"Do you want to hear the whole story, Ed?"

"I do indeed. But let's go to my office."

Or something to that effect, with rather more obscene locutions. Ed is the sort of lawyer who equates toughness with the liberal use of foul language. On the short walk over, collecting a number of pitying looks from the staff, I briefly considered whether I could withhold any significant facts from one of the best cross-examiners in the New York Bar. No, the painful truth would have to emerge, but not the speculation, and not my plans. When we were ensconced in our a.s.signed places I gave him the basic facts, and after he had drained me to his satisfaction he said that we were going to have to get the police involved and that we had to contact the genuine legatee, Oliver March, and let him know what had happened. I was not to be the one to do these tasks, however. In fact, now that we were on the subject, he had noted a significant slippage in my focus of late and I had to agree that this was the case. We discussed my sorry performance at this morning's meeting and he pointed out that the proposed merger involved the interests of some important clients and that it was unlikely that I was going to do them much good in my present state. He suggested I think about taking a leave for a while, and then he got avuncular, which he hardly ever does with me, a little like King Kong doing social work instead of wrecking Manhattan, and after a while he got to how sorry he had been when Amalie and I broke up and how he thought that I really hadn't been the same man since. As soon as he said that, as soon as those words drifted into the air, I felt a sort of balloon pop inside my head and...it's hard to describe, not really a woo-woo type of out-of-body experience, more of a profound detachment, as if Ed were gabbing away at someone who wasn't really me. that effect, with rather more obscene locutions. Ed is the sort of lawyer who equates toughness with the liberal use of foul language. On the short walk over, collecting a number of pitying looks from the staff, I briefly considered whether I could withhold any significant facts from one of the best cross-examiners in the New York Bar. No, the painful truth would have to emerge, but not the speculation, and not my plans. When we were ensconced in our a.s.signed places I gave him the basic facts, and after he had drained me to his satisfaction he said that we were going to have to get the police involved and that we had to contact the genuine legatee, Oliver March, and let him know what had happened. I was not to be the one to do these tasks, however. In fact, now that we were on the subject, he had noted a significant slippage in my focus of late and I had to agree that this was the case. We discussed my sorry performance at this morning's meeting and he pointed out that the proposed merger involved the interests of some important clients and that it was unlikely that I was going to do them much good in my present state. He suggested I think about taking a leave for a while, and then he got avuncular, which he hardly ever does with me, a little like King Kong doing social work instead of wrecking Manhattan, and after a while he got to how sorry he had been when Amalie and I broke up and how he thought that I really hadn't been the same man since. As soon as he said that, as soon as those words drifted into the air, I felt a sort of balloon pop inside my head and...it's hard to describe, not really a woo-woo type of out-of-body experience, more of a profound detachment, as if Ed were gabbing away at someone who wasn't really me.

It was quite interesting, really, in a hideous way, and I thought unaccountably of my mother in her last days and wondered whether this was how she felt: alone in that crummy apartment, kids gone (yes, there was me, but didn't I make it obvious that it was grim duty alone that brought me to her), a stupid job-why keep going, what was the point? Ed was now talking about turning my work over to various a.s.sociates-just until you can get back on your feet-and part of that work was, of course, the cell phone ring tones. And this phrase now completely occupied my brain (cell phone ring tones! CELLPHONE RINGTONES!!!), and the force of the absurdity struck me like a pie in the face: here we were, grown men, actual human beings, the crown of creation, concerned with making sure that money would be paid out in the proper way whenever some idiot's cell phone went bee-dee-boop-a-doop-doop bee-dee-boop-a-doop-doop instead of instead of ding-ding-a-ling ding-ding-a-ling and this connected in a strange way with the detached feeling and thinking about my mother and I started to laugh and cry at the same time and could not stop for an excruciatingly long time. and this connected in a strange way with the detached feeling and thinking about my mother and I started to laugh and cry at the same time and could not stop for an excruciatingly long time.

Ms. Maldonado was summoned, and she wisely thought to call Omar, who came up and swept me out the side entrance of our suite, so as not to embarra.s.s anyone or frighten the secretaries. On the ride back to my place I asked Omar if he had ever considered suicide. He said he had after his youngest boy had been shot in the head while throwing rocks at soldiers during the first intifada, he said he wanted to blow up himself and as many of them as possible, and there were people in Fatah encouraging that sort of thing then. But he thought it was a sin, both the suicide and killing ordinary people. Dying after after you a.s.sa.s.sinated someone in power was a different story, but no one had ever given him the opportunity to do that. So he had come to America instead. you a.s.sa.s.sinated someone in power was a different story, but no one had ever given him the opportunity to do that. So he had come to America instead.

