by Mitch Silver
Nearly everyone else on the plane was coming over for the grand finale of Dublin’s yearlong celebration of the one hundredth anniversary of Bloomsday. She had seen many of her fellow passengers again and again that weekend, wearing their ReJoyce buttons as they fanned out from the Irish National Library on Kildare Street, crossing and recrossing the River Liffey as they retraced the fictional steps of Leopold Bloom and Stephen Daedalus. Amy had seen them as she looked out the windows of the lace and dress shops on O’Connell and Grafton Streets. She had decided on the plane that walking down the aisle in a wedding dress of Irish linen was the only way to go. After all, Dublin was a long way to come for what might be an empty safe deposit box, and now she was glad she had found the dress for her big day. A sort of Gibson Girl number, it was trimmed in handmade Irish crochet lace on the high collar, bodice, back, and sleeves, with little bows on the skirt along with hundreds of tiny tucks. Maybe it was already on its way to the States.
Within moments, Amy was shown into the office of the vice-president of private banking. After examining her paperwork, the young but hardly youthful Mr. Milo Macken led her to the elevator. “It’s a sad day. A sad couple of weeks, actually.” He pressed the down arrow. “For ninety-two years we’ve been our own little Swiss canton right here in the Republic. Numbered accounts, client confidentiality, and, of course, our little offshore wrinkle. Funds deposited here could be invested in the Caymans without so much as a by-your-leave to the Irish Inland Revenue.”
He led her into the elevator and pressed Vault. “Was your grandfather a singer or dancer?”
“A college professor.”
Macken sighed. “Pity. We were very popular with your glam entertainers and tax-averse professionals. Until the courts barged in.”
The elevator opened onto a reception area of stiff leather chairs and mahogany end tables and, beyond it, a barred grille through which Amy could see rows of safe deposit boxes. A fortyish woman with unfashionably long, coal black hair sat at a desk across from the elevator.
Macken did the honors. “Miss Greenberg, this is our Mrs. O’Beirne.” Amy had thought of piping up with a politically correct “Ms. Greenberg,” or even “Dr. Greenberg” (she did have her PhD), but well, when in Dublin…Mrs. O’Beirne wore one of those skirt-and-jacket business outfits that had been out of style with American women for years. She produced a file of papers and a separate, yellowed envelope. Clearing her throat, she read aloud from the file.
“ ‘Amy M. Greenberg, born 22 February 1963, parents deceased. Sole surviving relation to Grandfather Raymond Greenberg, died 12 December 1995.’ ” She looked up at Amy. “Thank you for faxing the testamentary documents to us.”
“Colleen O’Beirne wears two hats here,” Macken put in. “She manages our private client facility, and in her professional capacity as solicitor is empowered to produce certain articles which have been entrusted to the bank’s care.”
On cue, Mrs. O’Beirne picked up a letter opener and slit open the envelope, allowing a little silver key to fall into her palm. “All I am in a position to tell you is this: In 1964, someone other than your grandfather paid for a long-term lease on box 1007 and put it in the name of Raymond Greenberg of New Haven, Connecticut. He or she left the key in the bank’s keeping with the stipulation that the box not be opened until fifty years after the purchaser’s death. Had the bank not been liquidated”—at this, she glanced fiercely over at Macken—“we would not be having this conversation for another decade.” Mrs. O’Beirne handed Amy the key. “All right, Martin,” she said. “We’re ready.”
A man Amy had taken for another customer got up from one of the chairs and smiled at her with a collection of mismatched teeth. “Pleased to be of service, miss.”
Macken turned to go. “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “Unfortunately, I have a flight to catch. Martin will witness the opening of the box with Mrs. O’Beirne and will certify that it’s empty once you have removed your goods. It’s been a pleasure having you as a customer, Miss Greenberg.”
