“These are not literary times we’re living in.”
“Maybe a freshen up of the shop?”
“And ruin the thrill of the hunt?”
“Indeed. No.”
“What’s this about ignoring your calls?” he said.
“I’ve left a couple of messages on your machine. Have you been getting them?”
“That bloody thing.”
“No matter,” Liesl said. “A trip in person is twice as nice. Do you have a minute now to chat?”
“The crowds will simply have to wait.”
“Oh good,” said Liesl. “I wanted to ask about something you said to me when I ran into you at the book fair.”
It had been stuck in her brain like a splinter since they’d had the conversation. Not in deep enough to find some tweezers to remove it, but an irritant nonetheless. Something she could never quite forget about.
“Good turnout this year,” Don said. “And they poured a lovely rioja at the reception.”
“Do you remember we talked about the Peshawar facsimile?” Liesl said. She cleared a smear of dust off a book jacket with her thumb as she spoke.
“Still hasn’t sold, I’m afraid. Would you like to see it?”
“No, thank you.”
“Pity,” said Don.
“You said I probably wouldn’t be interested in it,” Liesl said. She asked it without making eye contact, without looking up from the dust.
“Well, no. It’s already in your collection.”
“Right,” Liesl said.
“Christopher bought another copy of that facsimile from me, was it five years ago now?”
“From the same printer?”
“From the very same print run,” Don said. “He was amazed by the quality of the reproduction. I suppose you use it for teaching alongside the original?”
She’d thought the truth would be more violent, a confrontation with a savage stranger. But it was gentler than that. It was recognizing someone you were certain you’d seen before and then having their identity reveal itself in your memory.
“We do something like that,” Liesl said. “Thanks so much for your time, Don.”
***
Garber’s office door looked like a fortified bank vault, protected by a twenty-six-year-old administrative assistant armed with hair spray and a pencil skirt.
Liesl watched Garber’s door from the outer hallway and waited for the assistant to need to pee. At her desk, the woman sat with perfect posture, fingers flying over a keyboard that she never once looked at.
A woman like this, Liesl thought, might never abandon her post. She would rush the bank vault; it was the only way.
She walked right past the woman’s desk to Garber’s door. He was sitting in his office chair with his feet up on his desk. Across from him there was another man, another suit, another set of feet on the desk. The men were laughing. Until they saw that they had been interrupted, and then slowly, they were not laughing anymore.
“What is this, Liesl?” Garber said, rising from his desk.
“I’m here to cancel our lunch.”
“My assistant handles my calendar.”
The assistant was standing at the door, powerless despite her hair-spray-and-pencil-skirt armor.
“Fine. Would you like to know why I’m canceling?”
“You’re not canceling. We’re meeting Langdon Sibley.”
“Make up your mind,” Liesl said. “Do you handle your calendar or does your assistant?”
The other suit slowly swung his legs off the desk.
“Are you quite all right, Liesl?” Garber asked.
“Yes. I’m perfect. Better than I’ve long been.”
“So good that you’re barging in on my meeting. Canceling an important commitment?”
She turned her head to the suit. Gave him a long look and a raised eyebrow. He stood and left the room.
“We should go, President Garber,” she said.
“Where?”
“To see the police.”
“I have an appointment to have lunch with a prospective hire, and so do you.”
“I have an appointment with a police detective.”
“You are acting inappropriately.”
She walked to the coat closet in the corner of the room and retrieved his overcoat.
“You’ll want to come to this,” Liesl said.
“And what about Sibley?”
He pulled the coat over his suit jacket, but in his rush and confusion, the sleeve of his suit coat kept bunching and forcing him to take it off and try again.