That afternoon was when I retrieved this pistol I have here from its lair in the back of my utility closet and for the first time seriously asked Camus's big question, since, unfortunately, I was already in in America. I even stuck the barrel in my mouth just to taste the tang of death, and I did a little active imagining, trying to think of anyone who would be at all inconvenienced by my death right then. Amalie would be relieved and free to marry someone worthier of her. The kids hardly knew I was alive to begin with. Paul would be p.i.s.sed off but get over it; Miriam would up her medication for a month or so. Ingrid would obtain another lover, indistinguishable from me in any important respect. In my will Omar gets the Lincoln and a nice bequest, so he'd be better off as well. America. I even stuck the barrel in my mouth just to taste the tang of death, and I did a little active imagining, trying to think of anyone who would be at all inconvenienced by my death right then. Amalie would be relieved and free to marry someone worthier of her. The kids hardly knew I was alive to begin with. Paul would be p.i.s.sed off but get over it; Miriam would up her medication for a month or so. Ingrid would obtain another lover, indistinguishable from me in any important respect. In my will Omar gets the Lincoln and a nice bequest, so he'd be better off as well.

Obviously, I did not at that time pull the trigger, since I am still here and typing. In fact, I recovered from my hysteria fairly rapidly, one of the advantages of being as shallow as a dish. Nor did I go to bed for a week, forgo eating, stop shaving. No, I thought at the time, the Jake persona would click once more into place and I would continue with what pa.s.sed for my life, only without the ring tones. In the end I think it was curiosity that kept me alive. I wanted to find out how Bracegirdle's spying went, and to see if that play still existed, and I wanted to meet Osip Shvanov. Yes, curiosity and a mild desire for revenge. I wanted to find out whose little schemes had f.u.c.ked up my life, and I wanted to get my hands on the woman who had played Miranda Kellogg and played me for a fool.

My appointment with Shvanov was at ten in SoHo, but I had a previous appointment uptown, for I had promised to take Imogen to her rehearsal at the kids' school. Mrs. Rylands, the drama teacher at the Copley Academy, does Shvanov was at ten in SoHo, but I had a previous appointment uptown, for I had promised to take Imogen to her rehearsal at the kids' school. Mrs. Rylands, the drama teacher at the Copley Academy, does Midsummer Night's Dream Midsummer Night's Dream every third year, alternating with every third year, alternating with R. & J. R. & J. and and The Tempest The Tempest. Last year, Imo played a spirit in the latter play, but this year she has the part of t.i.tania and is insufferably proud. I did not see her perform that spirit because, as I think I've mentioned, I do not go to the theater, and not because I didn't like what they're showing nowadays. I literally cannot bear to sit in a darkened auditorium and watch live actors on a stage. My tubes close up three minutes after the curtain rises, I can't breathe, a painful vise clamps around my head, and my digestive system wants to rid itself of its contents from both ends. My sister is obviously correct when she says I need my head examined, a need I decline, however, to satisfy.

I don't mind rehearsals, though, with the lights up and people moving around and the director calling out directions and actors missing marks and lines. It's sort of fun and not at all like being pinned, silenced, in the dark, while living people in ghastly makeup pretend they are not who they are; just as I do.

When I arrived at my wife's house my daughter was waiting on the front steps of the brownstone, chatting with a couple of young men. These had obviously arrived in the white Explorer with gold-plated fittings that stood double-parked on the street with its rear hatch open, the better to share with the neighborhood the thump of its dull chanting music, which was at a volume calculated to s.h.i.+ver stone. She seemed to be having a good time and I was reluctant to break up the party. The young men greeted me politely, for they were from Paul and were keeping an eye on my house, as he had promised. Imogen seemed a little annoyed when I told her this, after we were seated in the back of the Lincoln, since she had thought she was doing something transgressive, entertaining a couple of obvious g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers. After this had been straightened out, we rode to the school in silence, at least on my part; Imogen was immediately on her cell phone, speaking to girls with whom she had just spent the entire day and whom she would be seeing in a few minutes. Anything better than a nice chat with Dad.

