The Zaanics Deceit (Cate Lyr #1)

by Nina Post

  When she got back to the steps, her father looked asleep. She shook him gently. Nothing. She checked his pulse. She couldn’t have imagined what an unnerving sensation it was to not feel a pulse. No heartbeat, in her volcanic father? It didn’t seem possible. She kept her finger to his neck just in case, in case she was wrong. And kept it there. And kept it there.

  Paul gently pulled her arm away and put his middle fingers on her father’s carotid. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s no pulse.”

  She took out her phone to call 911 for an ambulance, then realigned her father so he’d be more comfortable. Now he was facing the sky only a few feet away from the multiple glass doors that bore his name.

  Paul walked over to the street to look for the ambulance.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said to her father. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

  Cate answered the phone as she walked home from the hospital. She couldn’t manage to call the car service or Noah or anyone else. She was numb and just wanted to walk back to the hotel. She just wanted to take something to help her sleep.

  “Yeah.”

  “I got your guy,” Argos said. He sounded excited. “He’s practically a legend. They call him the Fleurier Forger.”

  “Good.” It hurt to breathe.

  “He’s Swiss!” Argos sounded very cheerful about this, which made her wince. “Fleurier used to be a part of the Val-de-Travers district.”

  “Was it named after the Brewers pitcher Bill Travers?” she said flatly. 10% Cate didn’t have much inflection in her voice.

  “Doubt it,” he said with a chuckle. “The region is known for its absinthe production. He’s an absinthe distiller, on the side. Or maybe forgery is on the side, not sure. Don’t matter.”

  “That’s where he lives?” Though Cate resented the intrusion at first, she welcomed the distraction.

  “Yep, and he’s ready to start work right now,” Argos said. “Apparently he’s all charged up about the project and tabled whatever he was working on when I called.”

  “What’s his price for the whole job?”

  “I emailed it to you,” Argos said. “It’s definitely there by now.”

  She checked her phone. “Got it. Thank you.”

  “Hey, is something wrong? You sound like you’re not really there.”

  She nearly laughed. Or rather, the abstract conception of a laugh occurred to her. “Just one of those weeks.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Cate stopped. Her body felt like it was hardening into stone. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “What do you need?”

  “It’s kind of a big favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Can you go to my house, box up my stuff, and put it in our usual storage unit?” She would have to contact her landlord to let him know she was finishing out the lease at the end of the month.

  He didn’t respond right away.

  “Argos?” She shook her head. “Never mind, it’s too much to ask.”

  “I’m just surprised. You never even told us where you live. I’ll take care of it.”

  She exhaled with relief. “I’ll text you the address and where you can find a key. Are you sure you can do this?”

  “Hate to think I couldn’t.”

  She smiled. That was West Virginian for yes.

  “Thanks, Argos.”

  “You bet. Be in touch.”

  She pocketed the phone.

  Yeah, just one of those weeks, when her father dies on the steps of his own damn building.

  Chapter 9

  Cate took a corner table at the fast-casual Chinese place in the underground retail section of the Lyr building. She watched the entrance until the person she was meeting arrived. It was going to be a short meeting — otherwise, she would have arranged a different spot.

  “I received your letter.” Yuji arranged himself on the opposite stool with a sigh and glanced around the interior with a pained expression.

  “And?”

  He sighed. “How did you know?”

  “I just did.” She’d pried into his life, just a little, read about his problem, then made a donation.

  “Well. It’s very generous of you. The insurance doesn’t cover …” He did a brief eye-roll/face shrug, then his brown eyes flicked around to workers rushing past the glass wall. He scratched behind his collar. Cate could tell he spent an inordinate amount of time on his arms at the gym. When his bicep curled, it nearly ripped the thread of his blue oxford shirt.

  “I’m happy to help,” she said. “So tell me.”

  He hesitated, then reluctantly said, “She hired a linguist.”

  “Tell me who.”

  He told her. She wrote down the name and email address.

  “What else?”

  “They last spoke the day of the investor call,” Yuji said, then tilted his head. “Are you okay?”

  No. “Yeah. Fine.”

  “I heard about Mr. Lyr. I’m sorry.”

  She nodded, both absurdly grateful for it and desperately wishing he hadn’t mentioned it, because she had to fight hard to keep control.

  “Thank you.” She waited a moment. “You were saying they last spoke the day of the earnings call?”

  “Yes,” he said. “By that time, she had already hired him to assess the project. He told her that he was able to determine that it was definitely a real language, but I got the impression from his tone — ”

  “The linguist’s tone? You heard this conversation?”

  “I hear all the conversations,” Yuji told her with pride, followed by a small shudder of revulsion.

  “Does Gaelen know that?”

  Yuji recoiled. “Of course not. Anyway, I got the impression that the linguist had no idea what do with the project. But he told her he’d run it by some other linguists he knows at the Max Planck Institute.” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

  A bullshit tactic. “So he’s just trying to delay her. Get money out of her.”

  “That’s what I think. But Ms. Lyr — Gaelen,” he amended, Cate guessed because he was talking to another Ms. Lyr, “is actively trying to get this book, whatever the hell it is, translated. And she’s willing to put money into it, as long as she’s getting something in return. She’s not a fool.”

