“Listen,” he said, more confidentially. “I would appreciate some help on this. I—I’m not sure what else to do and I’m…” Norowitz was looking at him curiously. “So I’m a little frightened. This weapon, it has to mean something, and God has seen fit for me to find it and—”
“What is it you’d like me to do?” Norowitz handed back the binder and reclaimed his sandwich.
Aharon thought about it as he watched the beardless man gobble his food. His appetite, at least, was not disturbed by the arrays. Yes, he would like to advise Norowitz on what he should do, but he found he didn’t know. All this effort to get the man here and that he forgot to prepare.
“So I’ll keep working,” Aharon said.
5.4. Denton Wyle
“The copy,” the German said, “is nine pages long.”
Denton nodded, trying to keep himself from salivating. This was the first piece of manuscript Mother’s agent, Mr. Fleck, had uncovered. He’d promised that if any more of the manuscript was available for sale anywhere, he would find it. And he would, too. He would run it to ground like a terrier, because Denton had paid him a big fat retainer and he got a nice commission on everything Denton bought. Visions of The Book of Torment on bestseller lists danced in Denton’s head like sugar plum fairies.
Except the Frankfurt antiquities dealer, Uberstühl, had an expression that could only be described as sneaky. Denton didn’t care for it at all. He removed his coat, hoping it was just a vibe he was getting from the dingy, mothball-smelling shop.
“So you told my agent on the phone. May I see them?”
“This way, please.”
Uberstühl took Denton back to his private office where a computer sat on a plain wooden desk. Denton looked around, still smiling, wondering if he was about to be felt up or something. Uberstühl had a constipated expression.
“You know what it is we speak of, yes? You understand what the piece is?”
“Yes,” Denton said carefully. “A Xerox copy of nine pages of a Hebrew manuscript written in Auschwitz by Yosef Kobinski.”
“Richtig. Exactly.” Uberstühl glanced at his computer. Denton followed his gaze and saw that the man’s E-mail in-box was up on the screen.
“So…” Uberstühl said, clearing his throat. “Let me give you a price to think about while I go get the item. Twenty thousand U.S.”
Denton squeaked out a laugh and gasp simultaneously. “I’ve, um, gotten similar pieces for around five.”
“That would be a bit low in the best of circumstances. But in this circumstance…”
“What about this circumstance?” Denton asked, then sensed that this was where the rotten stink was coming from.
“Allow me to get the document, Mr. Wyle.” The dealer gave another meaningful and lengthy gaze at his computer before exiting the room and leaving Denton alone.
Denton didn’t need the man to call out the fire department to give him a clue. There were only a few messages in the in-box. It had no doubt been cleaned out for his benefit. The one he was supposed to notice was at the top. The return E-mail address was SSchwartz. Uttering a curse, Denton double-clicked on it to read the text.
Two years ago I purchased part of an Auschwitz manuscript from you. It was written by Yosef Kobinski in 1943. I would like to upgrade to an exclusive arrangement on this document. Please respond with the necessary details of the transaction as soon as you can.
Denton gasped in outrage. The bastard! Schwartz had called Mr. Fleck a few weeks ago, wanting to know who was on to Kobinski and why. Apparently, Fleck had placed an ad in several international antiquities magazines and Schwartz had seen it. Mr. Fleck didn’t tell him, of course (having money was really quite nice at times). And it seemed Schwartz had not connected the reporter who’d come into his office months ago with this mysterious new buyer.
What Schwartz had done was utter dire warnings, something about how it was “dangerous” to publish Kobinski, yada, yada, yada. He’d even threatened to sic the Jewish League on them. Still, Denton was aghast that Schwartz would go to this length. Where was the man coming up with the additional cash? Some rich kabbalah Nazi donor? Who did he think he was?
Thank god Uberstühl was one greedy son of a bitch.
Denton heard the door open and got up quickly, forcing a smile. The German had a small flexible black binder with a neat label on the cover: “Kobinski manuscript, Auschwitz, 1943.” Denton grew light-headed at the sight.
“Have you been thinking about the price, Mr. Wyle?”
“Yes. Yes, I have.”
“And?”
Denton kept his smile fixed. “I’ll have to see the manuscript first.”
“Naturally.”
Uberstühl sat down at the desk and motioned Denton to pull up a chair. He didn’t hand Denton the manuscript but kept hold of it himself. He opened it delicately to the first page.
The Xerox was not perfect by any means. There was something dark about the surface, as if it had been copied from many generations before or, more likely, from a very poor original. But the Hebrew characters and even the notations in the margins were legible. Where they weren’t someone had gone over them with a fine-tipped pen. All said, it was an exacting, professional job. It ought to be, for twenty grand. It ought to be written on gold tablets by the finger of God.
“And the other pages?”
Uberstühl showed them briefly, only a few seconds per page. Long enough to confirm that the material was all there but not long enough to read. As if Denton could.
A full-fledged presidential debate was going on in Denton’s head. He shouldn’t buy it. Even his trust fund wasn’t limitless. Did he really want to pursue this thing if the price was going to jack up like this? There was no guarantee he’d see a return. And Schwartz, Schwartz had threatened him. He was rather afraid of Schwartz.
“Um, what kind of paper was the original on?”
Uberstühl flipped to the front inside cover. There was a photo of the original and a thick label giving all the details. “Two of the pages were heavy dark butcher paper. One was a waxed wrapper, and the rest were paper toweling used in the officers’ toilets.”
Denton leaned forward to peer at the label. Was that… Did he read there that some of the ink was identified as a mixture made with human feces? He could see the shock on Barbara Walters’s face as he mentioned it.
“I’ll take it,” Denton said.
While Uberstühl went to check Denton’s platinum card, Denton looked again at the E-mail. This time, he was no longer surprised and the weight of it sank in a little deeper. It was such a profoundly warlike thing to do—unfriendly, unfair. It struck Denton that he had a nemesis. Denton Wyle, easygoing rich guy and the best little brownnoser you’d ever care to meet, had his very own Moriarty. In a yarmulke. It was enough to make a bunny very ill indeed.
And he also saw what he had not seen the first time, sitting right in front of his eyes. First, that S. Schwartz was all the identification given. There was no hint that S. Schwartz was a rabbi. Fleck had warned Denton about the Holocaust artifact market. The last person a non-Jew seeking good money for an artifact would want to deal with was a rabbi. Rabbis and Holocaust museums and the like had a habit of trying to claim moral rights to such property and get out of paying at all. The fact that Schwartz was buying “incognito” might be turned to Denton’s advantage someday.
The other thing was the TO line. Uberstühl was not the only addressee on the E-mail. There were, in fact, three others. Denton had just found the sources of three more fragments.