Well, you know, there is really nothing like Shakespeare, even performed by children. Mrs. Rylands likes MSND MSND because it lets her use children from a range of ages, from the lower as well as the upper schools; her conceit is to use the little kids as fairies and slightly older ones for the major fairy parts, freshmen and soph.o.m.ores for the royals and the lovers, and the biggest kids for the rude mechanicals. When the boys get to horsing around and cracking up she tells them that the greatest women's parts in all of drama were created on the stage by twelve-year-old boys, and no one thought it at all ludicrous, and here you are, you big louts, playing men at least! And remarkably, when the golden lines begin to flow from their lips they are able for a moment to leave the shut h.e.l.l of teenaged narcissism and inhabit a broader, richer universe. Or so it seemed to me. I watched my daughter make her entrance in the first scene of act II and give her great angry speech: because it lets her use children from a range of ages, from the lower as well as the upper schools; her conceit is to use the little kids as fairies and slightly older ones for the major fairy parts, freshmen and soph.o.m.ores for the royals and the lovers, and the biggest kids for the rude mechanicals. When the boys get to horsing around and cracking up she tells them that the greatest women's parts in all of drama were created on the stage by twelve-year-old boys, and no one thought it at all ludicrous, and here you are, you big louts, playing men at least! And remarkably, when the golden lines begin to flow from their lips they are able for a moment to leave the shut h.e.l.l of teenaged narcissism and inhabit a broader, richer universe. Or so it seemed to me. I watched my daughter make her entrance in the first scene of act II and give her great angry speech: These are the forgeries of jealousy These are the forgeries of jealousy. I don't know where she gets it, how she knew how to speak: Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,By paved fountain or by rushy brook,Or in the beached margent of the sea,To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind and arrange her face and move her body so as to generate a vision of the fairies dancing. Mrs. Rylands was entranced too, and Imogen is a cinch to do Juliet next year at fourteen and shatter hearts.

As I say, I rather enjoy rehearsals and I feel that attending as many of them as I can makes up a little for missing the performances. And the place was full of lovely young flesh and their adorable moms, which was nice too, and I exchanged some melting looks with the moms, and this made me think about Ingrid. I stepped outside after Imogen had finished her scene and called Tarrytown to see if I could come up after my meeting with the Russian, but she was cool and said she had some work to do. I've always had a certain skill at detecting lies over the wires and I did now. This wasn't at all like Ingrid, a fairly straight arrow. Could she have another lover? Probably. Did I care? Yes, a little. I always care, but not all that much; and they can tell, hence the historically rapid turnover in my romantic life.

After the rehearsal I asked Imogen if she wanted to go out for something. In times past, when she was Daddy's darling, she delighted in being taken to a particular local saloon and having made for her a s.h.i.+rley Temple festooned with fruity garbage, but no longer. Imogen thinks divorce is boring, practically every one of her peers is what we used to call a child of a broken home, and she rather enjoyed the cachet of being unbroken. Or maybe not. I have no entree into her lovely little head. We therefore rode home in near silence, although she did tell me that Nerd-Boy had spent the last week or so printing out page after page of genealogical data, so much so that n.o.body else (that is, Imogen) could use the printer and would I make him stop, Mom gives him everything he wants. I said I would talk to him about it and when we got to Amalie's I did.

I suppose I had nearly forgotten the task I had set Niko, what with all the excitement, but as I have learned to my sorrow, my son makes regular obsessive-compulsives look like fairies dancing on the beached margent of the sea. I found him up in the computer room arranging sheets of paper on the long trestle table we have there, lining up each sheet precisely square, with all the rows and columns having the same s.p.a.cing between them. I watched him doing this for a while before I said, "Niko? Imogen says you found something for me. On Bracegirdle?"

"Yes, I did," said Niko. One of the advantages of hiring a search firm for something like this is that they come in, give you the best answer they found, take their check, and split. But when you ask Niko for an answer, you get the whole story, in exhaustive exhaustive detail, from the very first effort, with descriptions of the logic involved, plus all the various strategies adopted, sources consulted, false leads exposed, and every last discovered fact displayed. Being a normal human, I will here summarize: Our Bracegirdle had a son, also named Richard, who survived and married and had seven children, of whom five survived into adulthood, and all married and had children. The males tended toward the sea or the army and rose in status to officer rank in the late seventeenth century and through the eighteenth. A Bracegirdle commanded a battery in Wolfe's army on the Plains of Abraham outside Montreal and another was a captain of fusiliers at Plessy. There were whalers and slavers too, and the bottom line was that the last male descendant of our Richard pa.s.sed away without issue in 1923, from wounds suffered in the Great War. detail, from the very first effort, with descriptions of the logic involved, plus all the various strategies adopted, sources consulted, false leads exposed, and every last discovered fact displayed. Being a normal human, I will here summarize: Our Bracegirdle had a son, also named Richard, who survived and married and had seven children, of whom five survived into adulthood, and all married and had children. The males tended toward the sea or the army and rose in status to officer rank in the late seventeenth century and through the eighteenth. A Bracegirdle commanded a battery in Wolfe's army on the Plains of Abraham outside Montreal and another was a captain of fusiliers at Plessy. There were whalers and slavers too, and the bottom line was that the last male descendant of our Richard pa.s.sed away without issue in 1923, from wounds suffered in the Great War.

