“I’d like to get some of what you’ve said on tape,” Lucianne said.
“If you wish.”
“This guy, Michele Paul. You know him, I assume.”
“Yes. He’s your best source. No one knows more about Columbus and Las Casas than Michele.”
“Does he have a gender problem?”
A small smile from Annabel. “No, I don’t think so. He’s suave, sure of himself.”
“A Romeo?”
“I suspect so, only you can’t prove it by me.”
“Available after I interview him, Annabel?”
“Uh huh. My husband is attending a going-away party for a teaching colleague. I’m not meeting him for dinner until seven.”
Annabel went to her assigned space in Hispanic and had just begun reading a book about Columbus that Consuela had recommended when young Susan Gomara appeared. She was crying.
“Sue, what’s wrong?”
“Dr. Paul. He’s so nasty. I was looking at some papers he left on a table by my desk. He came by, saw me, grabbed the papers, and started yelling at me.”
“Yelling at you about what?”
“About spying on him or something. I don’t know. I really don’t like him. I wish he’d … break a leg or something.”
Annabel got up and placed her hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Hey, Susan, don’t let it throw you. He’s a little high-strung, that’s all.” It sounded like the right thing to say.
“I guess so. Sorry to be such a baby.”
“Don’t worry about it. He seems to do a lot of traveling. With any luck, Mr. Paul won’t be around very much.”
“I hope not.”
“You look lovely. A heavy date?”
The intern had changed from her sweater-and-jeans outfit into a pleated gray skirt, teal blouse, and white cardigan sweater.
“No. Whenever I work in the main reading room, I have to dress up. Rules. I’m heading there now, working until closing.”
“Better than going through Cuban newspapers?”
“Much better. Well, see ya. Thanks for playing shrink.”
Annabel watched the young woman leave. The change of outfit made her look more mature and professional. How exciting to begin one’s career as an intern in the library of all libraries. With her determination and spirit, Susan might well end up one day as the Library of Congress’s first woman Librarian, Annabel mused.
8
The Librarian of Congress slowly replaced the phone in its cradle and sat back in his blue leather chair. The wall to his right had bookcases up to the ceiling, as well as a bottom shelf on which rested a television set and framed photographs. Three blue leather chairs with wooden arms were on the opposite side of the desk. A large area to his left was devoted to comfortable furniture including a tan couch and stuffed chairs, another wall of bookcases, and an oversized rotating globe. Doors on both sides of the room gave access to terraces providing sweeping views of the Capitol.
While the stereotypical perception of workaday librarians was demonstrably inaccurate, the image of Dr. Cale Broadhurst as the leader of the world’s largest institution of information might not have been. He looked distinctly academic; that is, were he an actor, he would have been cast as an academician, perhaps as the Librarian of Congress.
He was a small man, almost half size, and bald with the exception of a fringe of salt-and-pepper hair. His half-glasses were tethered to his neck by a colorful strap, and he was fond of tweed jackets, gray slacks, button-down blue shirts, bow ties, which he took pride in tying himself, and sensible brown leather shoes with thick crepe soles. Beneath it all was a brilliant mind, verbal fluidity, and an occasional flash of pixieish humor. But the phone call he’d just taken had not stimulated amusement. Excitement and shock were more like it.
He checked a clock on the wall. Four o’clock. The reception for Senators Menendez and Hale was at seven, giving him three hours to respond to the call in a meaningful, proactive way.
“I’ll be with Ms. Mullin,” Broadhurst told his secretary, leaving the office and on his way to the office of Mary Beth Mullin, LC’s general counsel. The lawyer was a big woman as women go, rendered more so when standing next to Broadhurst. Although her official role at the library was clearly delineated by her title, over the years she’d become Broadhurst’s confidante of choice. He liked her law school way of thinking even for matters having nothing to do with law. As his confidence in her grew, and she became aware of it, she never hesitated to tell him exactly what she thought, about almost anything, including an occasional personal problem he confided in her. Mary Beth Mullin was no yes-woman, an attribute the Librarian appreciated and needed.
She was on the phone when he arrived, which didn’t deter him from entering and taking a seat across the desk from her. She finished her conversation, hung up, and leaned back in her chair.
“You look satisfied,” he said.
“For good reason. My older daughter aced her government course at Catholic, and the repair estimate for my car isn’t quite equal to the national debt. You?”
“National debt? I thought we had all kinds of surplus. If I didn’t have to play the role of beggar over on the Hill, I’d be considerably happier.”
Along with his duties as the Librarian of Congress, Broadhurst found himself spending more and more time recently making the case to Congress for library funds.