As Macken walked away, the man named Martin pressed a code into an electronic box and opened the grille. Then he led them through narrow corridors to number 1007. Hers was one of the smaller boxes. So much for gold bullion, Amy thought. Martin inserted a key into the box. Amy put the one she had just been given in right below it and pulled on the handle. Thinking it might be heavy, Martin braced his hands under the box as it slid away from the others. No such luck. Amy easily carried it over to a high wooden table nearby. Inside, nothing gleamed or twinkled. All she saw was a thick pile of papers kept in place by two straining rubber bands. Amy glanced up at Mrs. O’Beirne, who was discreetly looking away from the box and its contents. “I should have known,” Amy said. “What do you give a college professor? Papers.”
Eager to discover if anything of more fungible value was lurking at the bottom of the box, Amy picked up the three-inch sheaf of papers by their forty-year-old rubber bands, one of which immediately snapped, stinging her hand like a scorpion. Amy lost her grip, scattering her inheritance all over the floor.
Right away, Martin knelt down and started to retrieve the papers. “Let me help you, miss.” Soon he and Mrs. O’Beirne were handing her fistfuls of what appeared to be a manuscript, with a few handwritten letters thrown in along with official-looking documents in different languages. Mrs. O’Beirne looked up from the pages in her hand. “The typed ones seem to be numbered, at least. That should be of some help.” Martin came out from under the wooden table, holding what appeared to be the title page.
It said, “Provenance, by I. Fleming.”
Chapter 2
Amy opened the minibar in her hotel room and helped herself to a miniature bottle of a single malt scotch. This definitely called for a celebration. Ignoring the upside-down glasses on their doily by the TV, she swigged her Macallan straight from the bottle. Ian Fleming. Ian Fleming and Chief. Ian Fleming writing for her eyes only, for chrissakes.
Amy glanced over at the jumble of papers she had dumped on the bed, then back at the paper she still held in her hand. Just the signature alone was probably valuable.
The phone next to the bed didn’t so much ring as hum. Amy looked at her watch. Her cell phone wasn’t the kind that works in Europe, so she’d left it home. Scott was making his six o’clock call right on time. “Hello, Scott?”
“Sweetie? How’d it go today? Are we rich?” Always the kidder.
“ ‘No jewels, no gems, no golden diadems.’ But, my love, we did score an Ian Fleming original.”
There was a pause while Scott processed her last remark four thousand miles away. “You mean a first edition?”
Amy could just reach the box of crackers at the foot of the bed if she stretched out all the way and used her toes. “Better. An unpublished Fleming manuscript.”
“Brilliant!” Scott’s English upbringing always came out one way or the other. “What’s it about?”
“Don’t know”—the cracker made a surprisingly loud crunch—“yet. I just got back from the bank.”
“So, Amy love, what’s keeping you?”
She had always thought of Scott as the bright one. Would she have to reconsider? “You. You’re keeping me.”
“Well, don’t tell me. I want to read it for myself. When are you coming home?”
“Tomorrow. Plane lands at three at JFK. Then customs and rush hour and the train to New Haven. Figure about six.”
“Okay, sweetie, I love you. Massively. Take care of yourself and the diary and hurry home to me,”—he did that mock–Sean Connery thing from the movies—“Bond. James Bond.”
“I love you too. We have a lot to talk about with our—” Amy stopped. Scott had hung up.
She spent the next twenty minutes cross-legged on the bed, laying out the manuscript pages in numerical order on the yellow bedspread. She wound up with about twenty documents left over, some of them old photocopies on slick paper that had curled. Several were in German. Fortunately they were numbere
d on the back, numbers that seemed to correlate with Fleming’s chapters. She sure hoped so, because the time had come for a little reading in bed.
Chapter 3
PROVENANCE
In the week before the Second World War ended in VE-Day, two officers detached to Britain’s Military Intelligence were driven into the American theatre of operations outside Frankfurt before transferring to a U.S. Army command car. The Brit who made a show of spreading his handkerchief over the seat before risking his trousers was Anthony Blunt, soon to be appointed Surveyor of the King’s Pictures in civilian life. It would turn out that he had also been, for the past ten years, spying for the Soviet Union. Sitting next to him, I was, my papers said, Owen Morshead, Librarian to King George VI. While I’ve been in libraries from time to time, I was in actuality Assistant to the Director of Naval Intelligence and the yet-to-be creator of Agent 007. Yours truly, Commander Ian Lancaster Fleming.
