by James Ponti
“I know,” she said as she climbed in back. “And I appreciate it.”
We started driving, and I asked, “Are we going to the Hoover Building to look at the evidence from your cold case?”
“I wish, but it’s taking them forever,” he said. “I got an e-mail today saying it won’t be ready until later in the week.”
“Can’t you rush them?” I said. “This is an important case, isn’t it?”
“Technically it isn’t,” he said. “Remember, as far as the Bureau’s concerned, I’m reopening a nine-year-old rare-book-theft investigation that was already sort of solved. We are a very low priority.”
“Then how are we checking out suspects?” asked Margaret.
“I don’t have any of the physical evidence. But I still had a list of potential suspects on my computer. I spent most of the morning tracking down what they’re up to now. Florian, get that blue folder sticking up out of my briefcase.”
The briefcase was on the floor by my feet. I pulled out the folder to find two copies of the same list. I kept one and handed the other to Margaret.
“I was convinced Alexander Petrov had help from somebody inside the Library of Congress,” explained Marcus. “I don’t see how else he could’ve gotten those books. By the time he returned to Russia and the case went on life support, I’d narrowed it down to these four people.”
“Why does it say ‘Operation Barbara Gordon’ on the folder?” I asked.
“Oh, ignore that,” he said. “You know how the FBI is with naming things. Every investigation needs some sort of code name.”
“That’s kind of a weird one, though,” I said. “Who’s Barbara Gordon?”
“It’s not important. What’s important is that list of names. If one of them—”
“Is she Batgirl?” asked Margaret.
I started to say, “That’s ridiculous,” but then I noticed Marcus’s reaction. He cringed and kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. I turned to see that she’d looked it up on her phone.
“And when you say ‘you know how the FBI is,’ do you really mean something you read in a comic book?” she asked.
Marcus tried to keep a serious expression as he answered, “In addition to fighting crime alongside Batman and Robin, Barbara Gordon has a PhD in library science and is the head of the Gotham City Public Library. Since I was looking for a librarian with a secret identity, it just made sense at the time. Besides, the Library of Congress has the world’s largest collection of comic books.”
“Just when we thought you couldn’t be any geekier,” said Margaret.
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror and said, “I never claimed to be anything different.”
This was the list:
Dr. Rose Brock
Was: Head of Reference and Reader Services for Rare Book Reading Room
Now: Manuscripts curator and archivist at Folger Shakespeare Library
Alistair Toombs
Was: Librarian for Rare Book Reading Room
Now: Head of Reference and Reader Services for Rare Book Reading Room
Brooke King
Was: Book repair specialist in LOC Binding and Collections Care
Now: Owner of Palace Books
Lucia Miller
Was: Rare Book digital conversion specialist
Now: Children’s librarian at Petworth branch of the DC Public Library
“What’s our plan of attack?” I asked.
“We’ll check out the first two today and the others tomorrow,” said Marcus. “For the time being we’re just trying to get a general picture of them to see if it’s even possible that they’re involved.”
“How are we approaching it?” asked Margaret.
“Very low-key,” he said. “If one of these four is a spy, I don’t want them to know we’re investigating.”
“Don’t you think they’ll be suspicious when an FBI agent just pops up out of nowhere?” I asked.
“That’s the funny thing—they won’t think of me as an agent,” he said. “I actually knew all four of them before I joined the FBI.”
“How’s that even possible?” I asked.
“The thesis for my PhD was about illustrations in nineteenth-century books,” he said. “I spent a year in the Rare Book Reading Room doing research. That’s how I got involved in the case in the first place. It was because of my expertise with books, not because I was an FBI agent.”
“You’re always full of surprises,” said Margaret.
“You can just call me Mr. Mysterious.”
“Wait a second!” said Margaret. “Isn’t Mr. Mysterious the sworn enemy of Batgirl?”
Marcus laughed so hard, he started coughing.
Our first stop was the Folger Shakespeare Library, which is located two blocks from the Capitol and across the street from the Library of Congress. As we approached the building, Marcus gave us a quick rundown on our suspect.
“At the time of the first case, Rose Brock was in charge of the Rare Book and Special Collections Division,” he said. “That means she had the most complete access to the collection. She could have easily stolen the books and covered her tracks afterward.”
“But she’s not there anymore, so why do you think she left?” I asked.
“She may have been fired,” he said guiltily. “The unintended consequence of my investigation is that it embarrassed the library. I worry they may have blamed her because she was in charge of the department.”
“So she might not be happy to see you?” suggested Margaret.
“Right,” he said. “But it’s also possible she left because she wasn’t a great fit there. Most department heads tend to be academic and reserved, but that doesn’t really describe Rose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here’s a picture I got off social media today.”
He showed us his phone, and the photo on the screen was of a woman with short-cropped, spiked hair dyed bright blue. She had multiple piercings along each ear as well as one in her nose. She was jokingly sticking her tongue out at the camera, and the caption beneath the picture read, “I Work Hard for the Bard!”
