There was, of course, a way to turn the system on and off, because the pages of the book were turned on a daily basis. But even this had been exceedingly well planned. To shut down the system required three people, each with a simple, independent code that they had memorized. There were no physical keys or written codes or anything that could be stolen. And these three people were untouchable. They were John Watermain himself, the president of the Morgan Library, and the deputy mayor of New York City. While one might be corruptible or susceptible to social engineering, two would be extremely difficult and three impossible.
And what would happen if one of them died? In that case there was a stand-in, a fourth person — who happened to be the prime minister of Ireland himself.
What about fire? Surely in the case of an emergency, Gideon reasoned, the book would have to be quickly moved. But the specs dealt with that possibility in an unusual way. The book would not be moved in case of a fire. It would be fully protected in situ. The glass cube was designed to be a first line of defense, able to withstand a serious fire on its own; the second line was a fireproof box that rose from inside the cube to enclose the book, protecting it from even the most prolonged fire. And the East Room had redundant, state-of-the-art firefighting components in place that would stifle any fire well before it got going. There were similar systems protecting the book against earthquake, flood, and terrorist attack. Just about the only thing it wasn’t protected from was a direct nuclear strike.
With a long sigh, Gideon strolled over to his closet and flipped through his clothes. It was time to get dressed for dinner. He had taken, as a loose cover, the persona of a young, hip dot-com millionaire, a persona he had used before with success. He took out a black St. Croix mock turtleneck, a pair of worn Levi’s, and some Bass Weejuns — he had to mix it up a little, after all — and pulled them all on.
He hadn’t eaten anything all day. This was usual. Gideon preferred one elegant and extraordinary dining experience to three cheap squares. Eating for him was more ritual than sustenance.
He checked his watch again. It was still too early to dine, but he felt restless after three days cooped up in this room, staring at diagrams. He had yet to find a hole, a chink, even the slightest hairline crack in this security system. Since he’d started stealing from art museums and historical societies when he was a teenager, he had come to believe that there was no such thing as a perfect security system. Every system was vulnerable, either technologically or through social engineering.
That had always been his certitude. Until now.
Christ, he needed a break. He went into the bathroom, combed his wet hair, then slapped on some Truefitt & Hill aftershave balm to cover up the lingering smell of chlorine from the pool. He left his suite, hanging the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob on his way out.
It was a hot August evening in the Meatpacking District. The beautiful people were out in the Hamptons, and instead the cobbled streets were packed with young, hip-looking tourists — the District had become one of the chicest neighborhoods in Manhattan in recent years.
He walked around the block to Spice Market, sat down at the bar, and ordered a martini. As he sipped the drink, he indulged in one of his favorite activities, observing the people around him and imagining every detail of their lives, from what they did for a living to what their dogs looked like. But try as he might, he couldn’t get into the groove. For the first time in his life, he had run into a security system designed by truly intelligent people — people even smarter than him. The damn Book of Kells was going to be harder to steal than the Mona Lisa.
As he pondered this, his mood, already foul, deepened. The people around him — well heeled and sophisticated, talking, laughing, drinking, and eating — began to irritate him. He began to imagine they weren’t people, but chattering monkeys, engaged in complex grooming rituals, and that eased his annoyance.
His drink was empty. Long ago he had learned it was a bad idea for him to order a second one — not that he had a drinking problem, of course, but after two he seemed to pass a line that led to a third, and even a fourth, and that would inevitably lead him to seek out one of those sleek, blond, chattering monkeys…
He ordered a second drink.
While he sipped it, feeling marginally better about the state of the world as the alcohol kicked in, a little idea came to him. If it was truly impossible to steal the Book of Kells — and deep down he knew it was — he would simply have to get someone else to take it out of the room for him…with the full cooperation of those three people. This would require a level of social engineering far more sophisticated than any he had attempted before.
And a way to do just that began to materialize in his very crooked, half-soused mind.
His third drink arrived, and he cast his eye about the elegant bar. There was a woman at the far end, not necessarily the most beautiful woman in the room — she was plump and wore glasses. But — what he personally found most attractive in a woman — she possessed a mordant, intelligent gleam in her eye. She was looking around, and it seemed to Gideon that she found this scene as amusing as he did.
He picked up his almost finished drink and walked over. He glanced at the stool. “May I?”
She looked him up and down. “I think so. Are you in the computer business?”
He laughed and put on his most self-deprecating look. “No, but I am WYSIWYG. Why do you ask?”
“The Steve Jobs uniform — black mock turtleneck and jeans.”
“I don’t like thinking about what I’m going to wear in the morning.”
She turned to the bartender. “Two Beefeater martinis, straight up, two olives, dirty.”
“You’re buying me a drink?”
“Any objection?”
He leaned forward. “Not at all, but how did you know what I was drinking?”
“I’ve been watching you since you came in.”
“Really? Why me?”
“You look like a lost boy.”
Gideon found himself flushing. This woman was perhaps a little too keen in her observations, and he felt unmasked. “Aren’t we all a bit lost?”
She smiled and said, “I think we’re going to get along.”
The drinks arrived and they clinked glasses.
“To being lost,” said Gideon.
4
The shop of Griggs and Wellington, Rare Books and Manuscripts, was just around the corner from the Portobello Road. It was one of those antiques shops that had moved up from Portobello but had not quite achieved the success it was trying very, very hard to reach. As Gideon entered the shop, he noted a veneer of British snobbery not quite covering up a kind of trashy East End hustle. The shop’s proprietor, a young Brit dressed in overdone Savile Row, confirmed Gideon’s suspicions when he arrived, his plummy accent almost but not quite smothering a Cockney origin.
“May I help you, sir?”
Gideon, himself dressed in an expensive Ralph Lauren suit, gave the proprietor a dumb-ass American smile. “Well, I was wondering if I could look at that old manuscript page in the window.” His Texas accent came out despite the effort to control it.
“Naturally,” the proprietor said. “You mean the illuminated book of hours?”
“Yeah.”
The man went to the case, unlocked it, and removed the small page. It was enclosed in stiff plastic. With obvious reverence he placed it on a black velvet tray that he whisked out from under the counter, then set the tray within a pool of light from a spot in the ceiling. It was a page out of the gospel, with an illusionistic border of flowers, its central scene showing the Virgin Mary seated under an arch, with an angel descending from a blue sky. Mary was drawing back in fear. It was exquisite in every detail.