Book of Souls

Nancy’s text message was still there, unanswered on his cell phone. After he got out of the bathroom, full of minty toothpaste to mask his hangover mouth, he used the one available bar to call her. It was early there, but he knew she’d be up, feeding Phillip, getting ready for work.

“Hi,” she answered. “You’re calling me.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You didn’t text me back. Out of sight, out of mind, I figured.”

“Hardly. How’re you doing?”

“We’re okay. Philly’s got an appetite.”

“That’s good.”

His voice sounded off beam. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

She didn’t sound convinced. “How’re you getting on?”

“I’m in a big old country house. Feels like I’m in an Agatha Christie book. But the people here are being-very nice, very helpful. It’s been worth it. There’s been a breakthrough, but you probably don’t want to hear about it.”

She was quiet, then said, “I wasn’t happy, but I’m over it. I realized something.”

“What?”

“All this domestication. It’s hard on you. You’re too penned up. An adventure comes along, of course you’re going to jump at it.”

His eyes began to sting. “I’m listening.”

“And there’s something else. Let’s look to move sooner rather than later. You need to get out of the city. I’ll start talking to HR about possible transfers.”

He felt unspeakably guilty. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Tell me about your breakthrough.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t over the phone.”

Concern crept back into her voice. “I thought you said you were safe.”

“I’m sure I am, but old habits…I’ll tell you in person soon.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I’m not finished yet, maybe a day or two. As fast as I can. We found the first clue. Three to go.”

“Prometheus’s flame.”

“Quite the puzzler, that Mr. Shakespeare. Big old candlestick.”

“Ha! Flemish wind next?”

“Yep.”

“Any ideas?”

“Nope. You?”

“I’ll think about it. Come home soon.”

It was the middle of the night in Las Vegas, and Malcolm Frazier was sleeping beside his wife when his mobile phone vibrated and chimed him awake. One of his men was calling from the Ops Center at Area 51, offering a perfunctory apology for disturbing him.

“What’ve you got?” Frazier asked, swinging his feet onto the floor.

“We just intercepted cell-phone traffic between Piper and his wife.”

“Play it for me,” Frazier demanded. He shuffled out of the master bedroom, past his children’s rooms, and he landed on the family room sofa as the file started playing.

He listened to the audio then asked to be patched through to DeCorso.

“Chief! What are you doing up at 2:00 A.M.?”

“My job. Where are you?”

He was sitting in his rental car, by the side of the road within sight of the lane to Cantwell Hall. Nobody was coming or going without his noticing. He had just peeled the cellophane off a chicken sandwich and wound up greasing his cell phone with mayonnaise. “Doing my job too.”

“Any sight of him?”

“Other than screwing the granddaughter last night, no.”

“Moral turpitude,” Frazier mumbled.

“Say again?”

Frazier ignored him. He wasn’t a dictionary. “Funnily enough he just called his wife. Not to confess. He told her there’d been a ‘breakthrough’ and that he wasn’t finished yet, another three clues to find, he said. Sounds like he’s on a fucking scavenger hunt. Now you know.”

“The food here sucks, but I’ll survive.”

Frazier had personal knowledge. “I know you will.” Then he added, “Keep your head down. The CIA promised the SIS they’d find out what happened to Cottle, and our CIA liaison guys are asking us some halfhearted questions. Everyone on our side wants it to blow over. It’s the other side I’m worried about.”

Frazier had trouble getting back to sleep. He replayed the strategy in his head, trying not to second-guess himself to the point of madness. He had decided to let Spence run free for the time being to give Piper the rope he needed to do whatever the hell he was doing in England. So far, so good. It looked like Piper was onto something. Let him do the work, Frazier thought. Then we’ll reel him in and reap the benefits. They could always pick up Spence and the book. He wouldn’t be hard to find. Frazier had his house in Vegas under surveillance, and guessed he’d surface well before his DOD. Spence was a dead man walking. Time was not on his side.

When the housekeeper put a plate of fried bread on the table, Will looked at it suspiciously. Isabelle laughed and urged him to keep an open mind. He crunched down, then said, “I don’t get it. Why would you ruin a good piece of toast?”

Fried eggs, mushrooms, and streaky bacon were served up in short order, and out of politeness, Will forced himself to eat. His hangover was making everything arduous, even breathing.

Isabelle was fresh and chatty, like nothing had happened. That was fine with him. He’d go along with the game or delusion or whatever it was. For all he knew, maybe this was how kids hooked up these days. If it felt good, do it, then forget about it-no big deal. It seemed like a reasonable way to handle things. Maybe he’d been born a generation too early.