by Glenn Cooper
“I’m sorry, Will. It can’t be done. The world mustn’t find out about us. They won’t let us survive in peace. It’ll be th’ end of the writers and th’ end of their work. We won’t abide that. Now hurry. We’ve got t’ go.”
Based on Annie’s briefing, Melrose decided they would visit Scar Farm first, Lightburn Farm second, and Brook Farm third. If those didn’t pan out, they would carry on until they’d covered the entire list of properties.
Annie warned them that the folks at Scar Farm employed a somewhat undecipherable dialect, but Melrose nevertheless complained irritably, “I can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying. Really, do we need an interpreter in our own bloody country?”
“Fuck off,” the farmer said.
“Shall I interpret?” Annie asked, smiling.
“Tell them we have a right to enter their premises under the Security Act of 2019,” Melrose said.
“I’m gittin’ me gun,” the farmer said, disappearing inside the farmhouse door.
Melrose told one of his lads to apprehend the farmer and put him in restraints and after a brief scuffle, the old farmer was in plastic cuffs and his wife was hyperventilating on the kitchen floor.
While the other agent stood watch in the garden, one hand upon his holstered weapon, Annie kept an eye on the elderly woman, offering her a glass of water and some settling words. Melrose and his colleague searched the house and the outbuildings.
Kenney and his men had staked out some high ground in a thicket on the other side of the road. Now, he was watching the MI5 team through binoculars as they ran their paces.
“What kind of weapons you think they have, chief?” Harper asked.
“Peashooters, more than likely,” Kenney said. “And no telling whether they can hit a target.”
Will broke down and ate the lunch Haven brought down for them. Father and son sat chained to their beds in the partitioned room inside the larger dormitory. The girl explained it was used as an isolation room when one of the writers came down with a cold or a fever to prevent its spreading.
“What are your mom and dad saying they want to do with us?” Will asked her as casually as he could.
“They’re not sayin’ in front of me,” Haven said. “They don’t trust me any more. But I can hear ’em arguing.”
“Can you get us the keys to these?” Will said, holding up a manacled wrist.
“They’ve hidden everything from me,” she said. “The keys, Phillip’s NetPen.”
“Can you call the police?” Phillip asked.
“Nae! They’ll see me using th’ phone in th’ lounge.”
“Can you sneak away and go to a neighbor?” Will asked.
“Not likely!” she said. “My uncle and brothers are keepin’ watch. It’s only because mum’s told ’em she’s short-handed, they’re letting me bring th’ meals.”
The girl sat on Phillip’s bed while he ate, close enough for their shoulders to touch. She asked him if he was done and he responded by giving her a peck on her cheek, changing its color from pale to rouge.
She hastily gathered the trays and left, saying she’d be back when she could, then turned her head to give the boy a shy smile.
“Good maneuver,” Will said. “She’s already on our side, but every little bit helps.”
“It wasn’t a maneuver,” Phillip replied in a bothered tone.
The kid’s smitten, Will thought. “She’s a nice girl,” he said. “You got good taste.”
“When we get out of here, you’ve got to promise me you’ll make sure nothing happens to her, okay?” the boy demanded.
“I’ll go to bat for her. You’ve got my promise.”
“We are going to get out of here, aren’t we?” Phillip asked, suddenly less confident.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“We’ve got to,” the boy said, stretching out and yawning. “The world’s got to know about this place.”
As the boy snored the afternoon away, Will lay on his bunk, his arms folded defiantly over his chest, trying to work the angles. The kid already had Haven in a spell and he’d have to work the Piper charm on the girl’s mother. They weren’t getting out of this by resorting to violence. It was too risky. Like his son said, they’d have to make love not war.
He was starting to drift off himself when the door to their little room opened and Cacia came in with a couple of mugs of tea. She saw Phillip was asleep and whispered, “Why don’t we have a chat?”
Will nodded and held up his wrist.
“Do I still have your promise?” she asked.
“I’ll let you know when I retract it,” he said.
