Bookburners: Season One Volume One

by Max Gladstone

  So here she was, finally in a situation that she actually had the skills for, and she still had nothing to do.

  And then Sal spotted it.

  Across the street was a narrow doorway, labeled with a small plaque that read “Hotel Tranquillo” and adorned with five flag stickers which advertised the languages spoken within. One of the stickers was the Union Jack. Bingo.

  • • •

  Inside, the hotel was certainly “tranquillo.” In fact, it was deserted. Behind an unattended desk in the front foyer was a slightly open door, and beyond it, Sal could hear voices speaking English. Since no one was there to stop her, Sal invited herself in.

  The door led to a courtyard filled with four tourist couples and their guide. Or, at least, Sal assumed that the odd man out was their guide, since he didn’t have a partner with a matching windbreaker. Also, he was a good twenty years younger than the median age for the group, and carried a clipboard and tablet.

  Sal tapped the man on the shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry to disturb the tranquility. We’ll be out of your way in just a few minutes.” Then he turned, saw Sal, and blinked. “You’re not Sophia.”

  “No.”

  “Well, we’ll be out of the courtyard soon. Is that what you needed?”

  Sal raised an eyebrow and gave him her best Are you kidding me? expression. “No.”

  The man blinked again. He had very nice brown eyes, actually, almost honey-colored. “Ah. Yes, I’ll stop anticipating. Bad habit of mine. Sorry. Ask your question.”

  “My name is Sal Brooks. I’m a detective.”

  The man took this in. “Aaron Smith, pleased to meet you.”

  “Did your group stay here last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I ask them a few questions?”

  “Not at all.”

  Unfortunately, the tourists all proved to be singularly unhelpful:

  “Slept like a log.”

  “Didn’t hear a thing.”

  “So jet-lagged, didn’t move all night.”

  “Only thing I felt was Bruce snoring next to me.”

  Sal was about to thank the group for their time and leave empty-handed when the guide pulled her aside.

  “The building that went down. The old bookshop?”

  “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “Actually, I was there yesterday.”

  Sal raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “A lot of my groups stay at this hotel, and I sometimes go over to the bookshop to chat with the owner if flights run late and I have a little time to kill,” he said, then added, “He kept really good biscotti in the shop.”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Anyway, I don’t know if this is important, but when I stopped in he was having a discussion with another customer. It seemed like it was getting heated.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I didn’t exactly linger, but from what I could tell, the young woman was there to pick up a book. Apparently, the owner had inadvertently promised it to two different customers and didn’t want to sell to her anymore.”

  “Do you remember anything about this woman?”

  “I think she was in her twenties? Blonde, tanned, like she spent a lot of time outside.”

  “Italian?”

  “Australian, I think, from the accent. She was wearing deck shoes and a polo shirt, like a uniform, if that helps.”

  “Did you notice a logo? Name tag?”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Thank you for your help.”

  Sal turned to go, but the guide’s voice stopped her.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Who?” Sal asked.

  “The shopkeeper. Did he get out of the store before it collapsed?”

  Sal paused. She had no idea. And she realized that this tour guide was the first person that day who had even asked. It hadn’t even occurred to her to ask, which wasn’t exactly a comfortable thought, since protecting people was kind of baked into her job description.

  The guide sensed her unease. “Sorry. None of my business.”

  Sal nodded, and quickly left him and his tour group behind her.

  • • •

  Katie returned to the boat later than she planned, but she wasn’t surprised to find Paul, the first mate, waiting up for her.

  “Skip making you stand watch while we’re in port now?”

  Paul drew her into his lap, and Katie put up only a token resistance. “Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

  “And here I am, safe. . . . Or do you want to check for yourself?”

  She expected him to take that as his cue to let his hands begin a slow migration down from her waist, but instead, Paul reached for the plastic bag she still carried. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lemme see.”

  Katie tugged it away. “Since when do you care about Mr. Norse’s books?”

  “We sail all over the world chasing these things, and this is the first time you’ve ever brought one back.”

  “We do not sail all over the world looking for books.”

  “Don’t we? When was the last time we were in port and there wasn’t some bookshop for you to check out?”

  Katie had never particularly thought about it. “Okay, so he likes books. So what?”

  “Did you tell him you had this one?”

  “Of course. I called from the train.”

  “Then why haven’t we gotten word to go meet him? Or that he’s coming here? I’ve been on the bridge all night. Nothing. He finally finds what he’s looking for, and now he doesn’t even want to see it?”

  “Could be about the chase.”

  Paul snorted at this. “If he doesn’t want to see it, I do.”

  “There’s nothing to see. It’s just an old book.”

  “Maybe I want to read it. I’m a man of letters.”

  Katie swatted him with her free hand. “I’ve been to Athens with you—you don’t read Greek. Besides, I have strict instructions. This thing goes straight into the safe.”

  “Fine,” he said, and let her go.

  Katie pushed herself up off Paul’s lap, taking the bag, book, and herself out of reach. His voice caught her at the threshold.

  “Don’t you wonder, Katie?”

  “No,” she said, and slipped away.