At the wheel, chosen for his discretion (and his marksmanship, if needed), was your future grandfather, U.S. Army Officer Raymond Greenberg. All he was told of our mission was the cover story: that paintings looted by the Nazis had been discovered by advance elements of Patton’s Third Army and were awaiting authentication by two English art experts at Schloss Friedrichshof, the mountaintop home of Prince Christophe of Hesse. And that he had been chosen to drive us.
What Chief wasn’t told was quite another matter: that Prince Christophe had been head of the Forschungsamt, Hermann Goering’s intelligence operation; that Christophe’s brother was married to the daughter of the King of Italy; and that Christophe’s own wife was one of the four older sisters of Philip, the prince of Greek and Danish ancestry who later married our own Queen Elizabeth. So that sitting around this one family’s proverbial dinner table were Nazis and Fascists rubbing elbows with auxiliary members of the British monarchy. Nor was your grandfather told that King George VI was keen to get his hands on something in the castle of much more recent vintage than an Old Master.
So for all the secrecy, mea maxima culpa. Now, as it happened, the Americans already had the Prince in custody and had evicted the rest of the Hesse family to a small house in the nearby village of Kronberg, so we simply could have presented our credentials to the American officer in charge of the castle. But if we had done, there’d be one of those awkward reports of our visit. I had another idea. (I’d been given this job because, among other things, I was in charge of 30 Assault Unit, the Intelligence squad trained to go into battle and capture documents the enemy had no intention of handing over.)
We had your grandfather drive us directly to the village, where Blunt and I conferred with the Hesse family. That night we drove with our running lights off up to the servants’ entrance at the Schloss, carrying instructions from the Prince’s mother for the loyal family retainers to help us. Gaining access to the castle’s upper floors, we located the torn piece of paper we’d been sent across bombed-out Europe to find. Without the American guards’ ever knowing we had been there, Chief drove us through the night back to the edge of the British zone. A week later, a torn document was placed in royal hands at Buckingham Palace. It contained a secret that would not be revealed until…well…now.
Chapter 4
The minibottle of scotch was now history. With only a few crackers on her stomach, Amy was feeling light-headed. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes with her two index fingers, a gesture she had inherited from her grandfather. “The researcher’s rub,” he had called it.
Amy put the papers down and decided to run a bath. She’d probably be up half the night reading, between the excitement of the thing and the jet lag. After the bath, she’d check her e-mail on her laptop and maybe get something to eat.
As the water flowed in, Amy shrugged off her clothes and put her hair up. Maybe she should have kept the perm. Her stockbroker friend Susan had talked her into it; said it did wonders for Amy’s face. But $110 every few months? Maybe if she worked in Manhattan…Of course, if she’d kept it short, she wouldn’t be worrying now about its taking too long to dry before she could make it downstairs to the hotel restaurant.
What’s the etiquette with engagement rings, anyway? Do you wear them in the bath? Then Amy remembered hers was a loaner and, with a little difficulty, slipped it off and put it next to the sink. She stepped into the tub and let the water well up around her.
Tomorrow would be hectic. Before her flight, she had her “errand” to run, a meeting her department chairman had arranged with a local antiquarian bookseller named Cedric Shields. “He already knows of you from your writing,” her boss had said. “Just press the flesh, let him put a face to the name, and tell him we’re interested. Half an hour, no more.”
“Interested” was putting it mildly. Yale was drooling. Shields claimed to have unearthed a ninth-century explicit, the afterword that the copyists in a monastery would append to an illuminated manuscript when they had completed their task. In those days, it was a sort of credits page, making “explicit” the names of the monk or monks who had toiled over the text and giving the date of its completion. The Irish bookseller said he had bought several old calfskin books and found the explicit bound together with two later, unrelated texts. And this wasn’t just any explicit Shields claimed to have found. It was the lost Explicit of the Book of Kells.
