The Ghost Manuscript

by Kris Frieswick

  Although he could be forgiven for biting at the deal, even with an anonymous client: five hundred thousand dollars, plus expenses, for the provable confiscation of the manuscript and translation. Odd thing, that. The client didn’t even want it. Just wanted to make sure that it had been taken away from the woman. Once it became obvious to Gyles that she was actually searching for the tomb herself, the client insisted that the manuscript be grabbed before she found the tomb. That was an ironclad term of the deal.

  Gyles—or rather, his black-market alter ego, JB—had already arranged the sale of the manuscript, translation, and contents of the tomb, whatever they turned out to be, to a senior member of the Saudi royal family. The idea of possessing a Dark Age body linked to a historical manuscript seemed even more intriguing to the prince than any treasure that might be found. He didn’t really need more treasure. But an ancient human skeleton? He didn’t have any of those yet.

  All Gyles needed to do was find the woman, have Frank follow her until she found the tomb, off her and her search party, grab the books, and scoop up the contents of the tomb. Quick, easy, lucrative: the prince would pay five million dollars, less Frank’s fee.

  Normally, Frank’s disappearance and the plan’s failure would not be of such great concern. He’d just call all the parties involved in the transaction with his usual lie: the item was far too hot to handle. Deposits returned. No harm, no foul. Deal unwound. Everybody still friends. They’d all live to do business another day.

  Except the successful completion of this deal was becoming increasingly urgent. He was probably going to need the proceeds to pay off a certain ISIS commander in Syria, Mr. Yasser Alahwi al-Iraqi, who was talking about beheadings, specifically of JB’s head.

  Although JB’s real identity was a well-kept secret, this terrorist, medieval and uneducated, still gave him a very bad feeling.

  A month ago, Alahwi had agreed to sell an ancient, perfectly preserved, extremely rare and well-provenanced Assyrian deity sculpture from Palmyra to Gyles for five million bucks. He had in turn agreed to sell it for eight million to a billionaire black-market antiquities collector in Hamburg. He would pocket the nice little spread of three mill. Between that, the manuscript deal, and the deal with the prince, it would be a very, very profitable month.

  The sculpture deal was routine. He’d done dozens of them with Alahwi. The commander’s pillaging had turned into a nice revenue stream—as had the back-end “repatriation” business when one or two had ended up in museums and highly visible private collections.

  As was standard practice, the commander relinquished the sculpture to Gyles’s couriers, and in return, the terrorist received electronic confirmation that five million dollars had been placed into an escrow account in Grand Cayman. Upon completion of the transaction—when the sculpture arrived in a special free-trade warehouse zone in Geneva—the escrowed amount would be released to any account Alahwi desired.

  But Gyles didn’t like escrow. There was no escrow account. There was no money waiting to be transferred. It was all smoke and mirrors, electronic sleight of hand. Not a penny of actual money would be transferred anywhere until the sculpture was safely tucked away in Geneva and Gyles had gotten the buyer’s money. He never used his own money for deals. Never.

  Unfortunately, a few days after the first courier picked up the sculpture from the commander, it disappeared, somewhere between delivery checkpoints in Serbia. Some aggressive interrogations of the couriers involved in various parts of the delivery chain had yielded nothing. He had learned through painful experience that once something went missing in Serbia, it stayed that way. Expending valuable resources to search further would be a waste.

  JB had been lying to Alahwi about the progress of the sculpture for two weeks, waiting for a solution to present itself. When Alahwi texted several days ago, the real threats began. JB again assured him things were proceeding apace, except for some small border issues. He knew the man didn’t buy a word of it. Alahwi texted that he’d give him another week and if the money didn’t arrive, then JB should expect “retribution” for his “dishonor.” Words like “dirty dog” and “infidel” and “head” were being thrown around. It occurred to Gyles then that maybe he was relying a bit too heavily on his own anonymity to protect himself. He had no idea how, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Alahwi knew who he was.

  Still, he had worked too damn hard and killed too many people to start bowing to the demands of every client who threatened his life. He had been threatened before. Many times. The only time it had terrified him was when he was twelve, in the shared bunk room at his boarding school, in the dark, surrounded by bigger boys, some bent on buggery, some just on mindless violence against someone smaller than themselves.

  Back then, he’d begged. He’d made deals and promises. But in the end, he’d been their toy. The next day, he vowed his revenge, and although the assaults went on for several more nights, three of the boys involved in his humiliation, one by one, had to be rushed to hospital by ambulance because of a mysterious ailment that the school nurses couldn’t diagnose.

  They all died.

  The school’s laundry room lye proved very reliable. The buggering and mindless violence stopped after the third one got sick. No one bothered him after that.

  He had learned in that hellhole of a boarding school that you can always reason with a man as long as he thinks you are crazier and more dangerous than he is. Of course, he had never had to reason with a man who bought his C-4 by the ton and beheaded children on TV.

