Book of Souls

He picked it off Spence’s lap and sat back on his sofa. There, he opened it to a random page and lost himself for a few minutes in a litany of lives, long gone, a book of souls.

COTTLE HOPPED BACK into the waiting taxi and asked to be taken to the Grand Hyatt, where he had a reservation. He was planning to have a quick wash and a good tramp around the city. Perhaps he’d find a club or two before he surrendered to the fatigue of an unexpectedly long day. As the cab pulled away, he left a brief message for Toby Parfitt on his office voice mail, letting him know the delivery was successful. He had a second call to make but he’d wait until he was alone in his hotel room.

Frazier had to make a field decision: follow the courier and extract potentially important information or go straight for Piper and the book. He needed to know whether Piper was alone. What kind of situation would he be getting into if he did a forced entry? He’d be crucified if he wound up dealing with the police tonight.

He wished he had a second team in place, but he didn’t. He went with his gut, the knowledge of Cottle’s DOD, and decided to go with the courier first. When DeCorso pulled away from Will’s building, Frazier looked up at the lit windows on the sixth floor and silently promised he’d be back later.

In midtown, the taxi deposited Cottle at the elevated Vanderbilt Avenue entrance of the Hyatt, where the young man took the escalator down to the cavernous lobby. While he checked in, Frazier and DeCorso watched him from the elevator bank. He’d have to come to them.

Frazier whispered to DeCorso, “Intimidate him, but you don’t have to beat the crap out of him. He’ll talk. He’s just a courier. Find out what he knows about Piper and why he wanted the book. See if anyone else was in his apartment. You know the drill.”

DeCorso grunted, and Frazier slipped into the corner lobby bar before Cottle could make him.

Frazier ordered a beer and found an unoccupied table to nurse it. He drank half of it before his phone rang.

One of his men at the Ops Center was on the line with an urgent press of words. “We just dug up some info on your mark, Adam Cottle.”

It wasn’t easy to surprise Frazier, but the news wrong-footed him. He ended the conversation with a simple and irritated, “All right,” then stared at the BlackBerry, trying to decide whether to call DeCorso. He put the phone on the table and drank the other half of the beer in a couple of gulps. It was probably too late to abort. He’d let it ride. There might be hell to pay, but he’d have to let it ride. Fate’s the damnedest thing, he thought, the damnedest thing in the world.

DeCorso followed Cottle onto the elevator and looked squarely up at the ceiling where he figured the security camera was affixed. If anything went wrong, the police would focus on him-one hundred percent-once they eliminated everyone else on the elevator. It didn’t matter. He didn’t exist. His face, his prints: nothing about him inhabited any database other than his Groom Lake personnel file-all the watchers were off the grid. They’d be looking for a ghost.

Cottle hit the button for his floor, and politely asked DeCorso, “Where to?” because he was the only one who hadn’t pushed a button.

“Same as you,” DeCorso said.

They both exited at twenty-one. DeCorso hung back, pretending to look for his room key while Cottle consulted the hallway sign and made a left. The corridor was long and deserted. He looked free and light as he pulled his bag behind him, a single bloke with an expense account and a night on the town. He was getting his second wind at just the right time.

He slid his room key into the slot, and the lights blinked green. His bag hadn’t cleared the threshold when a sound made him look back. The man from the elevator was three feet away, closing fast.

Cottle saw him, and uttered, “Hey!”

DeCorso kicked the door shut behind them, and quickly said, “This isn’t a robbery. I need to talk to you.”

Inexplicably, Cottle didn’t look frightened. “Oh yeah? Then get the fuck out of here and call me on the telephone. You deaf, mate? Get the fuck out.”

DeCorso registered disbelief. Something didn’t compute. The kid should have been a quivering mass, begging for his life, offering his wallet. Instead, he held his ground. DeCorso demanded, “Tell me what you know about Will Piper, the guy you just saw.”

Cottle dropped his bag and clenched and unclenched his fists a few times as if he were limbering them for a dustup. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you’re either going to leave on your own account, or I’m going break you in two and throw out each half.”

DeCorso was dumbstruck at the kid’s aggression, but he warned, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You stepped into dogshit, pal. You’re just going to have to go with the flow.”

“Who do you work for?” Cottle demanded.