Okay, a good idea that didn't pan out: I was perhaps thinking of a family trove, a box of old papers in the attic that might just happen to be a Shakespeare play that no one knew about. I looked at my son and his useless work and felt a pang of sorrow, and felt also like hugging him, but knew better.

I said, "Well, too bad, Niko. It was worth a try. Have you seen any Russian gangsters hanging around?"

"No. There are two pairs of black guys hanging around. One drives a white Ford Explorer New York license HYT-620 and the other drives a green Pacer, New York license IOL-871. I haven't finished with the descendants. I just said the males."

"There are females?"

"Yes. On average, half of all offspring are females. Three of Richard Bracegirdle's son Richard's children were female. The eldest, Lucinda Anne, married Martin Lewes in 1681...."

And off we went. I did not pay much attention, I have to say. Being with Niko is often like sitting near a rus.h.i.+ng brook, oddly soothing. I was thinking about my coming meeting with the Russian, and also about my crack-up in the afternoon and also about where my next s.e.xual encounter was going to come from, and under all of it was the great pulsing wound of Miranda Kellogg. Niko's narrative reached its end. He picked up the various neat stacks of paper and carefully stapled them together. He said I had to take them away because his mother said he had too much stuff in his files and he was no longer interested in Bracegirdle genealogy. He turned to his screen, slipped on his headset, and left the building. I found a big envelope, stuffed the papers in it, and left too. I did not see or seek out Amalie, although I was aware of her presence in the house, like a rumor of war.

Rasputin's is a small chain of semi-fast-food joints started by a couple of Russian immigrants, one of innumerable efforts to find the next pizza. They serve a variety of piroshki, borscht, Russian pastries, and strong tea in tall gla.s.ses. The decor is Ye Olde Soviet Union: socialist realist posters, tile floors, servers in peasant blouses and long skirts, steaming samovars, and chunks of Red militaria artfully arranged. The menus are in faux Cyrillic, with the Rs printed backward, and so on. Omar dropped me off at the only one in Manhattan, on Lafayette Street, at five of ten and lurked in the Lincoln on the curb outside, in case our gangster tried any rough stuff. small chain of semi-fast-food joints started by a couple of Russian immigrants, one of innumerable efforts to find the next pizza. They serve a variety of piroshki, borscht, Russian pastries, and strong tea in tall gla.s.ses. The decor is Ye Olde Soviet Union: socialist realist posters, tile floors, servers in peasant blouses and long skirts, steaming samovars, and chunks of Red militaria artfully arranged. The menus are in faux Cyrillic, with the Rs printed backward, and so on. Omar dropped me off at the only one in Manhattan, on Lafayette Street, at five of ten and lurked in the Lincoln on the curb outside, in case our gangster tried any rough stuff.

It was fairly pleasant inside, actually, steamy and redolent of cinnamon and cabbage. I sat under the ornately framed portrait of the eponymous mad monk, a place with my back to the wall and facing the doorway, and ordered a tea and a couple of piroshki. The place was half-full, mainly of local denizens seeking a break from Chinese or Italian or overpriced trendy. At ten past, a man walked through the door and stood in front of my table. I rose and shook his extended hand and he sat down, looking smilingly around the place. He was about my age and half my size, with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a big jut of a nose, and intelligent deep-sunk dark eyes. He was wearing a shearling coat, a black silk turtleneck and fas.h.i.+onably

Oh, what the f.u.c.k does it matter what he looked like or what he was wearing? I just came back from a walk around the property. All is silent in the early-morning mists. I checked out the boathouse, the pump house, and the two-car garage, in which I have parked my rented Cadillac Escalade, a vehicle nearly large enough to contain me in the driver's seat. I can see why these behemoths are popular among the bulky Americans. Next to my rental is Mickey's Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, which he bought shortly after I got my BMW bike back in the day, to show me, I suppose, that he was a daring fellow too, although I had bought my machine because I could not afford to run a car in the city. A little breakfast and here I am back at the keyboard. f.u.c.k does it matter what he looked like or what he was wearing? I just came back from a walk around the property. All is silent in the early-morning mists. I checked out the boathouse, the pump house, and the two-car garage, in which I have parked my rented Cadillac Escalade, a vehicle nearly large enough to contain me in the driver's seat. I can see why these behemoths are popular among the bulky Americans. Next to my rental is Mickey's Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, which he bought shortly after I got my BMW bike back in the day, to show me, I suppose, that he was a daring fellow too, although I had bought my machine because I could not afford to run a car in the city. A little breakfast and here I am back at the keyboard.