  To make matters worse, a source of JB’s in Scotland Yard had texted that somebody was snooping around Frank Marshfield’s criminal record. Somebody from the U.S. How they had gotten Frank’s name, he had no idea. As if this search weren’t complicated enough already. The inquiry had sealed Frank’s fate. Frank was one of only two people who could link him to the maid’s death. As much as he hated to eliminate such a valued asset—his best; the man was as close to a partner as Gyles had ever had—business was business. But he had to bloody find the man before he could have him killed.

  He was just fine with the killing. Always had been. It was the waiting, the not knowing, that would drive him even madder than he already was.

  He scowled at his ugly bug of a reflection again, reached over, and turned out the light.

  PART 3

  Boston

  1

  Sunday, June 24

  The next morning, Carys woke at four, jet-lagged and jangled. She made coffee in the built-in Miele machine in the kitchen of Annie’s spacious Back Bay brownstone overlooking a darkened Storrow Drive and Charles River.

  Thoughts of Frank Marshfield crashed the gates of her momentary peace. She went to take a shower. Annie was up, bleary and hunched over a cup of coffee, when Carys padded back into the kitchen. She placed a quarter in front of Annie.

  “I’m retaining you as my lawyer,” she said.

  “My rate is a little higher than that,” said Annie. “But I’ll give you the friends and family discount.”

  “You can’t reveal anything I tell you?”

  Annie’s eyes opened wider.

  “Correct,” Annie said.

  She made herself another cup of coffee, tightened the bathrobe she’d borrowed from Annie, finger-combed her wet hair, and sat down.

  “Something bad happened in Wales. The short version is that it was self-defense.”

  “Did you…?”

  “No, it was the man I met there,” she said. “He did it. He killed the thug. Frank Marshfield. But I helped him get rid of the body.”

  She studied Annie’s reaction. There was a slight loosening of Annie’s jaw, but that was it.

  “How did you do that?” Annie asked.

  “We dumped him into the ocean.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “My father.”

  “Your father?” a
sked Annie, leaning back in her seat. “Jeeezus.”

  Carys spent the next half hour telling Annie every detail of the dive: figuring out the location of the cave, her near drowning, finding the tomb and the artifacts, surfacing to find Anthony being held hostage, and Dafydd saving them all with the blunt end of a fire extinguisher. The long boat ride out past the lights, the splash, sending Frank’s boat on its solitary journey. How she couldn’t stop shaking. Their vow never to speak of it.

  “I’ve already broken that promise,” she said.

  “I am not legally allowed to say anything without your permission,” said Annie. “And given Frank Marshfield’s history, I could make a case for self-defense. But we would still need to find out who sent him to prove you were in imminent danger and it wasn’t just some boating-related altercation.”

  “How about we just never report it?” she asked. “He just disappeared? He’s a bad man working for someone even worse. There’s no way anyone would trace it back to us.”

  “Maybe,” said Annie, “but you’ve got two co-conspirators. Most of the time, these solemn-silence pacts last about one month. In your case it lasted, what, two days? How do you know they’re not talking also?”

  She had no idea.

  “And, more importantly,” said Annie, “what if the one pulling the strings already knows Frank is dead and has sent someone else to finish the job?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we need to track down the leads we have on Marshfield. And make sure that no one knows I’m back. Except you and Harper.”

  “Your co-conspirators know, yes?” asked Annie.

  “Yes. They know. But they don’t know where I am.”

  “Well, since you’re not at home, it probably wouldn’t take your father long to figure out that you’re with me,” said Annie.

  A cold shot of panic ran through Carys. Annie was right. She was so easy to track down. She needed to get out of here and away from Annie. She couldn’t put anyone else in danger. She stood up.

  “Sit down. Sit down,” said Annie. “You’re safe here.”

  She slumped back down in her chair and lowered her head. Her wet hair dropped down around her face.

  “I have no idea what to do,” she said. She could feel tears welling at the back of her throat. She choked them down.

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Annie. She put her hand on Carys’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Adeona glowed in the sunshine as Carys and Annie drove up the stone driveway two hours later. The police detail checked their IDs halfway up the drive and waved them along. She had never been so glad to see any place in her life. She wanted to lock herself in the vault and never come out. It was the only place where she felt safe.

  When they got to the door, she knocked, waited, knocked again, waited, then slowly opened it.

  “Hello,” she called out.

  JJ’s tall, muscular form strode into the foyer, his body tensed for confrontation.

  “Oh hi,” she said. “No one answered…”

  Confusion flitted through his eyes, then went away. She could feel Annie next to her sizing him up.

  “Carys,” said JJ, his hard features softening slightly. “It’s nice to see you.”

  Great, she thought. One more person who knows I’m here.

  “Who is it, JJ?” bellowed a voice from behind the partially closed door of the library. Harper. His voice was stronger than she’d ever heard it. It sounded almost hard.

  JJ laughed to himself and shook his head, then strode over to the library door and flung it open. “It’s Ms. Jones and a friend.”

  Harper, seated at his desk, spun around. His face broke into a wide smile.

