8
It was a fresh summer morning as Gideon walked the block from his hotel to the offices of Effective Engineering Solutions on Little West 12th Street. Dr. Julia Thrum Murphy. He felt more than a twinge of regret. As much as he’d enjoyed her company, he couldn’t allow himself to get entangled in any sort of relationship with anyone, not with a death sentence hanging over his head. It wouldn’t be fair to her. For her part, she seemed quite happy with a one-night stand and had said good-bye to him with no tone of regret. He would have loved to have seen her again — but it was not to be.
He angrily swiped his card and the unprepossessing doors of EES whispered open; he traversed the cavernous lab spaces, with their shrouded models and setups, the white-coated technicians whispering among themselves or making notations on clipboards; and he made his way to the conference room on the top floor of the building. There he found only the dour, nameless man who served coffee, waiting in his uniform. Gideon took a seat, threw his arms behind his head, and leaned back. “Double espresso, no sugar, thanks.”
The man vanished. A moment later, Glinn came in, bringing with him an arctic chill. Silently, he directed his electric wheelchair to the head of the conference table, the humming noise of the motor all the greeting Gideon got. A moment later Manuel Garza, Glinn’s bullish aide-de-camp, entered, followed by half a dozen other EES employees. Nobody said a word.
The steward went around and collected everyone’s murmured orders for coffee or tea. Once he had left, Glinn pressed a button on the small console beside the table — evidently starting a recorder — and then began speaking in a neutral tone of voice, giving the date and time, the names of those present. After that, he fell silent, his eye scanning the room and ending on Gideon.
“It seems the third time is not the charm, is it, Dr. Crew?” he said.
When Gideon said nothing, Glinn addressed the group sitting around the table. “Dr. Crew managed two successful operations for us, for which we are very grateful. I am sorry the Book of Kells has proved to be his undoing. After the utter disaster yesterday, it will be going back to Ireland this afternoon, by chartered jet, surrounded by unbreakable security.”
Gideon Crew listened to this statement with his arms crossed.
“This botched and amateurish operation of Dr. Crew’s, I’m afraid to say, has created enormous difficulties for our client. It has caused an international furor in Ireland and the US. We’ve lost our chance to acquire the Chi Rho page.”
Glinn looked around. “In other words, we have failed.”
A grave murmur rippled through the room. Glinn’s gray eye turned back toward Gideon. “Do you have anything to say?”
Gideon uncrossed his arms. “Not really. Except that the book hasn’t left the country yet. Something still might happen.”
“Something still might happen,” repeated Garza in a voice laden with sarcasm. There was a frosty silence.
“You never know,” Gideon went on. “Remember Yogi Berra. ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”
Glinn’s unflappable composure began to crack. “Spare us the hoary quotations. We must act now to contain the damage from this disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster yet. The flight to Dublin leaves at six o’clock. That’s ten hours from now.”
Glinn frowned. “Are you telling us you have a new plan to steal the page that you so conspicuously failed to acquire yesterday?”
“I’m sorry you don’t have more faith in me, Eli.”
“Because if you do have some sort of plan B, I’m sure we’d like to hear it.”
“No, I don’t have a plan B. Because plan A is still in progress.”
“You call this a plan?” Garza broke in. “You attempt to steal the page, fail in the worst way possible, and in the process you get ID’ed, and we can only thank God you weren’t actually caught. The whole business is now front-page news across the US and Europe. Some plan!”
“Do you know where the book is now?” Glinn asked quietly.
“No.”
More incredulous looks around the room.
“I’ve had our people do a little digging,” Glinn said, “and I do know where the Book of Kells is right now: in an impregnable vault underneath the Citicorp building. The prime minister of Ireland himself is on his way here to escort it back to his country. It will be in his personal possession from the Citicorp vault all the way to a vault at the Bank of Ireland, guarded by the heaviest security the US Secret Service and Interpol can provide, roads cleared of traffic, chartered jet, all the trimmings. And you think you still have a chance of stealing it?”
“Of stealing the Chi Rho page, yes.” Gideon checked his watch.
“And just how can you be so sure?”
“Because before the afternoon is out, you will learn — from the news resource of your choice — that the page cut from the Book of Kells in an attempted robbery is a fake, and that the real page is missing and presumed stolen.”
There were shocked looks around the table.
“Is this true?” Glinn asked.
“Of course.”
“Well,” Glinn said after a moment, returning Gideon’s look with a faint, cold smile. “Extraordinary. Although you might have spared us the drama.”
“Just think of all the drama you’ve put me through. Besides, I couldn’t help having a little fun.”
“So, where’s the original? Do you have it?”
“No, I don’t have it. As I said, I don’t know where it is right now. But I know where it will be, probably by the middle of the week.”
“And then?”
“And then I will steal it — for real, this time.”
9
Sergeant Adellepoise Johnson was in charge of the Third Tier Evidence Vaults in the vast basement complex of One Police Plaza, in Lower Manhattan, almost in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. Sergeant Johnson had been a chain of custody supervisor for ten years, and during that time, in each of those years, she was the supervisor who’d experienced the lowest rate of CoC infractions. For that extraordinary record, she had been awarded an “Integrity” commendation with a dark blue star and a Meritorious Police Duty citation, both of which she wore proudly on the ample front of her uniform. She had fifteen clerks handling evidence curation for her, as well as another dozen assistants and technicians, and she managed them with military precision and correctness. She knew as well as anyone that evidence management was critical to the outcome of criminal prosecutions. While she might not be the most beloved supervisor in the Evidence Vaults, she was the most respected. People were proud to work for her.
It was a Friday, nine o’clock in the morning, and Sergeant Johnson had been in since seven getting an early start on the computer paperwork of the week, reviewing all the evidence that had been checked out or returned, every movement of every shell casing and hair and DNA swab, whether for trial, lab work, or on-site examination. Maintaining the chain of custody of evidence was of paramount importance, and in the past few years the entire procedure had been computerized, with digital video recording of absolutely everything that was done to a piece of evidence, by whom, when, and why.
Sergeant Johnson was never happy when someone arrived to examine evidence by surprise, and she was particularly irritated that it would occur on a Friday morning. But occur it did. One of her evidence clerks arrived with a tall, thin gentleman in an expensive dark suit, sporting a wiffle cut that practically screamed FBI. And sure enough, he was a special agent of the most annoying kind, one of those who thought they were God’s gift to law enforcement and that beat cops were a lower form of life.