I must have looked around inquiringly because Shvanov caught the look and said, "What, you're expecting someone else?" and I said I had always imagined that Russian gangsters traveled with an entourage. This made him laugh and show teeth that had been expensively capped in one of the industrial democracies. "Yes, six bullet-heads in black leather and a couple of Ukrainian s.l.u.ts. Would you like? I can make a call." He spoke a nearly unaccented English, and made only infrequently the mistakes of article and p.r.o.noun omission typical of people whose native tongue is highly inflected. He wished to make small talk, as if we were old friends meeting after a brief separation. I indulged him in this, and we spoke about my sister and her fabulous career and about Rasputin's and he said he was one of the early investors and I made a crack about had he made an offer they couldn't refuse. looked around inquiringly because Shvanov caught the look and said, "What, you're expecting someone else?" and I said I had always imagined that Russian gangsters traveled with an entourage. This made him laugh and show teeth that had been expensively capped in one of the industrial democracies. "Yes, six bullet-heads in black leather and a couple of Ukrainian s.l.u.ts. Would you like? I can make a call." He spoke a nearly unaccented English, and made only infrequently the mistakes of article and p.r.o.noun omission typical of people whose native tongue is highly inflected. He wished to make small talk, as if we were old friends meeting after a brief separation. I indulged him in this, and we spoke about my sister and her fabulous career and about Rasputin's and he said he was one of the early investors and I made a crack about had he made an offer they couldn't refuse.

Here his smile grew a little tighter and he said, "Mr. Mishkin, I don't know what you think I am, so let me tell you, so we won't have any misunderstandings. I am a businessman. In past times, I worked for Soviet government, like everybody, but since fifteen years, I am in business. I have interests in Russia, in Ukraine, in Kazakhstan, in state of Israel, and also here. What kind of business, you wish to know. Primarily, I am investor. Someone has an idea, I have the money, and also the contacts. Contacts are very important in Russian community, because this is how we learn to do business in the old days. Trust, you understand? Because we don't have what you call the business norms, the court system, and so forth. In return for this investment I have a piece of the business, just like New York Stock Exchange."

"You're a loan shark," I said.

"And Citicorp is loan shark, J. P. Morgan Chase is loan shark-what do you think, they don't charge interest? They don't take over collateral? This is subprime lending I do, like for this place, no one else would find this money for them, so they come to Shvanov and they give me some piece of this and we are all happy."

"And if not happy, you have people come and break their legs, which is one thing that distinguishes you from Morgan Chase."

Again the tight smile and he waved his hands dismissively. "Please, I have no contact with any types of collection business. This is all outsourced to completely different firms, I a.s.sure you."

"Outsourced?"

"Exactly. You buy a pair of Nikes, how do you know who made? Maybe a kidnapped little girl chained to machine in China, they starve and beat her. It says Nike-this is all you know, a respectable firm. I think Nike don't even know who makes. If you want to be so pure as that you should be in church and not in business. You agree?"

"Not really. And speaking of kidnapped girls, since you bring the topic up, I believe one of your outsourced firms a.s.saulted an employee of mine and kidnapped a young woman from my domicile the other night."

Shvanov motioned to a waitress and ordered tea and blini. When she was gone, he said, "And why should I do that, do you think?"

"Perhaps you could tell me."

He ignored this and looked grave. "Kidnapping is a serious offense. You have contacted the authorities, I presume?"

"About the a.s.sault on my employee, yes. But not about the kidnap. I would prefer to keep that between us businessmen."

