Then came the hollow boom of what sounded like steel meeting steel, immediately followed by the crump of another, muffled explosion.
She lay on the ground, cheek by jowl with a dozen others, maintaining a defensive fetal position, protecting her head, as the hysterical screaming continued. She remained silent and, somewhat to her surprise, collected. After a few moments she could hear some shouted orders—security, trying to calm people down—along with sirens and the sudden roar of forced air.
Rapidly the fog thinned out and the light came back up. Almost by magic, the smoke was gone, sucked into forced-air grates now exposed in the ceiling by the withdrawal of painted panels.
The screaming began to subside, and she sat up, looking around to see what was happening. The first thing she noticed was that the glass cube holding the Book of Kells had been cleaved, a corner of the cube dirtied by what must have been a detonation of some kind. The book was not in the cube—it had been stolen. But no, not stolen, because there it was, on the floor next to the cube, open and in disarray.
And then she realized they were locked in: the only door into the East Room was now a slab of stainless steel.
The next thought that came to her mind, with some relief, was that this whole thing was nothing more than a botched robbery.
7
NOW THE STANCHIONS and ropes served another purpose: they allowed the guards to control the seething crowd, which remained sealed in the East Room while security reviewed the situation.
Julia Thrum Murphy found herself herded, along with everyone else, to one side of the room while the half dozen guards secured and examined the Book of Kells and talked animatedly to their counterparts outside the East Room via radio. It became even more obvious to Julia that this was a botched robbery: the flash-bang and smoke used as a cover, the muffled explosion that split the case, the book removed—but the thief had evidently not been able to get the book out of the room before the steel security doors descended. So he’d dropped it and melted back into the crowd.
Which meant the thief was still locked in the East Room with the rest of them—a fact that was clearly evident to the guards as well. It seemed she was in for a long ordeal. While the crowd had grown more orderly, there was still a degree of chaos, with the inevitable hysterics making scenes, along with some enterprising people who appeared to be claiming non-existent injuries, no doubt hoping to make some money. Several doctors in the crowd had already come forward and were examining them.
A part of Julia was actually beginning to enjoy this.
Now a sweating guard moved her and some of the others to another place in the room, and she found herself once again next to the man with the roguish face and dark hair.
He smiled at her again. “Having fun?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Me too. You realize,” he went on, “the ersatz thief is still in the room.”
Ersatz. She liked a man with a big vocabulary.
“So…” The roguish-looking man smiled. “Take a look around. Let’s see if we can pick him out.”
This was fun. Julia glanced around, scouring the faces of the people. “I don’t see any obvious crooks.”
“It’s always the person you’d least suspect.”
“That would be you,” she said.
He laughed, leaned toward her, and put out his hand. “Gideon Crew.”
“Julia Murphy.”
“Murphy. Irish, by any chance?” He raised an eyebrow comically.
“What about Crew? What kind of a name is that?”
“A distinguished name of Old Welsh origin. Distinguished, that is, until a Crew nicked the bailiff’s moneybox and stowed away to America.”
“Your ancestry is as elevated as mine.”
The guards were already lining people up, organizing them for questioning. A commander—at least he had a couple of stripes on his shoulders—stepped forward and raised his hands.
“May I have your attention, please!”
The general hubbub died down.
“I’m afraid that we can’t let anyone leave this room until everyone has been interviewed,” he announced. “It would greatly speed things up if all of you would please cooperate.”
Murmurings, objections. “I want to get out of here!” one of the hysterics cried, to a scattered chorus of agreement.
The commander raised his hand. “I promise you, we’re going to get you out of here as soon as possible. But to do that, we need your help. We’ve just had an attempted robbery of the Book of Kells, and there are certain protocols that must be followed. So I ask for your patience.”
More murmuring, complaining, expostulation.
“So what do you do?” Gideon asked.
“I teach at Bryn Mawr. Romance languages—French, Italian, Spanish, and some Latin.”
“Bryn Mawr,” he said. “A professor. Nice.”
“And you?”
The man hesitated. “Until recently, I worked at Los Alamos National Lab. I’m now on leave.”
Julia was startled, taken aback even. “Los Alamos. You mean, where they build nuclear weapons?”
“Not build. Design.”
“Is that what you do? Design bombs?”
“Among other things.”
Was he joking? No, he wasn’t. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. At least he wasn’t just another dumb, good-looking male.
“I know,” he went on, defensively. “Maybe my profession sounds a little sketchy. But really, I’m an American doing my duty to keep my country safe and all that.”
Julia shook her head. “I can just see you talking like that at a faculty sherry at Bryn Mawr. Oh, God, they’d label you a killer.”
“And what do you think?”
She gave him a level gaze. “Do you care what I think?”
He returned the gaze, and she was a little taken aback by its intensity. “Yes.”
He gave this a peculiar emphasis that caused her to blush, and as she became aware she was blushing, she only turned redder. “I’m not sure what I think,” was all she could say.