He could be on the level…Many a manuscript and its explicit had parted ways over the years. Amy sank back a little farther into the bathwater and imagined how distressing that fact would have been had the early Christian monks known it. Those guys lived for recognition. For starters, the labor of copying manuscripts was considered to be the highest calling of monastic life. Saint Jerome had copied books in his monastery at Bethlehem, as had Saint Benedict, who had established a scriptorium in every Benedictine monastery. Cassiodorus had gone even farther, saying, “Every word of the Savior written by the copyists is a defeat inflicted upon Satan.” No wonder the man who penned an explicit wished, “for the salvation of my soul,” to be remembered in the prayers of the readers.
Twenty minutes later, she realized with a start that she’d dozed off, dreaming of fat monks and lanky Englishmen and—And then she heard the sound come again—someone was in her room. Suddenly wide awake, Amy called out, “Who is it?” The bathroom door was open a crack, and she could tell someone was there.
There was a pause and then a woman’s voice said, “Room service, miss.” Another pause. “When you didn’t answer my knock, miss, I thought you were out. I’m just chilling the champagne for you.”
The nearest bath towel was a good six feet away. Amy tried to calculate the time she’d need to get up, dry off, and go to the door. She went with Plan B. “I didn’t order champagne. And anyway, I’m in the tub.”
“The card says it’s from your solicitor, miss,” the voice said.
This private banking thing had its rewards. “Oh…all right.” Stretching her leg out of the tub as far as she could, Amy eased the bathroom door closed with her wet foot. She was getting very good with her footwork.
She listened to the server bustle around a little more before remembering with alarm that she had left her purse where the woman could see it. Amy started to get up, splashing the bathwater as she reached for the towel. Almost immediately she heard what sounded like the clink of glasses and then the outer door opening.
Amy was too late to see any more than the back of the woman’s hotel uniform as she closed the outer door behind her with a hurried, “Enjoy your celebration, miss.” Funny about her not waiting around for a tip.
Sure enough, a bottle of champagne was chilling in a bucket near the wing chair by the window. Amy moved over to her purse on the desk and quickly looked through it to be sure all her things were still there. Her wallet, checkbook, her day planner with its two new sketches of Macken and Mrs. O’Beirne that she’d doodled in the cab—even the three tampons she’d brought along were undisturbed. Her computer and her watch on the desk were just as she’d left them. 8:55. When
did they stop serving dinner?
Amy’s clothes were on the bed, where she’d thrown them before her bath. No time to dig into the suitcase for a new outfit. She’d just put them back on. Something on the bed caught her eye. The manuscript was where she’d put it down. But the other papers…Had she really left the German ones spread out like that? With the floor lamp that close to the bed? She didn’t think so.
The growling in Amy’s empty stomach turned her thoughts to food. She didn’t want to eat here in the room if she was going to be cooped up with Fleming’s manuscript for the rest of the evening. The hotel restaurant had looked all right. Hmm, what could a vegetarian order in the land of corned beef and cabbage? Cabbage? The thought of it stirred up a slightly queasy feeling that the scotch and the jet lag must have brought on. Amy decided to limit herself to something safe, maybe a salad for dinner.
She grabbed her things and was about to leave when she noticed that a card hung from the neck of the champagne. It read, “For a client of long standing. May the road rise up to greet ye, as we say over here…Colleen O’Beirne.” Amy closed the door to her room behind her, allowing herself to be rather pleased to be anyone’s client of any standing.
Chapter 5
Just at the moment when Amy Greenberg was closing the door to her hotel room on the way to dinner, or possibly a minute or two later, Colleen O’Beirne was taking the Rathmines Road on that little downhill stretch before she had to turn into Martin’s street. He was sitting in the passenger seat, staring out as Dublin accelerated past them.