Since 1950, the size of LC’s collections and staff had tripled, and its annual
congressional appropriation had soared from $9 million to more than $360 million. Still, there was never enough money, it seemed, to handle more than a half-million research requests from members of Congress and their staffs each year; to keep up with mandatory cost-of-living increases for the four thousand employees; to move forward with the electronic cataloging of almost 114 million items in the collections, swelling each year through the copyright division; and to keep pace with the daily demands of the three glorious buildings and their four thousand inhabitants.
“Somehow, Cale, I can’t see you begging for anything,” she said, looking toward the window. “Looks like rain.”
“I hope it holds off for the reception. Always nice to have cocktails on the terrace.”
Mullin’s laugh was gentle and knowing. “It wouldn’t dare rain on the senators,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I just had a call from David Driscoll.”
“What did he have to say?” She ran fingers through short, dark hair streaked with splendid slivers of gray; she looked like a woman who preferred sand and surf to the sterile atmosphere of a general counsel’s office. She wore just enough lipstick to make the subtle point that her lips were nicely formed. Dark suits and tailored blouses were slimming.
“Driscoll was his usual taciturn self,” Broadhurst said.
“With all that money he can afford to be taciturn.”
“Yes, I suppose he can. And afford to be the supporter he’s been of the library, and the avid collector he is. He called to tell me he’s been in touch with someone who claims to have knowledge of where the Las Casas diaries might be.”
Mullin wasn’t nearly as familiar with LC’s collections as Broadhurst, nor was she expected to be. She was the lawyer, more interested in keeping the Library out of legal trouble than in its more esoteric side. But she’d certainly heard enough about the legendary Columbus-era materials, and the search for them, to realize the importance of what her boss was saying.
“That would be remarkable information. Did he specify?”
“No. I tried to get more information from him but he deflected my questions. He’s good at that. He basically had one question for me. He wanted to know to what lengths we’d go to obtain the diaries if he was able to broker a deal for us.”
“You mean how much would we pay.”
“You might say that.”
“What are the diaries worth, Cale?”
“Depends on a number of factors. If they exist. Their condition. What they say.
Whether the alleged map is included. And, of course, the source.”
“The source?”
“Yes. If they surface through a reputable dealer with a sense of honor, that’s one thing. If they’re offered up by a shady middleman, that’s another. Agree?”
“Yes, of course. How did you leave it with Driscoll?”
“I said I’d have to think about it.” His grin was impish. “I think you should think
about it, too.”
“It would have to be private money, wouldn’t it, with Congress continuing to tighten its belt?”
“Ideally, private and public. Maybe not as tough a sell on the Hill as it appears at first blush. Sure, the military budget goes up every year, and the budgets for the so-called soft side of government go down. I’m considering slipping an aircraft carrier into our budget and hoping it goes unnoticed.”
“Not a bad idea. You could call it the Santa Maria. What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing specific at this point, maybe some informal asking around on the Hill. That congressman from Appropriations who’s always looking at you with adoring eyes at parties might be sympathetic if you brought it up with him. Is your husband still Senator Hale’s favorite bridge partner?”
“Only when he bids correctly.”
“Tell him to keep doing that. I intend to bring it up with Menendez tonight if the time is right, and he is ripe. I think the appeal should be to national pride, not that the LC will benefit. Shame if the diaries end up in another country. A possible shining moment for Congress and the nation. I’m going to feel out some donors as to what they might come up with to sweeten the pot.”
Mullin frowned. “Not afraid of having it become public knowledge?”
“I considered that, but I don’t think we have any choice. Driscoll wants a response within three days.”
“I ask because Public Affairs called me this morning. Lucianne Huston is here to do interviews about Columbus, including the so-called Las Casas diaries.”
“I know. And Annabel Reed-Smith is writing an article for Civilization. I’d say we should clamp a tight lid on this, but that’s like asking a politician to keep a secret. This will be all over LC by morning, maybe sooner. Obviously, Consuela in Hispanic will have to be consulted. Michele Paul, too, importantly. Guess I mean self-importantly.” He chuckled. “If the diaries did actually surface, there’s first of all the authenticating process to go through.”
Broadhurst went to the window and stood with his tiny hands shoved into the pockets of his tan tweed jacket. He said to the pane, “People have been searching for those diaries and maps for centuries. People have died in that search, even though no one knows for sure they even exist.” He turned. “If they do exist, and we don’t pull out every stop to obtain them, it will be a blot on this library. They belong here.”
“Or in Spain,” Mullin said. “But we should land them.”
Broadhurst cocked his head and smiled in response to the expression on her face. “Yes, you’re right, Mary Beth, a blot on my reputation, too, if we don’t.”
“You’ll do what you can.”
“Hopefully, it will be enough. See you at the reception. The diaries may be merely a chimera. I’ll let you know if I get a chance to talk to Senator Menendez. I’ll leave Senator Hale to you. Another chimera.”