She unchained him, left Phillip’s tea by his bed, and escorted Will to the three-doored anteroom.
He sipped at the milky tea and gestured at the Library door. “Want to take a walk?”
Inside, she switched on the lights, and Will inhaled the ancient vapors.
“It’s quite the place,” he said.
“ ’Tis that. It’s magical. That’s why we’ve got t’ protect it.”
Will began his semirehearsed speech. “Let me give you my take on this, Cacia, okay? Your writers or savants or whatever you want to call them—I don’t have a clue where they get their abilities. I’ve never been really religious, but I guess there’s no getting around the fact that their talent speaks to some kind of higher authority. Maybe that’s God. Maybe it’s something else. But one thing I do know is that the names written down in these books represent real people. The names of most of the billions of people alive today are here. The names of billions more who haven’t been born yet are here. It’s about people, isn’t it? It’s not about books.”
They began to move down the central corridor.
“What are you sayin’, Will? That we should turn away from our obligations t’ perpetuate the Library so people can know their fate? I don’t know why this Library exists, but I know it’s our obligation t’ protect it from th’ prying eyes of th’ outside world.”
“Look, I’ve thought about this every day of my life since I discovered the first Library. I don’t think it’s healthy or natural for people to know the day they’re going to die. People ought to be focused on living, not dying. And I think it’s despicable that my government used the data for decades for geopolitical purposes. But it makes me sick that the entire world is walking around with the mistaken belief—which in a way I’m responsible for—that they’re under a death sentence. People are in anguish over the Horizon. I think it’s time to let them know that next February 9 is just going to be another day.”
“If it were possible t’ accomplish that without compromising what we do ’ere, I wouldn’t have a problem,” she said.
He turned to face her. They were near a stack with books for the twenty-fourth century.
“But you do have a problem. A big one. Phillip and me. You can’t just make us disappear. We’re not just a father and son off the street, Cacia. Because of my wife, we’re high-profile.”
“Tell me about Mrs. Piper, then,” she said with a toss of her red hair and a trace of a smile.
“She’s a really great lady, a good mother, and for the purposes of this discussion, she’s the number three person at the FBI. She’d be here now if she hadn’t gotten trapped by a big case back home.”
“So, she’s a powerful woman then. Do ya like strong women, Will?”
Will had a good idea what was going to happen next so he wasn’t bowled over when she rose to her toes and kissed him. He kissed her back, briefly enjoying her soft, yielding lips before pulling back.
“I guess I like women, period,” he said. “But I get along fine with strong ones. How does Daniel do with strong women?”
“Ach, don’t talk about me husband,” she said, hands on hips. “You’re the one on me mind at th’ present.”
“You two having an argument?” Will asked, smiling. “It wouldn’t be about what to do with us, would it?”
She nodded.
“He
and your brother-in-law want to kill us, don’t they? There’s a problem, they take care of it. I get the psychology. The problem is, we’re BTH. So for whatever reason, it isn’t going to happen before next February 9. That means the only way to keep us quiet is to hold us down here for over a year, which also isn’t going to happen. Because of who my wife is, the British Security Services are already looking for us, and they’ll have a good idea where to find us. This isn’t going to end well for you, Cacia. You’ve got to save yourselves. Keep your own counsel, don’t rely on Daniel and Kheelan.”
She said something under her breath, a personal aside, a thought escaping on a sigh. It sounded like, “I know how this’ll end.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Will asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. By the way, your wife’s big case. I’ve a notion she’ll solve it.”
Will furrowed his brow at that but said nothing. Instead, he began slowly walking again.
“Are you interested in taking more exercise or do you want to peek into your future? You can browse 2027 if you like,” she said.
He laughed. “I sincerely don’t want to know what’s going to happen to me and my guys. Years ago, I had to look. I guess I was relieved we were BTH, but it never sat well with me. I felt I’d crossed a line I wasn’t meant to cross. How about you?”
“I’ve not searched for me own date, if that’s what you’re asking me. Nor the dates for my family. We leave the books alone. Besides, for all I know, our dates aren’t in this Library at all. Maybe they’re in th’ other Library.”