  It was true, Katie thought as she tucked the book into the owner’s private safe. She didn’t wonder. She had seen enough when the bookseller had shown it to her in the shop.

  Whatever this book was, she wanted no part of it.

  • • •

  “Ostia,” Grace said without looking up from her book.

  Father Menchú nodded in agreement.

  “Ostia?” Sal echoed.

  Liam took pity and explained. “Small suburb not far from here, on the coast. It’s got an ancient silted-up harbor that rivals Pompeii. You should check it out sometime when we’re not on duty.”

  “Thank you, department of tourism. Why Ostia? Are Australian expats really into silted harbors?”

  Grace finished her book, rose from the sidewalk, and started for the van. “Tell her on the way,” she said. “Daylight’s burning.”

  Father Menchú shot Grace a look that Sal had difficulty reading—impatience? guilt?—before turning back to answer Sal’s question. “Ostia is the closest place to Rome where you can berth a yacht.”

  2.

  Twenty minutes of Grace’s maniacal driving later, they were in Ostia: home of commuting Romans, ancient harbors, and a crap-ton of yachts.

  Sal looked out at the marina. What she knew about boats began and ended with the Staten Island Ferry and reruns of The Love Boat that she had watched with her college roommates in a fog of cheap booze and insomnia.

  Liam was on the phone with Asanti. Grace—still lacking someone to kick in the face—was back to her book. Menchú stared out at the yachts, frowning. Sal approached him.

  �
��It doesn’t look like all the crews wear polo shirts. If you’re right about where our girl came from, that narrows it down a little bit, at least.”

  Menchú made a noncommittal “hmm” noise.

  “I could wander down, see if I can pick up some gossip,” she offered.

  Menchú’s eyes were still fixed on the docks. After a long pause, he finally said, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Look,” said Sal, “I think I just proved I can be useful. Let me do my job.”

  Menchú turned to her in surprise. “Of course you can be useful. That’s why I wanted you on the team. But I believe there’s a simpler way to find the boat we’re looking for.”

  “And what is that?” Sal couldn’t keep the edge of impatience out of her voice.

  Menchú pointed to a small vessel docked at the end of the marina. “Does that yacht look . . . blurry to you?”

  Sal looked. Squinted. Looked again. Damn him. It did.

  • • •

  The view got less and less blurry as they approached the boat, which according to the writing on the transom was called the Fair Weather. Menchú took point, and Sal was curious to finally see an alleged cover story in action. So far, every cover she’d seen the team use basically went: “Look at the weird shit going on right in front of you. We are here to deal with it. Do you want to deal with it yourself? No, we didn’t think so. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Captain Childress, however, was proving skeptical.

  “I am sorry,” Menchú said, managing to sound both apologetic and puzzled without giving an inch to the resolute captain. “We were told the vessel was for sale.”

  “That’s correct,” said the Captain, “but if you want a tour, you’re going to have to go through the sales broker or speak directly to Mr. Norse, the owner, before I can let you aboard.”

  Apparently, the team didn’t look like people about to drop multiple millions on a boat. Which, in fairness, was an accurate impression. The Catholic Church probably had deep pockets, but Sal got the feeling that buying a yacht wasn’t an expense request Asanti would be able to get approved.

  As Menchú went in for another attempt, Sal heard a familiar voice talking to someone in the next slip. She looked over to check. Yes. It was Aaron, the guide from the Hotel Tranquillo. Frowning, Sal went to investigate.

  • • •

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  The guide seemed unruffled by her sudden appearance. “Hello again,” he said.

  The deckhand he’d been talking to shot Sal a smile. “Hey, I’m Nick.”

  Sal ignored him and kept her attention on Aaron. “What brings you to Ostia?” she asked.

  “I handed my group over to an archaeological expert for a tour of the old harbor. It’s impressive. Like Pompeii without the crowds.”

  “So I hear. If it’s that good, why aren’t you with them?”

  “It’s only impressive the first seventy times. After that, it goes downhill fast. And I try to keep up with the crews that come through. Sometimes their guests are looking for a private tour.”

  Sal nodded to Childress and the Fair Weather behind them. “Ever talk to him?”

  At this, Nick let out a short laugh. “If you’re looking for work over there, don’t bother. The Fair Weather doesn’t charter, and never takes extra hands.”

  “Close crew?” Sal asked.

  “Paranoid owner.”

  “What’s he got to be paranoid about?”

  “Who knows? Mafia ties? Drug money? Cult leader? Whatever it is, it made him enough money to buy his boat, so I guess he’s pretty good at it.” Nick made this sound lascivious, although Sal had no idea how he managed to pull off the effect. Everyone had their talents, she supposed.

  “Well, thanks, Nick, and . . . Aaron, was it?” She turned back to the guide.

  He stuck out a hand. “Yes. And you’re quite welcome.”

  Sal shook it. His hand was warm and dry. Grip was good. Which was faintly surprising for a man who apologized as frequently and easily as Aaron did, but Sal tried not to read into that. As she let go of his hand, Liam appeared at her elbow, and Sal let the Irishman draw her aside.

