Once outside, it seems the sniper team did make their escape. They were not so stupid after all. The finely tuned engine of the motorcycle fires up, and the rider is off. Mission accomplished.
*****
He has deliberately arrived early for the appointment, but he does not announce himself. It may be seen nearly as rude to show up premature as to cause undue delay beyond an expected time, and besides, he wishes to take advantage of this for some reconnaissance. He drew some notice from the young man behind the counter when he entered, a bit of a study of him within a sidelong look cast briefly from whatever reading material took his attention. He takes it that this young man feels somewhat comfortable with his knowledge of people here at this small, acclaimed private school, and the visitor certainly shows age beyond that of a standard student and is not a member of the faculty.
If the attendant feels so inclined to question him or raise any alarm, that moment passes as he confidently walks further into the building. He has learned that appearance and attitude may shirk suspicion, and his finely tailored suit and smooth stride seem to have allayed any doubt that may be kindling in the young man.
He wanders about, eventually moving up the stairs to the second floor. There are four to this building, and what he hopes to see resides on the lower one, below ground. He bides his time, examining the books, glancing over spines for hints of tales to be told. There is a decent-sized bank of computers on the uppermost story available for the use of students. He has heard that the machines are quite top notch, though he suspects most of the members of the learning body here have arrived with their own expensive, sleek laptops. It is not easy to get into this school, and though they do offer scholarships and grants, most of those attending come from money.
He loses his thoughts again to wondering why his own son is not a student here, but he shan’t give himself over to too much regret. There are many avenues to excellence, and sometimes a formal education of this caliber may have no place in that journey.
He glances at the dark gray face of his Vacheron Constantin Patrimony Contemporaine watch, noting that the time shows near enough that he may make his presence known without seeming untoward. He returns to the young man at the front, doing just that, heading over to wait in one of the comfortable leather chairs here in the foyer as the attendant uses the phone.
He has picked up a pamphlet in his short explorations, something about the collections of books and art held by the university, and he is perusing its slim contents when he hears the approach of heels.
“Mr. Felcraft?”
He looks up, smiling warmly, and he is greeted with a vision. He had, of course, seen her staff photograph before coming here, and though it had proved rather complimentary, it was still a work picture. She is not wearing the glasses from the image, and her hair is out, natural and long, that vibrant red catching his eye. He notes that her clothes are rather smart and well fitted, even if nowhere in the league of cost of his own. Still, price tags only determine one form of worth, and they may not always be very precise at that. He rises smoothly, extending his hand to meet her own. A firm shake is given, though warm in the greeting, much less guarded. “Ms. Perhonen, is it?” he replies, pronouncing the name with a short, slipped roll of the ‘r’.
She gives a slight, surprised, but pleased smile at hearing the enunciation. “I hope you’ve not been waiting too long,” she speaks, her accent rather unexpected and refined. “Marcel mentioned you’d been here a while.”
“Marcel?” he asks, brow furrowing, face moving a touch to the right in the inquisitive expression.
“Oh, the volunteer there at the front desk,” she informs, turning and indicating with a relaxed gesture of her hand, and she finally smiles, emitting a short, nearly silent chuckle as though a bit embarrassed to have imparted the information this way.
He finds it utterly charming.
“Ahhh, did he now?” he plays along, smiling further, then gives a glance over, dipping his head once when he notices Marcel watching them. “I arrived early for our engagement, so I killed some time. Your library is quite remarkable.”
She smiles further, “Thank you, but it’s not mine.”
Ah, is she teasing, making a joke?
“Of course not,” he adds, “But it may seem as much the property of those who care for it as those who pay for it … if not more so. Spending money may be easier than taking the time to embrace real responsibility over something.”
He notes the shadow of a smirk on her lips, though the expression does not fully resolve.
“Well, then, follow me, if you please,” she invites, and with a smoothly murmured, ‘thank you’, he does just that.
“I know of you, Mr. Felcraft,” she speaks into the short silence as they make their way to the separate staircase that leads to the lower level.
“You do?”
She nods, “Your family’s collection is well known amongst those like me.”
“And what might that be?” he pitches the question with a touch of playfulness.
She pauses at a locked set of double doors, peering back at him, one hand poised near the keypad, a card held in the embrace of slender digits tipped with a daring red polish.
“Librarians,” she answers flatly, then slides her card, punching in a code with the quick ease of familiarity, causing the lock to disengage, and they enter.
He follows her ingress, though his attention is temporarily taken with the environ, glancing about at the bookcases, most of which are fronted with locked, glass doors. A few books lie open on pedestals, which he suspects is not normal and may perhaps have even been done on his account. This room may act as a museum but it is more often controlled, secure storage.
She moves in further, not bothering to give him any sort of introductory spiel about the collection. He is here for a specific reason, and she knows it. He moves in her wake, eyes still casting about, until they reach a rear area. An imposing wood and glass cabinet holds a half dozen books in two rows, each displayed forward, each behind their own glass window. She retrieves an electronic key from a small collection on her person and places the tip against the unobtrusive receptacle at one portal. A light shifts position, a small click is heard, and she opens the window, retrieving the book.
