Bruce pulled out keys and unlocked the bookshelves. The agents spread out and began lifting the glass doors to the shelves, inspecting the rows of books, finding nothing even remotely resembling a bulky manuscript. Bruce watched them carefully, eager to step in if a book were removed. But they were careful, and very professional, and after an hour in the vault the search was over and had yielded nothing. Every inch of it had been examined. As they filed out, Bruce pulled the door shut but didn’t lock it.
Bradshaw looked around the basement and took in the shelves stuffed with old books, magazines, galleys, and advance reading copies. “Mind if we take a look?” he asked in one last, desperate attempt to find something.
Bruce said, “Well, according to the warrant, the search is limited to the vault, but what the hell. Have a look. You’re not going to find anything.”
“So you consent.”
“Sure. Why not? Let’s waste some more time.”
They fanned out through the junk room, and peeked and poked for half an hour, as if trying to delay the inevitable. Admitting defeat was unthinkable, but they finally gave up. Bruce followed them up the stairs and to the front door. Bradshaw offered a hand and said, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Bruce shook hands and asked, “So, is this it for me, or am I still a suspect?”
Bradshaw pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Bruce. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow and answer that question.”
“Great. Better still, I’ll get my lawyer to call you.”
“Do that.”
When they were gone, Bruce turned and noticed two clerks behind the front counter, staring.
“DEA,” he said. “Looking for a meth lab. Now get back to work.”
3.
The oldest bar on the island was the Pirate’s Saloon, three blocks east of the bookstore. After dark, Bruce met his lawyer, Mike Wood, there for a drink. They huddled in a corner, and over bourbon Bruce described the search. Mike was too experienced to inquire as to whether Bruce knew anything about the stolen manuscripts.
Bruce asked, “Is it possible to find out if I’m still their target?”
“Maybe. I’ll call the guy tomorrow, but I assume the answer is yes.”
“I’d like to know if I’m going to be followed for the next six months. Look, Mike, I’m going to the South of France next week to hang out with Noelle. If these guys are going to track me all over the place, I’d like to know it. Hell, I’ll give them my flight numbers and call them when I get home. I have nothing to hide.”
“I’ll tell the guy, but for now assume they’re watching every move, listening to every phone, and reading every e-mail and text message.”
Bruce feigned disbelief and frustration, but in reality for the past two months he’d been living with the assumption that someone, possibly the FBI or perhaps someone else, was watching and listening.
The following day, Wednesday, Mike Wood called Lamar Bradshaw’s cell phone four times and was sent straight to voice mail. He left messages, none of them returned. On Thursday, Bradshaw called back and confirmed that Mr. Cable was a person of interest, but no longer a target of their investigation.
Mike informed Bradshaw that his client would soon be leaving the country, and passed along his flight number and the hotel in Nice where he would be staying for a few days with his wife. Bradshaw thanked him for the information and said the FBI had no interest in Cable’s foreign travels.
4.
On Friday, Denny Durban and Bryan Bayer, also known as Joe Rooker, were flown to Philadelphia, then driven to Trenton, where they were again processed and placed in separate cells. Denny was then taken to an interrogation room, sat at a table, given a cup of coffee, and told to wait. Mark Driscoll and his lawyer, Gil Petrocelli, were led by Special Agent McGregor to the hallway outside the interrogation room, and through a one-way window they took a look at Denny, sitting all alone and looking bored.
“We nabbed your buddy,” McGregor said to Mark. “Caught him in Florida.”
“So?” Petrocelli said.
“So we now have all three of you, the three who were inside the Firestone Library. Seen enough?”
Driscoll said, “Yes.”
They walked away and entered another interrogation room two doors down. When they were seated around a small table, McGregor said, “We don’t know who else was involved but there were others. Someone outside the library created the diversion while the three of you were inside. Someone else hacked the campus security system and electrical grid. That’s five, could be more, only you can tell us. We’re closing in on the manuscripts and we’ll soon have a fresh batch of indictments. We are willing to offer the mother of all deals, Mr. Driscoll. You sing and you walk. Tell us everything and your indictment is forgotten. You enter witness protection and we’ll set you up in some nice place with new papers, a good job, whatever you want. If there’s a trial, you’ll have to come back and testify, but frankly I doubt that’ll happen.”
For Mark, eight months in jail were enough. Denny was the dangerous one, and now that he was neutralized, so much of the pressure was off. The threat of retaliation was greatly diminished. Trey was not the violent type and lived on the run anyway. If Mark gave up Trey’s real name he might soon be caught. Ahmed was a wimpish computer nerd who was afraid of his shadow. The thought of him exacting revenge seemed quite remote.
“Give me some time,” Mark said.
“We’ll talk about it,” Petrocelli said.
“Okay, today is Friday. You have the weekend to make a decision. I’ll be back Monday morning. After that, all offers are off the table.”
On Monday, Mark took the deal.
5.
On Tuesday, July 19, Bruce Cable flew from Jacksonville to Atlanta, boarded an Air France jet for a nonstop flight to Paris, then killed two hours before connecting to Nice. He arrived there at eight in the morning and took a cab to the H?tel La Pérouse, a stylish boutique hotel at the edge of the sea, a place he and Noelle had discovered during their first trip to France ten years earlier. She was standing in the lobby, waiting and looking very French in a short white dress and smart wide-brim straw hat. They kissed and embraced as if it had been years, and walked hand in hand to the terrace by the pool, where they sipped champagne and kissed again. When Bruce said he was hungry, they went to their room on the third floor and ordered room service. They ate on the terrace and soaked in the sun. The beach stretched for miles below them, and beyond it the C?te d’Azur simmered in the morning sun. Bruce had not taken a day off in months and was ready for serious relaxation. After a long nap, the jet lag was gone and they went to the pool.
As always, he asked about Jean-Luc and Noelle said he was fine. He sent his regards. She asked about Mercer, and Bruce told all the stories. He doubted they would ever see her again.
Late in the afternoon, they left the hotel and walked five minutes into the Old Town, a triangle-shaped section dating back centuries and the city’s main attraction. They drifted with the crowds, taking in the busy outdoor markets, window-shopping at the boutiques along streets too narrow for automobiles, and having ice cream and coffee at one of the many outdoor cafés. They meandered through alleyways, got lost more than once but never for long. The sea was always visible just around the next corner. They were often hand in hand, never far apart, and at times seemed to cling to each other.