  “At your old job, how did you get into places people didn’t want to let you in?”

  “With a battering ram.”

  “Subtly?”

  “With a warrant?”

  Liam gave her a withering look. Sal answered with an apologetic shrug.

  “I was a beat cop, then I was a detective. I wasn’t doing weird undercover shit. Except once on a RICO thing . . .” Sal trailed off. Actually, if the owner of the Fair Weather does have mob ties, that might come in handy.

  “Hey,” she said, turning back to Nick and Aaron, but Nick had, thank goodness, returned to work, and Aaron was nowhere to be seen. Must have gone back to get his tour group.

  “Hey what?” asked Liam.

  “Do you think captains of yachts with shady, paranoid owners are as nervous as low-level fences?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s okay. If I’m wrong, at least Grace will probably get to hit something.”

  “That should put her in a better mood.”

  “Win-win, then.”

  Putting on her best own-the-street swagger, Sal walked back to where Menchú and Captain Childress were still talking. Or rather, Menchú was talking. Childress was rapidly losing patience. It would have been nice to have a little more information to really sell this, but ultimately, the key was confidence, not evidence. Fortunately for her.

  As they walked, Sal whispered to Liam. “Stand behind me, don’t say anything, and look like a badass.”

  “You want me to get Grace, too . . . ?”

  “I need someone who looks like a badass. Grace looks about as threatening as a wet cat.”

  “Clearly you’ve never tried to bathe a cat.”

  “Not the point. Can you handle not smiling for two minutes?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good.”

  And then there wasn’t time to say anything else because Sal was at Menchú’s side. She tapped him on the shoulder. “Look, we don’t have time for this. You may as well tell him that we’re here for the book.”

  “Sal—?”

  “What book?” the Captain broke in.

  Sal turned to him. “The book that was supposed to be collateral.”

  And there was the hook. Sal maintained her blandest expression and willed the Captain’s mind to fill in the blanks with appropriately terrifying details.

  The Captain hesitated. Shit. He wasn’t going to go for it.

  And then Menchú effortlessly picked up Sal’s thread, as though they had done this a hundred times before. “Perhaps,” he suggested gently, “we should discuss this somewhere more private.”

  Sal sensed Liam shifting his weight behind her and pictured him squeezing a heavily tattooed fist. Unfortunately, it would have ruined the effect to turn and look.

  Captain Childress swallowed, then sighed. “Whatever dispute you’ve got with the owner, there’s no need to take it out on my crew. I promise you, they’re just here to run the boat.”

  Father Menchú gave him a reassuring nod. “I swear to you, we have no desire to hurt anyone.”

  The Captain eyed Liam nervously. “Even him?”

  “Especially him.”

  With a last furtive look up and down the dock, the Captain moved aside, and Sal and the others stepped onto the yacht.

  • • •

  As they followed the Captain through the boat, Father Menchú touched Sal’s elbow, wordlessly directing her to fall in beside him and let the others pass.

  “What made you think that would work?” he asked.

  Sal shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner. “Gut feeling.”

  “Your new friend on Team One didn’t tell you about any of this?” asked Menchú.

  Sal blinked in genuine surprise. “No. Why woul
d he be involved? I thought Liam didn’t find any indications of magic at the scene.”

  “He didn’t. But something caused that bookshop to collapse.” Father Menchú let that sit between them for a moment, then asked, “Any other gut feelings I should be aware of?”

  “Not so far.” Sensing that Father Menchú wasn’t quite satisfied, Sal added, “Nothing concrete. I’ll give you a full debrief once we get back to HQ.”

  Father Menchú smiled. “I never doubted you would.” And with that, he quickened his pace to catch up to the others.

  Frowning, Sal followed him to a small lounge area. What she saw stopped her in her tracks. The blur effect that Menchú had noticed on the boat had transferred. While the ship around them appeared perfectly solid and sharply focused, the rest of the world, visible through the lounge’s floor-to-ceiling windows, now seemed shrouded in a filmy mist. Sal looked to the other members of the team and saw that they had seen it as well. The Captain, however, appeared oblivious.

  Sal shuddered. Whatever was going on, they needed to find—and close—the book that was causing it. Quickly.

  “What’s this about?” the Captain asked.

  “The book belongs to the Catholic Church—” But that was as far as Menchú got before a second man came in from the deck.

  “Who are they?” he asked the captain.

  “Associates of Mr. Norse.”

  The other man made a skeptical noise to express his opinion of associates of the owner, but otherwise did not dignify that with a coherent response.

  “This is my first mate,” the Captain explained.

  “What do they want with the book?” the first mate asked.

  There was a pause, and Menchú asked, very calmly, “What do you know about the book?”

  He glared. “Nothing. It’s just some old book Katie said she was picking up for Mr. Norse.”

  The first mate’s eyes were locked on Menchú, but his hand was reaching for the pocket of his khaki trousers. Sal’s training kicked in instantly. “DO. NOT. MOVE.” Her hands went to her holster.

  Except, dammit, she still did not carry a gun. That realization slowed Sal for a fraction of a second. And in that fraction of a second, a lot of things happened. Very quickly.