“I like her already,” Margaret said.
“At least she should be easy to find,” I added.
“Especially because she’s scheduled to give the three o’clock tour,” he said, checking his watch. “We made it with seven minutes to spare.”
When we reached the door, he held up his hand for us to stop momentarily. “These four have been in Washington for a long time. If one of them actually is a spy, it means that person is under deep cover. They’ve created a whole separate identity that is innocent in every way. The key will be identifying something that gives away who they really are.”
“You mean like a letter from Batman?” said Margaret.
“If only it were that easy,” he said as we entered the library.
11.
The Shakespeare Cipher
THE OUTSIDE OF THE FOLGER Shakespeare Library fit in perfectly with the imposing marble buildings of Capitol Hill, but once we walked through the doors, it was as if we’d traveled back in time. With oak paneling along the walls and banners hanging from the vaulted ceilings, it looked more like seventeenth-century England than present-day Washington.
We asked a security guard about the tour, and he directed us to the Founders’ Room, which had a large wooden table, high-back chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and paintings on the wall.
Rose Brock was impossible to miss, although her bright blue hair had now been dyed a deep purple. She had a friendly smile as she welcomed visitors, and she stopped everything the moment she saw Marcus. If there were any hard feelings about his investigation, she didn’t show it.
“Marcus Rivers?” she exclaimed as she rushed over and gave him a big hug.
In keeping our cover, Marcus had to act surprised to see her.
“Rose?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“This is home now,” she answered. “Wha
t brings you by on a Monday afternoon?”
“Expanding the cultural horizons of my two young friends,” he said. “I’d like you to meet Margaret and Florian.”
“It’s a pleasure,” she said as she shook Margaret’s hand. “Marcus and I go way back. In fact, I knew him when he actually had hair.”
“That’s very funny.” He turned to us and added, “I knew her when her hair was its original color.”
They both laughed, and it was great to see him joking around.
When she reached to shake my hand, I noticed an inscription tattooed along the inside of her right forearm: “R&J Act II, Scene II, Lines 47, 48.”
She saw me look at it and explained. “Romeo and Juliet. From the balcony scene.” She instantly struck a pose as though she were performing Juliet. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
It took me a second to piece it together. “Because your name is Rose.”
“It’s like the bard was sending me a secret message in the middle of his play,” she said with a wink.
There were eleven people there for the tour, and she had us all gather around a portrait of Shakespeare to begin.
“Welcome to the Folger Shakespeare Library,” she said. “We’re home to the world’s largest collection of materials related to William Shakespeare, the great English playwright and poet who was born April twenty-third, 1564. In our collection, we have one hundred and sixty thousand books, sixty thousand manuscripts, and ninety thousand paintings, prints, drawings, and other works of art all relating to the man known as the Bard of Avon.”
“That’s a lot,” said Margaret.
“You’re not kidding,” replied Rose. “I always like to start the tour off with my favorite of those ninety thousand paintings, prints, and drawings. This portrait right here.”
She motioned to a painting of Shakespeare as a middle-aged man.
“I like to start here because there’s something wrong with this portrait,” she said. “Can any of you find the mistake?”
Margaret flashed me the same competitive stare I’d seen when we played Toastbusters or she took penalty kicks.
“Game on,” she whispered.
“Bring it,” I replied.
I scanned the painting, determined to find the mistake before she did. Of course I had an advantage. My mother was an art conservator who’d quizzed me about paintings my whole life.
In the picture Shakespeare was balding and had a beard. His arm was resting on a skull, and he was holding some kind of document. Next to him was a coat of arms, and written in the upper left side of the painting was the phrase “aetatis suae 47” as well as the date the portrait was painted: 1612.
I looked at the skull and wondered why it was there. Then I remembered that there’s a skull in the play Hamlet. Maybe the document he was holding was a copy of the play. Unfortunately, I didn’t know enough about Hamlet to tell if either of these was somehow wrong.
I tried focusing on the technical aspects of painting that I’d learned from my mother. It was oil on canvas, and the brushstrokes were tight. Shakespeare was posed like all the aristocratic Englishmen I’d seen posed in countless portraits. Nothing seemed wrong.
“Does it have something to do with the skull?” Margaret asked.
“No,” replied Rose.
“Is there something wrong with the brushstrokes?” I asked, hoping to luck into the answer.
“No,” she said, chuckling. “It’s nothing like that. The mistake is much bigger.”
I was stumped. I looked at Margaret and watched her eyes dart around the painting. She’d already beaten me in Toastbusters. I didn’t want to lose again.
Then Marcus spoke up. “It’s a fake.”
That’s when I was reminded that he had a PhD in art history and was in charge of the Washington bureau of the FBI’s Art Crime team.
“You mean it’s a forgery?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “It’s a painting of someone who isn’t Shakespeare.”
“That’s exactly right,” said Rose.
“How’d you figure that out?”