They were silent for a few minutes. She glanced over to where the book had been placed back within its cradle. Several guards were hunched over it, examining it with enormous care—turning the pages with white-gloved hands. They seemed to be getting more and more agitated. Moments later they called out to the commander, who bustled over. A short, intense confab took place, and then the commander spoke furiously into his radio. The crowd, noticing the change, fell into a hush.
The commander raised his arm again. “I need your attention. It appears a page has been cut from the Book of Kells and is missing.”
A gasp from the audience.
“The page must still be in this room. So I am afraid to say that no one can be allowed out without being questioned and searched. We’re obtaining the necessary warrants as I speak. The security door must remain closed until we recover the missing page. I apologize for the inconvenience, but there’s nothing else we can do. We cannot let anyone out of this room without a thorough search.”
“Wow,” said Julia. “The plot thickens.”
Gideon Crew was peering around the room, lips pursed, his blue eyes sparkling. “Identified the thief yet?”
“I still think it’s you. You come from a line of thieves and you do look a bit of a rogue. And…you look nervous.”
He laughed. “And I’m sure you’re the thief. A professor of romance languages from Bryn Mawr—talk about the perfect cover.”
People were now being fed through the stanchions to where the guards had set up a makeshift screening area, behind a bookcase draped with a heavy curtain. Those who had been searched were being led into another holding area, the two groups kept separate. The room remained sealed in steel.
Several people were continuing to protest, and the temperature in the room was climbing. “We’re going to be here all afternoon,” Julia said. The novelty was starting to wear off. She had a long drive
back to Bryn Mawr. Maybe she should stay in the city and drive back on Monday. She would miss morning classes, but at least she had a good excuse. She glanced over at Gideon and wondered, idly, if he had an apartment in the city.
“Seriously, I don’t see any obvious crooks in here,” he told her. “Just a lot of boring old white people with names like Murphy and O’Toole.”
Suddenly there was a shout. One of the guards, who had been searching the room, was calling out and gesturing frantically. He was kneeling at a bookcase, the glass door of which was open. The commander and other guards went over, and they all bent down to examine something. It looked to Julia like a piece of paper shoved between two volumes. More activity, discussion, and finally—with gloves—the thing was removed. It was a sheet of vellum, and it looked very much like a page from the Book of Kells. It was brought over to the volume, now back on its stand, and a long examination and a second whispered confabulation ensued.
Once again, the commander gestured to the crowd for quiet. “It appears,” he said, “that we’ve recovered the page cut from the Book of Kells.”
A large murmur of relief.
“I’m afraid, however, that we’re still going to have to question and search each and every one of you before we can open that security door.”
A smattering of angry expostulations.
“The sooner you all get with the program,” the commander said wearily, “the sooner all of us will be out of here.”
A collective groan. “Oh, God,” said Julia. “At this rate, I won’t get back to Bryn Mawr until midnight. How I hate driving at night.”
“You could always stay with me. I’ve got a suite at the Gansevoort Hotel, with a view of the High Line.”
She looked at him and, to her mortification, found her heart rate accelerating considerably at the thought. “Is that some sort of indecent proposal?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. We’ll have a wonderful dinner in the hotel restaurant with a good bottle of wine, talk about nuclear physics and French literature, and then we’ll go up to my room and make passionate and indecent love.”
“You’re awfully direct.”
“Vita brevis,” he said, simply. And the Latin, more than anything else, was why she said yes.
8
IT WAS A fresh summer morning as Gideon walked the block from his hotel to the offices of Effective Engineering Solutions on Little West 12th Street. Dr. Julia Thrum Murphy. He felt more than a twinge of regret. As much as he’d enjoyed her company, he couldn’t allow himself to get entangled in any sort of relationship with anyone, not with a death sentence hanging over his head. It wouldn’t be fair to her. For her part, she seemed quite happy with a one-night stand and had said good-bye to him with no tone of regret. He would have loved to have seen her again—but it was not to be.
He angrily swiped his card and the unprepossessing doors of EES whispered open; he traversed the cavernous lab spaces, with their shrouded models and setups, the white-coated technicians whispering among themselves or making notations on clipboards; and he made his way to the conference room on the top floor of the building. There he found only the dour, nameless man who served coffee, waiting in his uniform. Gideon took a seat, threw his arms behind his head, and leaned back. “Double espresso, no sugar, thanks.”
The man vanished. A moment later, Glinn came in, bringing with him an arctic chill. Silently, he directed his electric wheelchair to the head of the conference table, the humming noise of the motor all the greeting Gideon got. A moment later Manuel Garza, Glinn’s bullish aide-de-camp, entered, followed by half a dozen other EES employees. Nobody said a word.
The steward went around and collected everyone’s murmured orders for coffee or tea. Once he had left, Glinn pressed a button on the small console beside the table—evidently starting a recorder—and then began speaking in a neutral tone of voice, giving the date and time, the names of those present. After that, he fell silent, his eye scanning the room and ending on Gideon.
