“And you sent it to Abe and not to me?”
The room filled with sounds of rustling paper and Andrew clearing his throat. “My decision had no bearing on your abilities, Samuel. It’s less suspicious for an email to end up in a former colleague’s inbox than in my own son’s. And I assumed Abe would take swift action with the information and involve you immediately.”
Sam shot a wry smile at his supervisor. “He did involve us. Although not immediately.”
Abe held out his palms in apology, his own smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll be apologizing for the next decade.”
Sam re-focused on the phone call. “Then do you know why Julian King and Birdie Barnes might be in London, flashing their names around at a private auction?”
“Julian and Birdie weren’t ever a focus on any investigation,” Andrew said. “I was in a meeting last week, reviewing the testimony of the members we arrested. Because you and Freya assumed their identity, The Empty House members all believe they were part of a wide-scale federal sting operation. Julian and Birdie, in their minds, never actually existed as real booksellers. The Empty House members believe Julian and Birdie were two undercover FBI agents, working them over for a case the whole time, even online.”
Sam turned to stare at Freya, who was chewing on her lip. “I guess…” she started. “Shit, I guess that makes sense, though.”
“From a Bureau perspective,” Andrew continued, “We don’t have any records of Julian and Birdie’s existence—not the store, not any sales, nothing.”
Abe paced, hand on the back of his neck. “Is that why they’re comfortable using those names out here, in London?”
“Well, the only people who think they might be criminals are the eleven members of The Empty House, and they’re all about to start their prison sentences,” Freya said. “To people in London, would they have any idea who they were?”
I’d never actually interacted with Julian and Birdie, but if they were anything like my parents, they lived their lives with a strong sense of self-preservation and an even stronger sense of confidence. A confidence that could absolutely put them at risk of being caught.
“If they’re real con artists,” I said. “And they feel like their con is still intact, they’ll keep it intact for as long as they can. Sounds like they were on the run well before Freya and Sam co-opted their identities. I read through the media reports on the case. Codex was mentioned but not the names Sam and Freya used while undercover.” I crossed my arms across my chest, trying to keep my voice light. “Your typical con artist is part psychopath, part narcissist. They have no conscience. And it means they have a grandiose sense of self. Both of these traits make it likely that Julian and Birdie see no fault in being here in London. If they’re here to con their way into owning the Doyle papers, they believe to their core they have every right to be here.”
A few seconds of silence followed.
“I think you’re fucking right,” Freya said. We exchanged a tiny smile. Providing even the smallest insight to this team felt important in a way I couldn’t name yet.
“I think you’re right too,” Henry said. “And I think the world of book thieves is too small, and Bernard’s role too powerful, for the appearance of Julian and Birdie to be random. Because Bernard is the biggest narcissist of them all. He snaps his fingers, and every single thief comes running.”
“Abraham.” The Deputy Director’s voice cut through our conversation like a medieval gong.
“Yes?” Abe asked, weary. He was distracted. I could see his brain working to pull together the final threads.
“Are you close?”
We all knew what he meant.
“The closest we’ve been,” Abe said. “There’s an auction tomorrow. We think Bernard’s making a move. If we don’t grab him, we’ll be grabbing another thief the authorities will be able to use to get to him.”
“And that’s why I sent the email to you,” Andrew said.
“What are you going to tell the Bureau?” Sam asked.
“I don’t believe I have anything to report given that this call went to voicemail and we never actually spoke,” he said. “Correct?”
Abe released a sarcastic-sounding breath. And he grinned slowly. “Correct.”
“And Sam?” Andrew asked.
“Yes, sir?”
“Just give me a call when you get him.”
41
Sloane
I woke to sun slanting across my pillow. I caught the time—just past 6:00 am—and swung my hand out to the space next to me. Which was empty.
Rubbing my hand across my face, I