She presents it to him in both hands, and he bends forward a touch from the waist, peering at it. He moves his eyes from the cover to hers, noting the piercing gaze, and he brings his hands forward, fingers extended in a relaxed fashion.
“May I?”
“Yes,” she says, a curl just touching the edge of her lips, “I am sure you noticed the tables and chairs in here. Feel free to use them as you wish to examine the book, but it mustn’t leave this room.”
“Of course,” he moves his head forward once in acquiescence, “I presume you’ll be remaining in here to chaperone me.”
She gives a polite smile, nodding her head. He then takes the tome, but he does not move. He allows himself to experience its heft. It is a decent sized one, roughly six by ten inches, most closely to octavo, adhering to the golden mean ratio, somewhat thick, baring of approximately six hundred pages. He looks at the spine, delicately running his fingers down it, feeling the five ridges. It is bound in dark, Moroccan leather, the gilding silver. He opens it, flipping to the back, examining the colophon, noting the information presented as well as the small sigil. The names and dates match the first book. Everything seems in order. He tries to remain calm, as though he were examining a common rare book of immense value and not one that may hold secrets capable of protecting or destroying this planet’s very way of life.
He glances up at her after losing himself to this scrutiny. She is merely watching him, standing quite patiently.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Exquisite,” he replies, then gives her a brief moment of his smile before heading over to the large, circular wooden table near the entrance.
He takes a seat in one of the chairs, the fine upholstery off
ering comfort as well as aesthetic. He sets the book down with some delicacy, though the fortitude is evident in the robust and pristine appearance at its age. He flips it open to a random page, looking over the words, not really reading, just drifting, moving to another leaf, then another, noting the impressive woodcut images, the sophistication and artistry quite breathtaking.
“I’m surprised you did not bring anything on which to take notes. I could fetch a pad and pen, if you like,” she offers.
“Oh,” he looks up, smiling, “No, thank you. Frankly, I was not sure if this was the book I am seeking. I had planned to just make a cursory examination.”
“Ah,” she nods, her hands held before herself, at her lower belly, her right hand lightly grasping the index finger of her left, “I can assure you of its authenticity.”
He notices she wears no rings of any kind. “I do not doubt you at all, Ms. Perhonen,” he says. “I am seeking a particular book, very rare, and I was not sure this would be the one, but it seems to be.”
She tilts her head a bit, pale brow knitting, and she moves a half-step closer. “That is … curious. I cannot say I’ve ever known of that sort of motivation for visiting our collection.”
He glances back at her, offering a short smile, one that could be placating or even awkward, but its intent is not entirely clear. His attention returns to the book, and he holds his hands over the open pages.
“Mr. Felcraft? Are you alright?” she asks, moving closer, concern taking her features.
“Oh, yes,” another smile emerges, this one more controlled, “It is just rather monumental for me to have found it.”
Some more time passes as he looks at the book, and she spends that time observing him.
“I am sure, in your line of work, you may appreciate rare, important things, and as you have chosen the Library Sciences, I presume you are aware of the power of knowledge. We have so many ways now to share information, but older times were not so fortunate,” he slowly flips through a few more pages as he speaks in this musing tone, hands occasionally moving the paper in a delicate stroke, as though he were imbibing the information through his fingertips.
She watches silently, noting the slender length of his digits, the obvious manicure, the nails longer than may be conventionally expected on a man.
“One may posit that due to the cost and limitations on books, especially prior to the sixteenth century, the knowledge placed in them was carefully chosen. This could be political, religious, academic, and that may say something in and of itself. Books may well be the purveyors of secrets.” He closes the tome, looking up at her, “How much do you know of this one, Ms. Perhonen?”
She blinks, perhaps having been lost in her observation and his speech. Her eyes widen a bit, eyebrows rising, the blue catching light like shards of ice. “I was not very much involved in its identification and authentication. I am just a curator.”
He turns to fully face her, catching her eyes, “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she nods.
“You are the Lead Curator and Archivist for a rather special collection, well on your way to becoming Director of the entire library, and at your age,” he continues, still wearing that pleasant smile on his lips, “You are obviously accomplished, and I suspect you care for the books here, even as such may be a reflection of your professional performance. We learn in many ways, do we not, Ms. Perhonen?”
She blinks, eyes still on him, but she does not move further or nearer to where he sits. “You seem to have done some checking up on me before coming here,” she finally speaks, “Is there a particular reason for this?”