“It seems the third time is not the charm, is it, Dr. Crew?” he said.
When Gideon said nothing, Glinn addressed the group sitting around the table. “Dr. Crew managed two successful operations for us, for which we are very grateful. I am sorry the Book of Kells has proved to be his undoing. After the utter disaster yesterday, it will be going back to Ireland this afternoon, by chartered jet, surrounded by unbreakable security.”
Gideon Crew listened to this statement with his arms crossed.
“This botched and amateurish operation of Dr. Crew’s, I’m afraid to say, has created enormous difficulties for our client. It has caused an international furor in Ireland and the US. We’ve lost our chance to acquire the Chi Rho page.”
Glinn looked around. “In other words, we have failed.”
A grave murmur rippled through the room. Glinn’s gray eye turned back toward Gideon. “Do you have anything to say?”
Gideon uncrossed his arms. “Not really. Except that the book hasn’t left the country yet. Something still might happen.”
“Something still might happen,” repeated Garza in a voice laden with sarcasm. There was a frosty silence.
“You never know,” Gideon went on. “Remember Yogi Berra. ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”
Glinn’s unflappable composure began to crack. “Spare us the hoary quotations. We must act now to contain the damage from this disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster yet. The flight to Dublin leaves at six o’clock. That’s ten hours from now.”
Glinn frowned. “Are you telling us you have a new plan to steal the page that you so conspicuously failed to acquire yesterday?”
“I’m sorry you don’t have more faith in me, Eli.”
“Because if you do have some sort of plan B, I’m sure we’d like to hear it.”
“No, I don’t have a plan B. Because plan A is still in progress.”
“You call this a plan?” Garza broke in. “You attempt to steal the page, fail in the worst way possible, and in the process you get ID’ed, and we can only thank God you weren’t actually caught. The whole business is now front-page news across the US and Europe. Some plan!”
“Do you know where the book is now?” Glinn asked quietly.
“No.”
More incredulous looks around the room.
“I’ve had our people do a little digging,” Glinn said, “and I do know where the Book of Kells is right now: in an impregnable vault underneath the Citicorp building. The prime minister of Ireland himself is on his way here to escort it back to his country. It will be in his personal possession from the Citicorp vault all the way to a vault at the Bank of Ireland, guarded by the heaviest security the US Secret Service and Interpol can provide, roads cleared of traffic, chartered jet, all the trimmings. And you think you still have a chance of stealing it?”
“Of stealing the Chi Rho page, yes.” Gideon checked his watch.
“And just how can you be so sure?”
“Because before the afternoon is out, you will learn—from the news resource of your choice—that the page cut from the Book of Kells in an attempted robbery is a fake, and that the real page is missing and presumed stolen.”
There were shocked looks around the table.
“Is this true?” Glinn asked.
“Of course.”
“Well,” Glinn said after a moment, returning Gideon’s look with a faint, cold smile. “Extraordinary. Although you might have spared us the drama.”
“Just think of all the drama you’ve put me through. Besides, I couldn’t help having a little fun.”
“So, where’s the original? Do you have it?”
“No, I don’t have it. As I said, I don’t know where it is right now. But I know where it will be, probably by the middle of the week.”
“And then?”
“And then I will steal it—for real, this time.”
9
SERGEANT ADELLEPOISE JOHNSON was in charge of the Third Tier Eviden
ce Vaults in the vast basement complex of One Police Plaza, in Lower Manhattan, almost in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. Sergeant Johnson had been a chain of custody supervisor for ten years, and during that time, in each of those years, she was the supervisor who’d experienced the lowest rate of CoC infractions. For that extraordinary record, she had been awarded an “Integrity” commendation with a dark blue star and a Meritorious Police Duty citation, both of which she wore proudly on the ample front of her uniform. She had fifteen clerks handling evidence curation for her, as well as another dozen assistants and technicians, and she managed them with military precision and correctness. She knew as well as anyone that evidence management was critical to the outcome of criminal prosecutions. While she might not be the most beloved supervisor in the Evidence Vaults, she was the most respected. People were proud to work for her.
It was a Friday, nine o’clock in the morning, and Sergeant Johnson had been in since seven getting an early start on the computer paperwork of the week, reviewing all the evidence that had been checked out or returned, every movement of every shell casing and hair and DNA swab, whether for trial, lab work, or on-site examination. Maintaining the chain of custody of evidence was of paramount importance, and in the past few years the entire procedure had been computerized, with digital video recording of absolutely everything that was done to a piece of evidence, by whom, when, and why.
Sergeant Johnson was never happy when someone arrived to examine evidence by surprise, and she was particularly irritated that it would occur on a Friday morning. But occur it did. One of her evidence clerks arrived with a tall, thin gentleman in an expensive dark suit, sporting a wiffle cut that practically screamed FBI. And sure enough, he was a special agent of the most annoying kind, one of those who thought they were God’s gift to law enforcement and that beat cops were a lower form of life.
The Lost Island Page 3
