Book of Souls

“Funnily enough, the local constabulary had a report from a member of the public of a suspicious vehicle loitering about up there on a country lane. Your vehicle, sir.”

“I can’t help you.”

“There was a fire with casualties a few hours ago at a house in Wroxall. The number plate of your Ford Mondeo matches the report. We’ve been waiting for you to turn up.” The DI sniffed a few times. “Do I detect a smell of kerosene, sir?”

DeCorso sneered at the officer. “I’ve got only one thing to say to you.”

“What would that be, sir?”

“I’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Will awoke early at the Heathrow Marriott, unaware of the fire and its aftermath. Unimpeded, he caught the shuttle bus to Terminal 5, boarded the 9:00 A.M… British Airways flight to JFK, and filled the first-class cabin with snores most of the way across the Atlantic.

Will landed in New York and cleared customs before noon, local time. He strode through the arrivals hall, pulled out his cell phone, then put it away without using it. He’d hop in a cab and surprise Nancy at work. That was the play.

It was just before noon in Nevada, and Frazier was at the Area 51 Ops Center in a panic. They were following local news feeds from the UK and had confirmation that the first part of DeCorso’s mission had been successful. Cantwell Hall, a stately old home in Shakespeare Country, was a smoking crime scene. But where the hell was DeCorso? It wasn’t like him to go dark on this kind of assignment. They tried raising him by phone and e-mail, but he was off the grid.

Frazier’s line lit up, and he answered, hopeful it was his man, but the familiar voice of an attaché to the Secretary of the Navy was there instead, instructing him to hold for Secretary Lester. Frazier banged his fist against the desk in frustration. This was not a good time for Lester to be calling for an update.

“Frazier!” Lester boomed. “What the hell?”

Frazier was confused. What kind of way was that to start a conversation? “Sorry, sir?”

“I just got a call from the State Department, who got a call from the US embassy in London. One of your guys is in the slammer invoking diplomatic immunity!”

Will stepped from the terminal out into a drizzling, washed-out morning. He was beginning to head to the taxi stand, when he heard a deep honk and saw Spence’s bus rolling toward the terminal. He frowned with indignation. He’d get to them in time, but first he wanted to make amends to his wife and grab Philly and kiss his chubby little face. The bus door opened, and he had to deal with Spence’s fat, bearded face instead. Unexpectedly, Spence didn’t look pleased to see him. He urgently waved him on board.

Kenyon was hovering and said fussily, “We’ve been circling. Thank God you’re here, and thank God we found you.”

Will sat as Spence pressed the gas pedal. “Why didn’t you call my cell?”

“Didn’t dare,” Spence said. He looked gray. “They burned the house. It’s all over the UK news.”

Will’s gyroscopes went haywire, his equilibrium helter-skelter; he felt seasick, like throwing up. “The girl? Her grandfather?”

“I’m sorry, Will,” Kenyon said. “We don’t have much time.”

His eyes welled, and he started to shake. “Take me downtown to the Federal building. I’ve got to get my wife.”

“Tell us what you found,” Spence said emphatically.

“You drive, I’ll talk. Then we’re done. For good.”

Frazier ran through the corridors of the Truman Building, with two of his men trotting after him. They rode the elevator to the ground level and jumped into a waiting Humvee to take them out to the runway. A Learjet was scrambled and waiting on the tarmac, and Frazier ordered an immediate wheels-up. The pilots asked their destination. “ New York City,” Frazier growled. “I don’t care how long it usually takes. Get there faster.”

Will condensed the previous days into a staccato military-style debrief. All the wonder of discovery, the exhilaration of the chase, the thrill of revelation were flattened by the crushing news. Had he caused their deaths by sticking his nose in? The notion flashed through his mind. Yes and no, he concluded bitterly, yes and no. Some goddamned, red-haired monk savant had written their names down on a piece of parchment a thousand years ago: Mors. Yesterday was their day. That’s all there was to it. Nothing could have changed their fate.

It could drive you crazy, he thought.

It should drive you crazy.

When he was done with his robotic briefing, he handed Kenyon the originals of the Felix letter, the Calvin letter, the Nostradamus letter, and Isabelle’s neatly handwritten translations. On the flight from London, he had split the Felix letter into two parts as he and Isabelle had found them, to recapture the drama of its discovery. Now, he didn’t much care about the impact of storytelling.

Will closed his eyes while Kenyon read aloud the translations and Spence drove, his teeth clenched, his heavy chest rising and falling, his oxygen lines sibilating.