The waitress brought over his order, much more quickly than she had brought mine. He drank some tea, ate a bite, sighed, and said, "Look, Mr. Mishkin, we are both busy men, so let's cut to the chase, yes? Here is entire story, my end. This academic fellow Bulstrode comes to me and says, Shvanov, I have a key to a great cultural treasure and I appeal to you as a man of culture to help me find it and restore to world. I need some small monies to do this thing. And I say, of course, Professor, of course, here is some twenty grand, U.S. dollars, you ask if you need more. You understand, even a businessman such as myself has a soul, and wishes not to spend life entirely with bathhouses and piroshki shops and bars with girls, and besides I see it as perhaps a source of substantial cash flow for my firm. So I give him money to explore for this treasure. After this, he leaves country, and I hear nothing. Some weeks pa.s.s, and I receive disturbing message from reliable source. This source is saying, the professor has returned and has found this treasure but does not wish to share it with Shvanov. So, what shall I do? I call him and he denies everything: no treasure, it is a dead end. Now, in my business, many times people do not wish to share and I must take strong measures...."

"You had him tortured."

"Please! I had him nothing nothing. I had nothing nothing to do with any torture, same as President Bush. In any event, my sources tell me that my professor has deposited the papers-which is, I believe, my property-with your firm, Mr. Mishkin, and I hear from my sources that there is heiress showing up, who can dispose of this, and naturally I hope she will do the correct thing and turn these papers over to me. So she joins with you, in a legal manner, and I expect she will soon contact me and we can do business. And now you tell me she has been kidnapped. Of this I know absolutely nothing, so help me G.o.d." to do with any torture, same as President Bush. In any event, my sources tell me that my professor has deposited the papers-which is, I believe, my property-with your firm, Mr. Mishkin, and I hear from my sources that there is heiress showing up, who can dispose of this, and naturally I hope she will do the correct thing and turn these papers over to me. So she joins with you, in a legal manner, and I expect she will soon contact me and we can do business. And now you tell me she has been kidnapped. Of this I know absolutely nothing, so help me G.o.d."

Oddly enough, I believed him, which I never would have had I not known that my Miranda was a fake. I said, "Well, Mr. Shvanov, that puts things under a completely different light. If you are not holding Miranda Kellogg, why are we meeting?"

"Why? Because you are the Bulstrode estate attorney and the estate has something belonging to me; namely, a ma.n.u.script of seventeenth century written by Richard Bracegirdle. I have seen this ma.n.u.script. I have paid to establish authenticity by scientific tests. I have papers giving me t.i.tle to it. It is all quite legal and aboveboard. This is not why you you came to this meeting?" came to this meeting?"

I said, "Well, when I had my sister set this up, I imagined that you were trying to obtain the Bracegirdle ma.n.u.script by violence and threats."

"What do you mean, violence and threats?"

"Sending people to steal the ma.n.u.script at my residence. Sending people to my gymnasium to menace the proprietor, so that I am expelled from members.h.i.+p. And, as I said, the supposed kidnap of Miranda Kellogg."

He was shaking his head. He was waggling a finger in the air. "First of all, I have never sent such people to steal. As I have explained, why should I? As to gymnasium, this is some misunderstanding. I only wish to contact you in confidential manner, no threats implied. As I say, is often difficult to control subcontractors. I will have words and reinsert you as desired, with my apologies."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, how shall I go about to obtain my property?"

"Ah, well, there we have something of a problem. I regret having to tell you that the woman I knew as Miranda Kellogg was not Miranda Kellogg at all, and moreover this woman is missing now, and the ma.n.u.script with her. I think we have both been outsmarted by the same person."

For an instant, Shvanov let slip the persona of a genial businessman and something truly awful flashed out of his eyes. Then it was gone. He put on a rueful smile and shrugged. "Well, this may be true. You win some, you lose some, correct? If you manage to locate her or it I would expect you will contact me, agreed? I have all legal papers to prove this ancient doc.u.ment is my property."

I said that I certainly would and requested that he do the same. "Naturally," he said, "and any other papers of same type, of course."

"What do you mean by other papers?"

"I have some information that when the Bracegirdle ma.n.u.script was found there were other historic papers that the people who sold to Bulstrode did not deliver. This is not standard business practice, I think. Tell me, Mr. Mishkin, have you these papers?"

"I do not."

"Should you come across them sometime, you will recall that they are also my property."

"I will recall your claim, certainly," I said, and realized that this was the real reason he had agreed to meet me, the possibility that I had the d.a.m.ned ciphers. I immediately discounted everything he had said.

"Thank you. I believe that concludes our business. A pleasure."

We shook and he extracted a thick roll of currency from his pocket, dropped a twenty on the table. "For the girl," he said. "For the rest there will be no charge, my treat." Then he stared at me, his head c.o.c.ked and eyes narrowed, as we do when comparing something in our sight with a mental image, and the next thing he said almost knocked me off my chair.

"You know, it is amazing how much you resemble your father."

"You know my father father?"

