Book of Souls

“Sure. There’s enough institutional memory within their MOD and Military Intelligence services for them to whisper Vectis whenever we come up with some crazy-ass, forward-looking scenarios-and then they come true! We’re getting it now on Helping Hand. They’re sure we know more about Caracas then we’re letting on, and, frankly, we’re sick of their questions and their griping. You and I know damn well the Brits would take the Library back in a heartbeat.”

“I’m sure they would.”

“They were fools to give it to us in 1947, but that’s ancient history.”

“What was their plan?”

“They embedded their man at the auction house to keep an eye on the book. They probably found out about it the same way we did, through an Internet filter. Maybe they were going to do a snatch and grab on you and hold us hostage. Who knows. They’ve got to know you’re from Groom Lake. When another buyer got it, they followed their noses to see where the trail led. They definitely wanted to get leverage on us, that much I’m sure.”

“What do you want me to do?” Frazier asked.

“Get the book back. And find out what that son of a bitch, Will Piper, is up to. Then immunize us. The Caracas Event is right around the corner, and I don’t need to tell you that anyone who’s involved in screwing up Helping Hand is as good as buried. I want to hear from you every few hours.”

Frazier hung up. Caracas was driving everyone into a frenzy. The whole point of data mining at Area 51 was using knowledge of future events to guide policy and preparation. But Helping Hand was taking their mission to an unprecedented level. Frazier wasn’t a political animal, but he was pretty sure a leak right now would blow up the government. Blow it to hell.

He glumly looked over at DeCorso; the man was lost in his headphones. His face looked like it belonged in a meat locker. He’d been feeding Frazier a steady stream of surveillance information all morning: Piper had called the nanny to arrange for extra hours. He was going away for a few days, didn’t say where. Finally, another team of watchers had flown in. One of their men had followed Piper jogging along the river. He’d gone food shopping with his wife and baby. Typical Saturday stuff.

But now DeCorso had something bigger. He spent a few minutes online getting answers to the questions he knew Frazier would ask. When he was done, he removed his headphones. It wasn’t just bigger, it was seismic. In their world, a mag-eight quake.

Frazier could see by his face he had something important. “What? What now?”

“You know Henry Spence, right?” DeCorso asked.

Frazier nodded. He knew all about the 2027 Club, a harmless bunch of old coots, as far as he was concerned. The watchers checked up on them from time to time, but the consensus was that Spence ran nothing more than a glorified retirement social club. No harm, no foul. Hell, he’d probably join when he hung up his spurs, if they’d have him-not likely!

“What about him?”

“He just called Piper, cell phone to landline, so they’re clueless he’s being tapped. Spence is in New York. He bought Piper a first-class ticket with an open return for London. He’s leaving tonight.”

Frazier rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake! I knew Piper wasn’t alone in this, but Henry Spence? Does he have that kind of cash, or is he fronting for someone else?”

“He’s seriously loaded. Dead wife’s money. There’s more.”

Frazier shook his head and told him to spit it out.

“He’s been sick. His DOD’s in eight days. Wonder if it’s gonna be natural causes or us.”

Frazier was shoving his legs into his trousers. “God only knows.”

WILL FELT GOOD to be out on the road, traveling light, like the old days. He’d had an excellent night’s rest in a cushy first-class sleeper seat which, by a twist of fate he’d never know, was originally intended for young, dead Adam Cottle. He wasn’t an experienced international traveler, but he’d been to the UK and Europe a few times on Bureau business. He’d even given a talk at New Scotland Yard a few years back, titled “Sex and the Serial Killer-The American Experience.” It had been well attended, and, afterward, a bunch of ranking detectives had taken him out on a pub crawl that predictably ended in amnesia.

Now he was chugging through the flat English countryside in a Chiltern Rail first-class car an hour out of Marylebone Station on the Birmingham line. The gray sprawl of London had given way to the earth tones of cultivated land, a palette of greens and browns muted by the wash of a wet autumn day. At full throttle, the rainwater on the train’s windows streaked horizontally. His eyelids grew heavy watching the tilled fields, rolls of hay, and drab, utilitarian farm buildings whizzing by. Small villages filled the window for seconds, then were gone. He had the compartment to himself. It was a Sunday, and this was low season for tourists.