“I sincerely hope that’s not the case.”
She kissed him again, longer this time. As he held her, he dangled the tea mug from his finger trying not to spill what was left down the back of her dress. When she’d had her fill of kissing, he held her head against his chest with his free hand. She was murmuring again, but he didn’t try to understand what she was saying.
I’m getting somewhere, he thought. This make-love-not-war thing has its merits.
Looking over her shoulder at the nearest stack of books, he noticed something peculiar. All the volumes in the library were a uniform five inches thick, but on one of the middle shelves, the second book from the end was slim, only half an inch wide and devoid of markings on its blue spine.
Driven by an intense curiosity, Will let the tea mug slip from his finger. It shattered on the stone floor.
He apologized profusely, but while Cacia dropped to her knees to gather the ceramic shards, he reached for the slim volume and stuffed it down the front of his trousers, making sure his shirttails covered the evidence.
“We’d better go back now,” she said. “I’ll get a dustpan. I don’t want Daniel or Kheelan findin’ a piece. They don’t need t’ know we’ve taken a stroll if ya know what I mean. Jesus though, I’ll hate to have t’ lock ya up again.”
He smiled at her. “At least you’ve given me something nice to think about,” he said.
He willingly went back to his bunk and allowed her to rechain his wrist. Phillip was still snoring. When she left, he immediately reached into his pants.
The book had a fancy binding of ample royal blue leather with red corners.
He opened it and stared at disbelief at the cover page. He scanned it once, then a second time to make sure he fathomed the floridly confident, hand-drawn script.
Being the Personal Journal of My Visitations
to the Extraordinary Libraries of Vectis and Pinn
Benjamin Franklin
1775
Then, with an unsteady hand, he slowly turned the page and began to read.
Chapter 19
It is with considerable Trepidation that I sit to pen my Recollections of recent Events. The Things which I have seen may scarcely be believed, but as a Man of Science who has a certain Reputation for Powers of Observation, I would hope I might be more believed than Most. Yet I must admit to Myself that I have not decided if I shall ever divulge the Contents of this Journal. Yet my Memory, which is now quite excellent, may not be always so. I have seen Men in their Onage who can scarce remember where they have left their Slippers. Should in the future I choose to enlighten Others concerning my Discoveries and find Myself bereft of Recollection, then this Journal shall serve as my Aide Mémoire.
Indeed, as I sit here in semi Darkness with the oddest Assortment of Companions, I must wonder if I Myself will ever see the Light of Day. I am not a Captive here, but neither am I entirely a Free Man. My Fate, as I understand it, is being debated somewhat furiously by my Hosts. I am always in favor of a good and robust Debate, but as I am the Subject of such Discourse, I admit to a certain Queasiness. Adding to my Discomfiture, the early Twinges of the Gout, my most unwelcomed Friend, arrived again last Evening.
I think it best to begin this Tale in the Summer of 1761, when first I met a most remarkable Gentleman, Baron Le Despencer, who in those Days was less grandly known as Francis Dashwood.
“Benjamin, a gentleman is here to see you.”
Benjamin Franklin opened the door to his bedchamber and looked over the top of his glasses at his landlady and companion, Margaret Stevenson. She peered at his unfinished tray of victuals and clucked at him.
“I’ve been too busy to eat,” he mumbled, showing her his ink-stained fingers. “Who is it?”
“His name is Francis Dashwood. Polly is in the sitting room keeping him company, but I don’t want to leave her alone with him too long.” She rolled her eyes. “He seems a lively one.”
“Very well, you go and rescue the dear girl. I shall be down presently.”
Franklin had lived as a lodger on Craven Street since his arrival in London in 1757. It was a four-story house owned by the widow Stevenson, situated near Whitehall between the Strand and the Thames. He had found the lodgings quite by accident shortly after his arrival on a packet boat from Philadelphia.