"Of course. We have done some investments together, and so forth. In state of Israel." He stood up and added, "The next time you see him, please offer my sincere regards."

He walked out, leaving me gaping.

THE F FOURTH C CIPHERED L LETTER.

My Lord my best obedience to y'r lords.h.i.+p & hartie comendaciouns to you & all youre howse. Tis now long sence I had anie letter from you my lord nor Mr Piggott neither; but you doutlesse hath greater affayres to tend. My newes is that W.S. hath the play finished, that is of Mary Quene of Scotland & hym having told me soe I begged him let me reade it most instant. First hee saith nay let me fayre-copie it mayhap there shalbe correctiones as he oft doth make but I beyng further importunate hee yieldeth. Soe I read hys foule papers. My lord I thinke we hath mistooke oure man: unlese I judge wronglie hee hath not made what wee comanded hym. But you shall see for I have heere wrote down from memorie its burthen & the matter of som speches; for hee would not lett me copie of it even a line.

First comes a prologue that saith this play treateth two grete queenes in contentioun wherein the fate not alone of kingdomes is at hazard but of sowles: with strifes of church oure Englishe state is done/Yet as you pitie her who lost so also pitie her who won. Or some thinge lyke. So has he don. We fancied he would shew Elizabeth arbitrary & tyrannous & he doth; yet sighing for her barren womb & that another woman's sonne shal have her kingdome, that verie woman that she must slay & he cryes pitie for her lonlynesse who must from policie kill the onlie human creature fit to be her friende.

We fancied he would shew Mary as a goode Christian lady to stir oure anger at her fate & he doth; yet as a l.u.s.tie recklesse self-destroyer too. She goes into the plot that ruines her with open eies; for (as he tells it) she sees Babbington is a foole, she knows well her messages are reade by Walsingham yet proceeds with the matter all the same. And for why? She despaires of rescue & cares no longer if she be Quene of England or Scotland or anie where if she can but breathe free aire and ride. From her window she espies a gentlewoman a-hawking & wishes to change place with her, trade all her t.i.tles for a little breze &c. She repentes her wickedness of former tymes yet thinkes her she is forgiven it by her popish superst.i.tiones. Though a prisoner she vauntes herselfe & despiseth Elizabeth the Quene for her shriveled womb & haveing no venerie & saith Grete Bess thy mayden-hoodee a faster prison be than these my bars. Boastes too she hath hadde love where the Quene of England hath naught but the shewe of it. Further he saith of Quene Mary that the evidence brought gainst her be false in parte; for he saith Mary ne'er plotted the death of Elizabeth but onle wish'd to scape her power & be free. Soe Walsingham sheweth herein as a perjured knave.

On religion: he hath a parte for Mary's chaplain onne Du Preau who hath contention upon the right faith of Christianes with Sir Amyas & I thinke doth gain the daie if but by a little. He putteth in low clownes, one a Puritan & t' other a Papist who argue the causes in mockerie. Perhaps these alone be enough to hange W.S. but 'twould be better bolder. The scena wherein Quene Mary goeth to her death is verie affectyng & designed to make who heareth it forget she was a vyle murthering wh.o.r.e. Mayhap this shall pleaze you enough my lord, but the telling I doe is as naught to the heering of it in full, for it be most artful & fulle of witte though I am a poore judge of plaies. But when I am able to sende it shal you judge if it be fit for your purpose. Until then I remayne thy faithful & obdt serv servt wis.h.i.+ng all prosperytie & long lyfe to your gracious lords.h.i.+p London 28 wis.h.i.+ng all prosperytie & long lyfe to your gracious lords.h.i.+p London 28th October 1611 Richard Bracegirdle October 1611 Richard Bracegirdle

14.

Being armed, Crosetti found, felt a lot like having a broken zipper on your fly, something that made you feel self-conscious and somewhat stupid, and he wondered how his dad had been able to stand it during his entire working life. Or maybe it was different for cops. Or criminals. When he arrived at work, he was torn between leaving the thing in his bag (It might get stolen! Someone might find it!) and keeping it on his person. At first he left it in the briefcase but found that having done so, he was reluctant to leave the briefcase out of his line of sight, and after an uncomfortable hour or so he removed it and clipped it to his waistband, concealed under the cotton dust-jacket he wore in his bas.e.m.e.nt works.p.a.ce.