  She nodded. Gaelen was certainly no fool. “One more thing. Can you give me Gaelen’s schedule for the next week?”

  He sighed dramatically and shifted his shoulders. “I’ll send it to you within the hour.”

  “I appreciate it, Yuji.”

  His face relaxed with noticeable relief as he hopped off the stool and hurried out the door.

  “Is it me or is it Panda Express?” she muttered.

  Gaelen must have emailed photos of the book to the linguist. Cate had to get the photos to send to the forger so they could get a rush job on a copy of the book, to swap the forged version for Gaelen’s genuine one. Like Benjamin said, it didn’t have to be a good forgery — just good enough so that Gaelen wouldn’t get suspicious. It would have only the first couple of pages, so if anyone else got the book to translate, they would never translate beyond that point. The rest would be gibberish.

  She called Yuji, who had just walked out of sight past a tiny magazine kiosk.

  “Do you have access to her phone?” Cate asked him.

  Yuji snorted. “Please. She practically keeps that thing in her cooch, and I’m not going there.” He hung up.

  Cate chewed on her lip for a moment, then called Noah.

  “It’s funny you called,” Noah said. “I was just talking to a German candy executive about Steilacoom. He could have talked about it for hours. To get him off the phone, I told him I had to give CPR to a co-worker. And he still kept talking.”

  Steilacoom was her favorite TV show, and an effective anodyne. It pulled her through those first shitty years after the ceremony. “He probably went to the annual conference.”

  “There’s a con? Seriously?”
>
  “Yep. Hey, maybe I should have a marathon viewing party,” she said.

  “Oh, Günter would love that.”

  “He could bring some German candy. Why does that sound like a euphemism?”

  “I’ll let him know right now.”

  Cate laughed. “No, don’t.” She checked her phone. Yuji had sent Gaelen’s schedule, earlier than she expected.

  “Oh, you’re going to call him?” Noah said. “Fine with me. But you should know that Günter has highly refined and specific tastes. You know what? I’m going to email you a list of his environmental requirements. I’d recommend reading it throughout the day, in sections. All at once would be too much.”

  “What kind of requirement are we talking about?”

  “Just certain things we need to supply or regulate for his peace of mind and our safety.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I’m looking at my calendar for this week and see that I can’t block off enough time for a marathon viewing.”

  “That’s too bad,” Noah said, sounding disappointed. “It’s a good thing I haven’t told Günter about it yet. He doesn’t handle disappointment well.”

  “Crisis averted,” she said.

  “Wait, you called me, right?”

  “Can you hack into someone’s email?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice had lowered. “I am shocked — shocked and dismayed — that you asked me that. In fact, I insist on meeting face-to-face to give you a chance to rectify this in person.”

  Noah took up all the space in the door, like someone unrolled a long sheet of him to fit in the frame. A messenger-style laptop bag was slung across his shoulders and he held up a large pizza box.

  “The key to a woman’s heart,” Cate said, stepping back to let him in.

  “Is Günter here?” he said as he walked into the main room.

  “He left in a rage when he realized the inside temperature wasn’t 58 degrees.”

  “No, the real affront would have been the lighting.” He put the pizza on the coffee table, put his bag on the floor by the desk, then set paper plates in front of the box. “I absolutely can hack into someone’s email, and I will do it for a sandwich.”

  She let him in. “I thought you had a decent job.”

  “It can be surprisingly indecent,” Noah said, then closed his eyes. “Not like that. You know what I mean. Anyway, it’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Moreover, I’m pretty sure this is a pizza, not a sandwich,” she pointed out. “Also, you bought it.”

  “Well, I had a small lunch, counselor, so I may just want a sandwich after this.”

  “So you can’t hack into someone’s email.”

  “No, I can. But I wouldn’t want you to buy me a sandwich,” he said. “So whose email are we talking about? The President? The Secretary of Defense?”

  “Gaelen’s.”

  Noah rubbed his jaw. “What do you need from it?”

  Cate sat on the sofa. “I need any photos she has of the Zaanics book she must have sent to the linguist. Though I suppose we could start with the linguist’s email.”

  “You want to eat first?”

  “Definitely.”

  They sat on the sofa in companionable silence while they ate their slices of thin-crust cheese pizza and watched Steilacoom. It was a bubble, where she felt safe and comfortable and even … content.

  Noah turned and took a napkin to pat his mouth, then went to wash his hands. “Okay, let’s crack this conspiracy wide open!”

  “I don’t know if there’s a conspiracy,” Cate said.

  “Then I was led here under false pretenses.” He took his laptop from his bag and set it up on the desk. He referred to the slip of paper next to it on the table. “Is this the linguist’s info?”

  “Yes. That’s all I have.”

  “It’s enough.” A short time later, he sat back. “Okay, I’m in.” He went back to the keyboard. “I’ll do a search for Gaelen’s email address first.” That pulled up three emails.

  “The second one has attachments. Images.” He pulled them up on the screen. There were three from the interior and one of the front binding of the first Zaanics book. “That’s all we’ve got.”