He walked to the door, paused, and turned. “By the way, anything new on the stalker?”
Mary Beth had followed him halfway across the room. “No, and I wish there
were. This nut has the main reading room librarians spooked. They’ve taken to wearing
their name badges upside down to make it more difficult for patrons to read their names.”
“The police have anything new to offer?”
“No. They’ve got an undercover officer hanging around the room every day. Fortunately, the incidents have been limited to phone stalking.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way. See you tonight.”
9
“That’s a wrap!”
Lucianne Huston told her crew to pack up after having interviewed Annabel for twenty minutes.
“I’m not used to being interviewed,” Annabel said, “especially on camera. I’m afraid I didn’t have much to say.”
“You spoke volumes compared to your friend Dr. Paul,” Lucianne said, removing the lapel microphone from Annabel’s jacket.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You were interviewing him at four. How did it go?”
“A waste of time. He sat down with a chip on his shoulder and gave me a series of one-word answers. Grunts don’t make for great moments in television journalism.”
“I’m sorry. And by the way, he’s not my friend.”
“My estimation of you has just risen. Know what he did when the interview, or grunt fest, was over?”
“What?”
“Invited me to dinner, a ‘cozy little spot where we can get to know each other better.’ Spare me.”
“Hate to take the wind out of your sails, but he invited me to dinner, too.”
“He must operate under that old male adage that if you ask enough women, you’ll find one who says yes.”
“Well,” Annabel said, “I’m sorry the interview didn’t work out. He is the expert on the subject. Staying in town for a few days?”
“Just tonight. I’m flying back to Miami in the morning. There’s really no story here, Annabel. If I could smell even a small story, I could blow it up into a bigger one. But all the links are missing links. I mean, your interview will be helpful when we put together the special on Columbus to coincide with the celebration, but this Casas wild-goose chase is just that. With any luck I’ll be in Africa in a few days hoping I don’t come down with malaria.”
“Malaria doesn’t stand a chance against you. I wish you well.”
Lucianne and her crew left the Madison Building, and Annabel went to her space above the Hispanic reading room in the Jefferson. She’d just immersed herself again in a book when Michele Paul arrived.
“Got your article written?” he asked brusquely.
She ignored the flippant question.
“Feel like a drink?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I might share some inside Las Casas stories with you, but only over a cold, dry martini, straight up.”
“A sobering notion.”
“That gal digging into ancient burial rituals is joining us.”
“Joining you. I’m packing up to leave.”
“Suit yourself. How was your interview with the famous Ms. Huston?”
“Fine. Yours?”
“A waste of time. She knows nothing, asked a series of stupid questions that didn’t deserve an answer.”
Annabel said nothing.
As Paul started to leave, Consuela Martinez appeared. “A minute, Annabel?”
“Sure.”
Consuela waited until he was gone before saying, “You can see why he’s never been married. He’s insufferable. Lucianne Huston told me he was totally uncooperative during the interview, barely answered her questions.”
Annabel shrugged. “A brilliant foul ball.”
“But that’s not why I wanted to talk with you. Dr. Broadhurst is having a reception tonight for Senators Menendez and Hale. A small gathering, sort of a thank-you get-together for all Menendez and Hale have done for us over the years. Dr. Broadhurst called to see if you would be available to attend.”
“I don’t know. I—that’s very flattering. I would have dressed differently.”
“You look just fine. Can you stay for it?”
“I think so. I was supposed to meet Mac for dinner at seven. Let me try to reach him on his cell phone. He’s at a going-away party for a colleague at GW.”
“You’ll only have to stay an hour,” Consuela said. “The Librarian is hosting a small dinner party after cocktails for the senators and their wives.”
She was successful in reaching her husband. “Sorry to bust in on your party, Mac, but C
ale Broadhurst has invited me to a reception this evening for Senator Menendez. Starts at seven, over in an hour. Can we push dinner back to eight, eight-fifteen?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call and change the reservation.”
“Good.”
“How’s the party?”
“All right.” Obviously, it wasn’t wonderful.
“Knee okay?”
“Fine. Let’s be safe and make it eight-thirty.”
“Okay. Oh, I was interviewed this afternoon by Lucianne Huston.”
“I’m the husband of a celebrity. Fill me in at dinner.”
At a little before seven, Annabel wandered up to the Librarian’s office in the Madison Building, where she was handed a laminated badge to add to the one she already sported on a chain. “This gives you access after closing hours,” she was told.
“You’ll need it.”
Annabel went to the terrace overlooking the Jefferson Building, where two dozen people had gathered for cocktails, served by white-jacketed staff. Senator Menendez spotted her immediately and came to her side, drink in hand. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Annabel,” he said in a rich baritone.
“A last-minute invitation,” she replied, plucking a glass of white wine from a moving waiter’s tray.
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