reaching across the table. Every once in a while, Hayden felt like both the luckiest and the cleverest man in the world. This was one of those moments, sealed with a handshake. “You have a deal.”
“A re you going to tell me what the hell happened?” Kate asks.
Hayden nods.
“Thank God.”
“Oh, please, feel free to call me Mr. Gray.”
“Har-har.”
He hands her the final stack of clothing. “It looks like our subject may not be the correct individual.”
Kate stares at Hayden, uncomprehending. The freelance techs at the university in Heidelberg have spent months searching for this guy, mining the planet-wide ether for someone who could be fabricating a biography of one of the most powerful men in the world. Finally the German nerds found an IP address that was regularly clicking through to old newspaper articles, to video clips and photos, all consistent with researching Charlie Wolfe. They matched this web-access ID to a telephone number in the same location that had been placing calls to the States regularly. Calls to Wolfe’s family and classmates, to colleagues and politicians, to journalists.
That’s when Kate descended on Copenhagen. She’d been chasing other leads around the Continent—an apartment in Seville and a farmhouse in the Dordogne, a cottage in the Cotswolds and a villa on Lipari—for the better part of the spring, and had been on the road full-time for a couple of weeks. She hastily rented this apartment across Nørrebrogade, moved in bare-bones furnishings, and hired the rest of the local team, freelancers. After a couple of days, certain that she’d found the author, she called in Hayden.
“How is that possible?” She zips her bag closed.
Hayden grabs the handle of Kate’s bag, hefts it to the floor.
“Grundtvig is a diligent researcher. We’ve— I’ve —listened to all his calls.” She’s defending her own diligence, her tactics. Defending herself. “And what he’s researching is definitely Wolfe.”
“Yes he is,” Hayden agrees. “And we’ve seen every thing he’s done, correct?”
She nods.
“But somehow a few days ago a hard copy of his manuscript—what we have to assume is his finished manuscript—was delivered to the expected literary agent in New York, without any of us seeing him mail a hard copy. Without us having intercepted an e-mail with a manuscript attached. And most puzzling, without the researcher”—gesturing at the window—“ceasing to work on the manuscript.”
Hayden can see Kate’s gears spinning, trying to figure this out, just as he himself was, an hour earlier.
“What’s going on across the street,” she says, “isn’t what we think is going on.”
He picks up a flat-head screwdriver from the kitchen counter. “No, it doesn’t look that way.”
Hayden has always known that Grundtvig is not the real author. But he was hoping that Grundtvig would have regular—or at least occasional—contact with the real author, and would lead to him. It’s almost inconceivable that this hasn’t yet happened.
He walks across the room. With a quick shove of his foot, he moves the mattress to an angle. He kneels on the bare wooden planks, and uses the screwdriver to pry up a board. He reaches into the floor cavity and removestwo pairs of gloves. He hands one to Kate, then pulls on the other, tugging and twisting the snug leather into place.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
He reaches into the floor again and retrieves two inexpensive 9-millimeters, clean untraceable weapons with the identifying markings filed off. Hayden’s general conviction is that very few problems are solved with a gun. The violence just shifts the problem, usually compounding it. But sometimes there’s really no choice.
“Our friend”—Hayden motions with one of the guns—“must have some connection to the actual author. We haven’t found that connection through his web or phone activity, but I have to imagine we’ll find it on his hard
“A re you going to tell me what the hell happened?” Kate asks.
Hayden nods.
“Thank God.”
“Oh, please, feel free to call me Mr. Gray.”
“Har-har.”
He hands her the final stack of clothing. “It looks like our subject may not be the correct individual.”
Kate stares at Hayden, uncomprehending. The freelance techs at the university in Heidelberg have spent months searching for this guy, mining the planet-wide ether for someone who could be fabricating a biography of one of the most powerful men in the world. Finally the German nerds found an IP address that was regularly clicking through to old newspaper articles, to video clips and photos, all consistent with researching Charlie Wolfe. They matched this web-access ID to a telephone number in the same location that had been placing calls to the States regularly. Calls to Wolfe’s family and classmates, to colleagues and politicians, to journalists.
That’s when Kate descended on Copenhagen. She’d been chasing other leads around the Continent—an apartment in Seville and a farmhouse in the Dordogne, a cottage in the Cotswolds and a villa on Lipari—for the better part of the spring, and had been on the road full-time for a couple of weeks. She hastily rented this apartment across Nørrebrogade, moved in bare-bones furnishings, and hired the rest of the local team, freelancers. After a couple of days, certain that she’d found the author, she called in Hayden.
“How is that possible?” She zips her bag closed.
Hayden grabs the handle of Kate’s bag, hefts it to the floor.
“Grundtvig is a diligent researcher. We’ve— I’ve —listened to all his calls.” She’s defending her own diligence, her tactics. Defending herself. “And what he’s researching is definitely Wolfe.”
“Yes he is,” Hayden agrees. “And we’ve seen every thing he’s done, correct?”
She nods.
“But somehow a few days ago a hard copy of his manuscript—what we have to assume is his finished manuscript—was delivered to the expected literary agent in New York, without any of us seeing him mail a hard copy. Without us having intercepted an e-mail with a manuscript attached. And most puzzling, without the researcher”—gesturing at the window—“ceasing to work on the manuscript.”
Hayden can see Kate’s gears spinning, trying to figure this out, just as he himself was, an hour earlier.
“What’s going on across the street,” she says, “isn’t what we think is going on.”
He picks up a flat-head screwdriver from the kitchen counter. “No, it doesn’t look that way.”
Hayden has always known that Grundtvig is not the real author. But he was hoping that Grundtvig would have regular—or at least occasional—contact with the real author, and would lead to him. It’s almost inconceivable that this hasn’t yet happened.
He walks across the room. With a quick shove of his foot, he moves the mattress to an angle. He kneels on the bare wooden planks, and uses the screwdriver to pry up a board. He reaches into the floor cavity and removestwo pairs of gloves. He hands one to Kate, then pulls on the other, tugging and twisting the snug leather into place.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
He reaches into the floor again and retrieves two inexpensive 9-millimeters, clean untraceable weapons with the identifying markings filed off. Hayden’s general conviction is that very few problems are solved with a gun. The violence just shifts the problem, usually compounding it. But sometimes there’s really no choice.
“Our friend”—Hayden motions with one of the guns—“must have some connection to the actual author. We haven’t found that connection through his web or phone activity, but I have to imagine we’ll find it on his hard
Similar Books