“First of all, he’s posed like a nobleman, but Shakespeare wasn’t. He was a playwright, not a member of the aristocracy. Secondly, the coat of arms in the painting does not match the Shakespeare family coat of arms hanging on the wall over there.”
He pointed to a coat of arms that featured a yellow shield with a black stripe across it and looked nothing like the one in the picture.
“And finally, ‘aetatis suae forty-seven’ is Latin for ‘at the age of forty-seven,’ ” he said.
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Margaret.
“Rose just told us Shakespeare was born in 1564,” he said. “That means for most of 1612 he would’ve been forty-eight, not forty-seven.”
“Still as sharp as ever,” marveled Rose. “It’s too bad you weren’t around back in 1932 when they first hung it in the library. Mrs. Folger was certain it was the real deal. Of course, in her defense, someone had painted over the date and the coat of arms. They’d also changed some of his features to make him look more Shakespearean. Think of it as the eighteenth-century Photoshop.”
“If it looked like that, then how did you find out the truth?” I asked.
“Someone questioned its authenticity,” she said. “Like Marcus, he thought the pose was too aristocratic for a playwright. The painting was x-rayed, and that’s when the hidden images were discovered. We had it restored to its original appearance, which is how it is now.”
“But if it’s not Shakespeare, then why do you keep it up on the wall of the Shakespeare library?” asked Margaret.
“Two reasons,” she answered. “First, because it’s a good story and Shakespeare was all about good stories. Second, it’s a reminder that things are not always what they appear to be. We house the world’s largest collection of his works, and we have to be careful not to be fooled by the phonies just because we want something to be real.”
The tour was filled with unexpected bits of trivia like this. Rose was funny and irreverent and obviously loved all things Shakespeare. She quoted favorite lines in different voices and at one point pulled Marcus into a mini-performance of Julius Caesar. She had him pretend to stab her in the back as she dramatically gasped, “Et tu, Marcus?”
I got so wrapped up in how entertaining it all was that I had to remind myself to look for any small clues or tidbits of TOAST that might help with the case. By the halfway point, I’d decided she was probably too flamboyant to be a spy, but then something caught my eye while she was showing us the earliest collection of Shakespeare’s works.
“It was published in 1623 and is called the First Folio,” she explained as she pointed to the massive book inside a display case. “It contains eighteen plays that had never been printed before, and without it we might never have known about Macbeth, The Tempest, or Antony and Cleopatra.”
She wore a loose-fitting sweater over a tank top, and when she excitedly gestured toward the book, the sweater slid down enough to expose a small circular scar just below her shoulder.
I glimpsed it for only an instant and couldn’t be certain it was TOAST-worthy, so I spent the rest of the tour hoping to get a better look. I didn’t get it until the very end when we reached an exhibit called The Shakespeare Cipher.
“Remember earlier when I said that it was like Shakespeare was sending me a secret message in the middle of his play?” she asked.
“Because of the line about the rose,” I said.
“Exactly. Well, I’m not the only one. There’s a theory by some scholars that a secret code really is hidden inside the text of some of his plays. Some people even think the code is a secret message that claims Shakespeare isn’t the true author of the plays at all. They say he’s as fake as that portrait in the Founders’ Room.”
As she said this, she pointed back toward the room where the tour began, and her sweater slid down her shoulder enough for me to
finally see what I’d been looking for. The scar was round with a raised center. My eyes must’ve opened wide because I saw Margaret noticed me noticing it.
“What did you see?” she asked a few minutes later when the tour was over and we were walking around the exhibit while Marcus and Rose caught up with each other.
“A scar,” I whispered. “It was from a tuberculosis vaccine.”
“You been going to med school while I wasn’t paying attention?” she joked. “How do you know what type of scar it is?”
“Because my mother has one just like it,” I said.
“Okay? So what’s the big deal?”
“I’ll give you a hint: my father doesn’t have one.”
I gave her a moment to follow my logic, but she just gave me a blank look.
“I hate to sound repetitive, but what’s the big deal?”
“My father doesn’t have one because they didn’t give that vaccine to American children.”
A smile slowly formed on Margaret’s lips. “But your mom got one because she grew up in Europe?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“That means Rose Brock lived overseas when she was a kid.”
“Just like my mom,” I said.
“And just like spy number one. Do you think she’s Russian?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I couldn’t pick out any accent during the tour.”
“You know what Marcus said. Whoever it is has been under deep cover for a long time.”
I looked across the room to where Marcus and Rose were talking and laughing and wondered if she really could be a spy. She didn’t seem at all like what I thought one would be.
I reminded myself that the fact that she grew up overseas didn’t make her guilty of anything. After all, my mother and I grew up overseas, and neither one of us was involved in espionage. According to the Theory of All Small Things, it was significant only if other details pointed in the same direction.
“Check this out,” Margaret said, nodding toward one of the exhibit displays. “Look at who was in charge of the team that researched the Shakespeare cipher.”