  “That’ll do just fine,” she said.

  “Okay, I’ll save these. Do we need to access Gaelen’s, too?”

  “No, these images are sufficient. We just need a passable copy, and we need it fast.” Cate sent the images to Argos, and asked him to install two cameras outside the building where they would be working later.

  Hans couldn’t believe his luck.

  He had been trying to duplicate the legendary Væyne Zaanics books for decades, but never had enough information to meet his very high standards for a forgery. His farmhouse in Val-de-Travers was littered with failed attempts, each book rejected with disgust at his own shortcomings as a forger and the lack of a genuine copy to work from. Whispers and rumors of where he could find one ore more of the Zaanics books proved time and time again to be false, and he’d learned to stop getting his hopes up. But he knew in his marrow that this was different.

  For so long, he patiently pursued his craft, replicating fine works of art with such mastery that even scholars who devoted their lives to that specific area could not discern his version from the original. He grew up on a farm, one of eight children with no father, and was an expert at using natural, organic materials to reproduce these forgeries. Hans believed using those materials made his forgeries much more consistent with the artifact. But his mastery and unique method were rendered into nothing but a cosmic joke when it came to the Zaanics books.

  Now, however, he was blessed with a reward from the gods. When the man with the bizarre American accent described the book and the poem, and the book’s binding — even in general terms — he knew exactly what it was.

  After the call, Hans was so elated he did a mad jig around his farmhouse kitchen, and when he finally slowed, giddy with anticipation and exertion, he had to take off his down vest and unfasten the second button of his red- and black-check flannel shirt.

  When his breathing was back to normal, he called the leader to tell him the good news. To his immense satisfaction, the leader was pleased. Theirs was a precarious relationship. The leader didn’t approve of Hans’ dissolute and materialist lifestyle, but turned a blind eye in exchange for his renowned skill in forging.

  Hans was well aware that his practices didn’t align with those of Hævli Hætrisi. He had been married before, though he wasn’t now. He possessed considerable money and property from his work. He did not pray or eat with the others, preferring to stay in Val-de-Travers and work his distillery and farm, where he most decidedly did not pray. HH also believed that the Zaanics books had only one true book, not three, and rejected anything that was purported to come from the other two books. Hans did not necessarily agree with them.

  When the man who called said that they didn’t require an excellent copy, just a passable one, Hans suppressed a giggle. If he looked in any direction from where he was standing, he saw numerous substandard forgeries of the Zaanics books. There was even a perfect copy of the miniature book of the scribe’s notes that those vipers Dregutchoh Niijevec believed in.

  And when the man with the strange accent said he needed the copy in just a few days, Hans said that was no problem. This was information Hans kept to himself, but he would use any one of the copies he already had, refigured to keep the first few pages of the actual book. And he didn’t need to bother with creating a false paper trail, not for this job.

  After quickly putting together yet another copy he would otherwise fling across the room, Hans sat at his kitchen table to fill out the FedEx shipment form. He needed to describe the object in a way that made the contents sound uninteresting, to prevent excessive interest. But the description would also need to be accurate in case customs agents opened the package. In the description field, he wrote, ‘Replica of antique cookbook.’ He filled out the addr
ess he used in Val-de-Travers, and then the address in San Francisco the man had given him.

  Hans wrapped the book in tissue paper, encased it with bubble wrap, then placed it in a Halliburton briefcase packed with high-density foam. This object meant nothing — it was an insult to his artistry — but it didn’t matter. He would take his time proving his worth. The briefcase closed firmly on the book, leaving absolutely no room for movement. The case would keep the item safe but also accessible to customs. Finally, he placed the briefcase inside a cardboard shipping box.

  Percolating with more enthusiasm than he’d felt in years, Hans drove the box to the place where he sent and received mail, and mailed the package. As he walked back to his car he dropped his keys and bent over to retrieve them. As he did, he heard a high-pitched whizzing noise and presumed it was a bee. He swatted his hand as he straightened, but the bee landed on his neck and stung him. It wasn’t until he used those sensitive fingers to touch his neck that he realized it wasn’t a bee.

  Xavier Bone pressed a button on the receiver to talk. “Be ready at the house.”

  Jake Dumont was ready, and responded to confirm. They were just there to put a little fear into him.

  Hans stumbled the rest of the way to his vehicle, yanked open the door and flopped inside like a fish, his breath loud and ragged. His shaking hands tried to insert the key in the ignition. He put the vehicle in reverse and backed out of the spot, trying to keep his head down.

  By the time he got home and parked in front of the house, he was trembling, so he went to check on his animals to calm himself down.

  Chapter 10

  Cate didn’t meet her crew in SFO’s international terminal. She didn’t meet them in the lobby of their hotel, which was just a few blocks from hers. She didn’t meet them for lunch after they arrived. It was safer for all of them.

  Argos contacted her when they arrived at their hotel. “We took the BART from the airport.”

  Cate smiled at ‘the BART.’

  “Damnedest thing,” Argos said. “Everyone was just sittin’ quiet or reading. Almost couldn’t believe it.”