

The next thing that happened was stunning. The two uniformed guards whirled around and walked quickly away from the van as the driver’s window slid back up. The men did not come near Oliver Stone; they headed in the exact opposite direction as fast as they could go without running while the van remained where it was.

“Damn,” Stone muttered under his breath.

Now he knew. The people in the van were members of a government agency with enough clout to send the Secret Service scurrying away like frightened children. Now was the time to run. But how? Should he call Reuben? Yet he didn’t really want to involve his friend in this. A thought struck him.

Was his past finally catching up to him?

He quickly made up his mind and strode off across the park, reached H Street and turned left. The Farragut West Metro stop was only a couple blocks away. He checked his watch. Damn! The subway was closed. He changed direction, constantly looking over his shoulder for signs of the van. He decided to keep hoofing it down the street; he might catch a late-running bus.

When he reached the next intersection, the public works van screeched to a stop directly in front of him and the slide door started opening.

Then Stone heard the voice shouting at him.

“Oliver!”

He looked to his right. Reuben had driven his motorcycle up on the sidewalk and was speeding directly at him. He slowed just enough to allow Stone to dive into the sidecar. Reuben flew over the curb, back onto the street and gunned the motorcycle with Stone’s long legs sticking straight up out of the sidecar.