He had come to England in the official capacity as Agent of Pennsylvania, representing the colony’s interests before the powers that be. While unrest and dissatisfaction existed up and down the American colonies, Pennsylvania had a particularly vexing set of problems, which Franklin was tasked to solve. Pennsylvania was owned and governed not by the crown but by the descendants of William Penn, who had been granted a proprietorship of the territory in 1681 by King Charles II. There were some Pennsylvanians, Franklin included, who believed they would do better answering to Parliament than the capricious Penn heirs. Franklin’s remit was to lobby Parliament to release the colony from the Penn yoke.
Franklin had been the overwhelming choice of Pennsylvania’s political class to represent them in England as he was far and away their most accomplished citizen. He had risen from a humble boyhood in Boston to become a colonial printer and the publisher of the most respected newspaper in America, The Pennsylvania Gazette. He had given himself over to public service and had a long-standing seat in the Pennsylvania Provincial Assembly. He more than dabbled in the natural sciences, becoming a world-renowned inventor, scientist, and philosopher. By the time of his appointment as Pennsylvania’s agent, he had amassed a trove of political and academic honors.
He had also amassed the trappings of an unconventional lifestyle. His marriage to Deborah Read of Philadelphia had been of a common-law nature due to bigamy laws. Her first husband had absconded to Barbados with her dowry and was never heard from again. His eldest child, William, was all-but-openly acknowledged as the illegitimate product of Franklin’s union with a lady of disrepute. But rather than banish his son to a life on the edges of society, Franklin embraced the boy and warmly tucked him into his household. Deborah, a plain and simple woman, seemed to tolerate Franklin’s skirt chasing and settled into a marriage where her husband was away for years at a time. Their first son, Francis, died of the pox at a young age, but their second child, Sarah, was a healthy fourteen-year-old when her father departed for his assignment to London.
Franklin enjoyed domesticity every bit as much as he did ribaldry, and in London h
e quickly settled into a surrogate family life with his landlady and her teenage daughter Polly, tutoring, mentoring and flirting with the pretty lass. He even brought his son, William, to England to expose him to politics and diplomacy and had tried his hardest to push him and Polly together to no avail. But outside the Craven Street household, Franklin prowled the bars, coffee shops, and salons of London, sporting his fancy suits and glittering reputation, his owlish eyes searching for all the amusements a teeming city of 750,000 could offer.
When Franklin entered the sitting room, Polly Stevenson, a pretty twenty-two-year-old, looked as relieved as if the warder in the Tower of London had come to release her from captivity. She smiled sweetly at Franklin and scurried away.
“Sir Francis,” Franklin said with a polite bow. “I am honored to be in your esteemed presence.”
“You know of me?” Dashwood asked, his fleshy, moist lips curled in delight.
“Indeed I do,” Franklin said, straightening the jacket of his blue velvet ensemble. “Member of Parliament for New Romney, Treasurer of the Chamber, tipped to be the next Chancellor of the Exchequer, heir apparent as the Baron Le Despencer, the premier barony of England.”
Dashwood, though fifty-two years old, nearly the same age as Franklin, was so delighted by this recitation of his particulars that he jumped up and down in glee like a little boy, spilling some of the brandy Polly had given him. He had a round, full face with small, dark eyes and a corpulence commensurate with his affluence.
“I was told you were a clever one, and indeed you are! But how is it you know my curriculum vitae?”
“It is my business to know the inner workings of His Majesty’s Government. The good people of Pennsylvania are paying me to know these things, for how else can I effectively represent their interests in England?”
“Well, it’s all very logical,” Dashwood said. “But beyond the dry bones of my political life, what else have you heard of me? Pray tell!”
Franklin gestured for Dashwood to sit and did so himself. “Well,” he said, “I ask for forgiveness in advance if this story is untrue, but I was told that as a young man on your grand tour of Europe you once observed the worshippers in the Sistine Chapel pretending to whip themselves for their sins in a most perfunctory and ineffective way. Thereupon, the next day, you returned with a large horsewhip concealed under your cape and at the appropriate moment, produced the instrument and had at yourself with great drama and vengeance.”
