Book of Souls

DeCorso shook his head in disbelief. “You’re asking me questions? You’ve got to be kidding.” It was time for escalation. He pulled a folding knife out of his coat pocket and flicked the blade out with the snap of his wrist. “The book. Why did Piper want it? Was anyone with him tonight? Tell me, and I’m gone. Play with me, and you’ll regret it.”

Cottle answered by making himself low and compact and suddenly charging at DeCorso, smashing him into the door. The force of impact made him drop the folding knife onto the carpet. Instinctively, DeCorso smashed his fists against the back of Cottle’s neck and got some separation by throwing a knee up into his chin.

They were two feet apart; both men had only a moment to look at each other before colliding again. DeCorso saw Cottle assume the crouched posture of a trained fighter, a professional, and this only furthered his confusion. He glanced down at the knife, and Cottle used that instant to attack again, unleashing a flurry of punches and kicks, all of them aimed at the neck and the groin.

DeCorso used his superior body mass to fend Cottle off and move him away from the door. He scanned the room for another weapon. The guy wasn’t going to let him get the knife back. And DeCorso wasn’t going to neutralize him with his bare hands. This kid was too good for that.

DeCorso lunged forward, and Cottle had the misfortune to step backward onto his roller bag and lose his footing. His landed awkwardly on his back, his head near the night table. DeCorso threw all 250 pounds of his hard body on top of the smaller man and heard a whoosh as the air expelled from Cottle’s compressed chest.

Before Cottle could land any counterkicks or punches, DeCorso reached for the digital clock radio on the night-stand and ripped its plug out of the wall. In a wild frenzy, he brought the chunky plastic box down hard on Cottle’s cheek, then kept smashing him again and again like a pile-driver until the box had pulverized into plastic shards and circuit boards and Cottle’s face was a mass of blood and broken bones. Through secretions, he heard Cottle groaning and swearing.

DeCorso fell to his knees and twisted his waist to look for the knife.

Where was it?

And then he saw it, slashing toward him from Cottle’s fist. The blade cut through his overcoat and got hung up in fabric long enough for DeCorso to get both hands on Cottle’s forearm and snap it down hard against his own knee.

Cottle’s primal yell made DeCorso lose control. Years of training and discipline suddenly washed away like a bridge knocked off its piers by floodwaters. The knife was in his hand now, and without a second of conscious thought, he leaned over and sliced the right side of the man’s already-bloody neck, cleanly severing the carotid artery, and collapsed backward to avoid the jets of blood.

DeCorso sat and watched, panting and fighting for air as Cottle bled out and died.

When he was able to compose himself, he took Cottle’s wallet and passport, and for show, rifled through his suitcase, scattering the contents. He found the paperwork with Piper’s address and pocketed it.

Then he left, still breathing hard.

The newspapers would carry the story for two days, before the metro reporters would lose interest. A young foreign businessman was the unfortunate victim of a violent hotel robbery.

Tragic, but these things happened in the big city.

Will would never even notice the story. He was preoccupied.

Back in London, alarms started going off after the normally reliable Cottle failed to make his second phone call. The Duty Officer got concerned enough to call Cottle’s mobile phone but got no response. It was the middle of the night, deep within the grand modern SIS building at Vauxhall Cross, where the lights perpetually burned brightly. Cottle’s SIS section chief finally had an assistant ring the Grand Hyatt to see if he’d checked in.

A desk clerk was dispatched to Cottle’s room, pounded on the door, and let himself into a hellish scene.

KENYON HAD THE BOOK. He was turning the pages with his long fingers, curled over it in a reverential posture. In all his years at Area 51, he had never had the luxury of holding one of the books without the harsh stares of a watcher jangling his nerves.

The three men were not making any noise, but Will was still unpleasantly surprised when the bedroom door opened.

Nancy was squinting at them in her robe.

“I’m sorry,” Will said. “I thought we were being quiet.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

She looked at Spence on his scooter and Kenyon on the sofa with the open book on his lap.

Spence spoke up. “Mrs. Piper, I apologize for intruding. We’ll be leaving now.”

She moodily shook her head and disappeared into the bathroom.

Will looked guilty, a husband in trouble. At least Phillip wasn’t crying.

“Can you rewrap it, Alf? We should go,” Spence said.

Kenyon ignored him. He was absorbed. He was comparing the endpapers on the front and back covers, pressing down on them with the fleshy pulp of his fingers.