  She grabbed Annie’s hand and pulled her through the dark door that led to the library. The morning light filtered dimly through the tall windows into the library. As she approached him, he pushed back the Harvard chair and rose. He was dressed in dark khakis and a pink Polo shirt, and his hair was washed and combed back. His eyes shone like she had never seen before. She was struck for the first time by how handsome he was.

  “You’re back!” he said, and walked toward them.

  “You’re home,” she said. “And you’re looking so well.”

  “Thanks to you,” said Harper as he hugged her tightly and spun her around. Over Harper’s shoulder, she could see JJ standing at the library door, watching with a bemused expression. He was clearly glad to have his father home. She smiled at him. JJ smiled back, turned, and walked toward the kitchen.

  “And who is this?” asked Harper.

  “This is Annie Brennan, my best friend and closest thing I have to family. I thought it was time you met her,” she said.

  Harper looked her up and down.

  “Thank you for your help these past few days,” he said. Then he looked at Carys, the unspoken question in his eyes.

  “She knows everything,” she said. Harper’s face hardened. “I trust this woman with my life. She’s helping identify Nicola’s killer. Using back channels. No police.”

  Harper studied her a moment longer.

  “We require absolute secrecy,” he said to Annie.

  “Carys retained me as her attorney,” said Annie, looking Harper in the eye. “I legally can’t say a word without her permission.”

  Harper nodded gruffly. “I don’t like it,” he said. “There are already too many people involved in this.”

  “I know,” said Carys. “But we need her. I need her. She can help us figure out who is behind this.”

  There were still signs of the struggle that had taken Nicola’s life. The glass in all the bookshelves was missing, and a section of the floor had been sanded down and needed to be revarnished. Most of the books were back in their perfectly aligned rows on the shelves, but several of the manuscripts were on Harper’s desk, one with a cover torn off, one opened to the place where pages had been ripped out. Another was covered with a dark spatter of dried blood. The sight of it made her sick to her stomach, and she began to feel woozy. She sat down heavily in Harper’s chair.

  “Carys?” asked Annie.

  “Just tired,” she said. Harper’s brow furrowed, then it softened. He had more important things on his mind than her kidneys.

  “Let’s see the new manuscript,” he said.

  She handed it over. He opened it slowly, reverently.

  “Entirely in Latin,” he said as he carefully paged through Madoc Morfran’s journal. “Who could have imagined that we’d surface two journals, both with absolutely no provenance information, in our lifetimes? It’s remarkable. And the ink on this one is so sharp and clear that it looks as if it was written yesterday. The parchment is nearly unblemished.”

  JJ walked into the library and approached the desk. Harper moved a notebook over the top of the Morfran manuscript as he approached.

  “Dad, I’m meeting some friends in the city,” said JJ. “You gonna be okay here?”

  “I sure am,” said Harper. “I’m feeling better than I have in a really long time. Thank you for checking in on me, son. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I’m glad you’re back,” said JJ. He lingered for a beat at the library door, studying his father, before closing it behind him.

  Carys turned to Harper.

  “John,” she said. “There were some complications in Wales.”

  Harper looked at her. She looked at Annie. Annie’s face was hard and set.

  “I think we need to be careful about how we proceed,” she said. “The man who tried to bribe me and who killed Nicola was…is just hired muscle. He was working for someone else. I’m sure of it.”

  Harper removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “So
meone who’s not on our radar.”

  “But likely someone in the antiquities business,” said Harper. “Someone who sees this as a financial asset—instead of a histor-ical one.”

  “We have a name on the man who killed Nicola,” said Annie. “Frank Marshfield. English citizen. Veteran of the British Navy. Rap sheet with a variety of charges—from petty theft to attempted murder.”

  “I’ve told Annie that we can’t go to the police with this information yet,” she said. “Not until after we find the tomb.”

  “Right,” said Harper.

  “But if the police can get more information on Marshfield, they might be able to figure out who he worked…works for, and we can stop this before anyone else gets hurt,” said Annie.

  “No. We’ll deal with it later,” said Harper. “Right now, we need to focus on the search. The police will just slow things down—and if they find Marshfield, then he’ll tell the authorities about the manuscripts. We’re not supposed to have either one of them, and they will be confiscated. You can be assured of that. We can’t let anyone know about either of these manuscripts until we’re done.”

  Annie’s back straightened.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Harper, but don’t you think it’s reckless to continue this hunt when you know that there’s someone—someone willing to kill—who is probably following your every move? I think you’ve dragged Carys far enough into this.”

  Annie’s voice was strong, controlled, a half-octave lower than normal. Her lawyer voice. “I think she needs to hand this off to you and someone else at this point. She’s in enough danger.”

  Harper glanced at Annie dismissively.

  “Carys?” he asked.

  She wanted to stop, to go back to Wales and find Dafydd and make love and drink beer and stare out at the sea and the green hills for a month straight and never think about any of this ever again. But the bad guy, Frank’s employer, whoever he was, would be after them as long as they had the manuscript and the clues to the location of the tomb, and neither she nor Harper would ever willingly part with those.