“I care about books,” he replies, pushing back a tad from the table, turning his chair toward her as he does, folding his hands in his lap, “And not just about books, but many things which may be considered art or treasure, and I do not just mean in the literal sense, for what is ‘treasure’ but that upon which we ascribe some subjective value? I suspect you know this, and that you have done some checking up of your own. “This book,” he slowly reaches out his right hand, placing it atop the cover of said treatise, “is one of particular importance to me, and if it were possible, I would acquire it for my private collection. In the stead of that, I’d feel more comfortable if I knew it were secure and well cared for.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Felcraft, and I do appreciate your status as a collector, but I work for the university, and though we obviously afford some opportunities to those outside the school, my primary duty is to the institution, not to you.”
“I’d have thought your primary duty might be to the books,” he retorts, the gentle smile on his lips blunting any potential edge to the words.
And there it is again, that shadow of a smirk trying to have its way with her lips.
“What good is a book without someone to read it?” she pitches.
He grins more openly, a quiet chuckle passing through his throat. He then raises the index finger of his right hand. “Exactly,” he agrees.
“So,” she looks more serious after sharing a brief smile, eyes moving to the valuable folio, “What is so special about this book, then?”
“Ah, yes, well,” he replies, eyebrows perking for a moment as his own gaze travels to the item in question, “It ... hmmm …”
And her eyes glide back to his in that moment of hesitation, and she shifts more toward him in a barely discernable manner.
“This book is under some of our tightest security, and it receives the utmost care. Such is warranted for one of this value. It would be welcome to know more of it. I would welcome it,” she says.
And he looks up to see a pleasant smile on her lips. He may have more experience, but neither of them are without some skill at diplomacy. “Perhaps it would be better if I completed some study of it first,” he offers, turning it into the suggestion of a question at the end, “I should be certain.”
She looks at him, obviously evaluating his words, but she dips her head once, “Of course. How much time would you like? I can get you materials you may need, even refreshments?”
“Thank you, you are very kind and accommodating. Is there a way to set up an extended loan of the book?”
Her brow furrows, “I am afraid the book is not allowed to leave this room except for under the most special of circumstances, and that would not include examination and study by a private collector, no matter how reputable or prestigious that person may be.”
He smiles at this offering, nodding slowly, “I completely understand,” and he slides his chair back, rising, “I was not sure if this would be the book, so I fear I did not allot enough time on my schedule. I am still not one hundred percent certain, but this initial check gives me reason to warrant further examination, if you do not mind, of course?”
She smiles politely in return, “Of course not. You will not mind if I am here during that time, will you?”
“I’d prefer no other chaperone,” he is quick to say, and they both share a similar twist to their grins and short, quiet chuckle at his words.
“I am not the security, Mr. Felcraft, but perhaps I may aid you in your study, if you need it.”
Something in the way she says this gives him a brief pause, and he moves his head ever-so-slightly to the left, peering. The moment passes quickly enough to not intrude on the conversation. He extends his hand, which she takes.
“Thank you, Ms. Perhonen, I do appreciate it. If it is not too much trouble, I’d like to return tomorrow, and I’d also like to bring some of my materials.”
“Of course, though I’ll need to look over them before they are used.”
“I do understand. Thank you again. I can see that this collection is in very capable hands. Good day to you.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Felcraft.”
This handshake does not last through all of their talking, but it did hold a bit longer than the introductory one.
He turns to leave, walking out calmly, his mind not only preoccupied with the book. He knows it is the s
econd of the Three, but further study is warranted. Still, he’d prefer to have it in his collection. He does not expect that to happen easily, and the more difficult it would prove, the more others may take notice. He thinks more on the curator, Lilja Perhonen, mulling over many options involving her.
*****
“Mind if I join you?”
She looks up from the book held in her lap, taking some time here in the school’s Commons for a snack and some coffee before heading back to work. Her initial default mode of polite, yet firm refusal dissolves instantly when she sees who it is.
“Oh, Billy,” she offers a little smile, “Sure,” she nods toward the open chairs at the table, and the campus security guard sits at the one across from her, setting down his tray which holds a full meal.
“Hi, Miss Perhonen,” he grins somewhat bashfully, trying to get comfortable in the metal chair, “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, thanks, and you can call me Lilja,” she offers, her smile becoming warmer.
She’d have preferred to not be interrupted, but at least this is someone she sort of knows. She ought to make efforts to be more sociable, at least according to the indelicate reminders from her mother.
“Uh, right,” he shifts his eyes to her then back to his food, “Lilja … right,” then shoves a forkful into his mouth, chewing and talking, “So, you’re okay since the attack?”
“Yes,” she grins, showing her nice teeth, “I think he fared worse than I did.”
He laughs more openly, following with a slurp of his tea, as he resolves into a short cough, swallowing, “You got that right. Poor guy is expelled and facing criminal charges … what am I saying ‘poor guy’?” he glances at her, his expression changed to one of concern, “Sorry about that. He deserves what he gets. No telling what he planned to do to you.”
She gives another conciliatory grin, lips pressed together, “It’s okay, Billy. I’m glad he is in custody, and that he didn’t choose a less prepared target.”
Dance of the Butterfly Page 4