Mr. Glaser had gone on an extended buying trip, and so Crosetti's workload was rather light, except that he had to relieve Pamela, the non-Carolyn person, upstairs during her breaks. High-end rare books shops don't get much walk-in business, even on Madison Avenue, and so Pamela spent most of her time on the phone with her friends, who were all top-of-the-line comedians to judge from the shrieks of fun that floated down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs, or cruising Craigslist for a better job, publis.h.i.+ng, she had volunteered, unasked. Crosetti realized he was being something of an a.s.s with her-it wouldn't kill him to be a little friendlier-but he could not bring himself to generate an interest in a preppy girl who wanted to break into publis.h.i.+ng.

On one of the changings of the guard that day she asked him to reach down a book from an upper shelf and he did so and heard her make a small sound of alarm. When he handed her the book she asked, eyes wide, "Is that a gun on your belt? I saw it when you reached up...."

"Yeah. It's a dangerous business, books. You can't be too careful. There're people who'll do anything for a Bronte first-anything."

"No, seriously!"

"Seriously? I'm an international man of mystery." A lame line, and he thought very briefly about saying he was just glad to see her, to see if she would pick up on the line from She Done Him Wrong She Done Him Wrong and then he could ask her if she'd actually seen the film the line came from, that it was Mae West's only Academy nomination and so on and so forth, his usual rap, but why bother? He shrugged, gave her a tight smile, handed her the book, and walked behind the counter. and then he could ask her if she'd actually seen the film the line came from, that it was Mae West's only Academy nomination and so on and so forth, his usual rap, but why bother? He shrugged, gave her a tight smile, handed her the book, and walked behind the counter.

When she came back from her lunch she seemed less interested in being friendly than previously, seemed a little frightened of him in fact, which suited Crosetti very well. He spent the rest of the afternoon calling people he knew about places to stay, and trolled the Web sites with the same intent. After work, he went by the likeliest place he had found, a room in a loft near the Brooklyn Navy Yard occupied by a friend from college, a freelance sound engineer, and his girlfriend, a singer. The tenant list was rich in media wannabes and the friend said the Navy Yard was destined to be the next Williamsburg. The building stank of old toxins but was full of pale ocher light from the huge, filthy industrial windows and so reminded him painfully of Carolyn's place. As he was a sucking-on-a-bad-tooth sort of fellow, this alone was enough to make the sale, and Crosetti walked down the splintery stairs eight hundred dollars poorer and with a date to move in after Thanksgiving. He then followed a difficult multiple bus route back to the A line and the train to 104th Street, Ozone Park.

As he turned off Liberty Avenue onto 106th Street, where he lived, he pa.s.sed a black SUV with tinted windows. It was not the kind of neighborhood that ran to new, s.h.i.+ny, $40K vehicles, and since he knew every car native to his street, and since Klim's warning of the previous night instantly sprang to mind upon observing it, Crosetti was, if not exactly ready, not completely astounded by what happened next. As he hurried past it, he heard two car doors pop open and the sound of feet on pavement. He turned and saw two men in black leather coats moving toward him. Both were larger than he was and one was a whole lot larger. They had sweats.h.i.+rt hoods drawn tight around their faces and their eyes were obscured by large dark gla.s.ses, which he thought was an indication of bad intent. Without much thought, Crosetti pulled out his father's .38 and shot in the general direction of the larger man. The bullet went through this person's leather jacket and shattered the winds.h.i.+eld of the SUV. Both men stopped. Crosetti raised the pistol and pointed it at the head of the larger man. Both men backed up slowly and reentered their vehicle, which flew from the curb with screaming tires.

Crosetti sat down on the curb and put his head down below his knees until the feeling of wanting to faint and to vomit pa.s.sed. He stared at the pistol, as at an artifact of an alien civilization, and dropped it into his briefcase.

"Albert! What happened?"

Crosetti swiveled around and saw a small gray-haired woman in a pink tracksuit and a heavy pale blue cardigan standing just outside the front door of her bungalow.

"It's nothing, Mrs. Conti. Some guys tried to kidnap me and I shot one of them and they went away. It's all over."

Pause. "You want me to call 911?"

"No, thanks, Mrs. Conti. I'll call it in myself."

"Madonna! This used to be a nice neighborhood," said Mrs. Conti and returned to her kitchen.

Crosetti picked himself up and walked on wobbly legs to his house. An elderly Cadillac hea.r.s.e shone at the curb, and he regarded it sourly as he walked up the driveway to the back door. He wanted to slip through the kitchen, maybe pour himself a tumbler full of red wine and then up to his room for a nice rest, but no, Mary Peg was there twenty seconds after he had eased the door shut.

"Allie! There you are. I've been trying to get you all day. Don't you respond to messages anymore?"