He felt a twinge of guilt when he thought about the trembling, emaciated young man who had come in out of the rain that afternoon, stammering that he needed cash and would Van Beek be interested in purchasing an extremely old book. But it was just a brief twinge, for the man was clearly a drug addict. If he had paid him more, he would just have shot it into his arm. Besides, he had probably stolen it. Junkies are always stealing things, aren’t they?
He carefully opened the massive vellum-bound volume and gazed at the rows of hand-painted uncial letters. He couldn’t read medieval Occitan, but based on his rudimentary knowledge of Latin he guessed that the title Nostre Conselh meant something like “Our Council.” It was an odd language--a mix of Latin and old French, the long-dead language of the Gnostic Cathars and the wandering Troubadours of Provence.
And the sight of this legendary book took his breath away.
The infamous book of the Morning Star was real after all! Oh, he had heard wild rumors over the years: a dealer in Budapest claimed that a friend of a friend had seen it when he witnessed a rite performed by a Satanic coven. A scholar of Troubadour poetry claimed she saw a passage copied from it, preserved in the personal library of an art collector in Marseilles. A librarian in Madrid said she saw it in a bookshop, but when she returned with more cash to buy it, it was gone. A Jesuit supposedly told a reporter that the book had been burned centuries ago. But all these rumors were merely that: rumors. No one actually seemed to own the book. Until now. And this musty old book would soon make him rich beyond his wildest dreams.
The tiny bell on the doorframe tinkled and a man entered the shop. This visitor was tall, dressed in a long black coat with a lambs wool collar and black kid gloves. It took Van Beek a moment to recognize his old client. It had been years since they last met at the Frankfurt Book Fair. They always conducted their business transactions over the phone and by conventional mail. Never over the Internet.
“Good to see you again, Mynheer Van Beek,” the man greeted in a carefully modulated voice. A thin smile spread across his hawk-like features as he looked at the large volume on the desk. “Is that the book?”
“Yes yes,” Van Beek replied eagerly “It is right here … right here in front of us … the long-lost bible of the Morning Star! I am still having a hard time believing that I am actually looking at it.”
The man in black nodded slowly, but said nothing, trying hard to conceal his excitement. Behind him, raindrops sparkled on the bookshop windows.
“All my life I thought it was a myth!” Van Beek continued breathlessly. “But here it is. You see it with your own eyes!”
“And you are convinced it is genuine--”
“There is no doubt in my mind. Not one iota. Here, have a look at the exquisite lettering … the beautiful roundels.”
Van Beek handed the visitor a large magnifying glass.
He held it up to his face and examined a page of the book. Through the lens, his eye looked monstrously large.
“It looks old, Mynheer, but can you tell me anything about the provenance? Anything at all?”
“As you know, my clients enjoy confidentiality. I can tell you only that a certain gentleman came into the shop yesterday. He was a well-dressed, cultivated man who told me that circumstances required him to sell an ancient volume that had been preserved in his chateau for centuries. He drove a very hard bargain, but I stretched my resources to the limit to acquire it.”
“So, Myheer … we agreed on half a million Euros …”
“Ah … well … since we spoke yesterday, I have received more interest in the book.”
The visitor raised an eyebrow.
“You have shown it to others?”
“You are trying to initiate a bidding war, I assume.”
“Sir, the book business is not a lucrative place to be these days, and I am not a young man. I shall have to retire before too long.”
“Tell me who else is bidding.”
Van Beek squirmed in his chair.
“Please … you know I cannot do that.”
“But it would be only fair to give me a clue as to whom I am up against.”
“I cannot reveal the names of my clients.”
“Van Beek, we have had an excellent business relationship for many years--”
“And I value that relationship, but … all right, I shall give you a clue, but this is all I can tell you: I have reason to believe that the Morgan Library in New York may be interested. You understand that books like this come along only once in a century … maybe even several centuries.”
The visitor unbuttoned his coat.
“Mynheer,” I have recently experienced a financial setback. My funds are temporarily … constrained.”
“Perhaps you need some time to line up investors,” van Beek suggested, closing the book. “I can give you a few days. But then--”
When he looked up from the desk he saw that his visitor was now pointing a revolver at him. A strange-looking cylindrical object was fastened to the muzzle. In that slow-motion interval between the anticipation of death and its arrival, Van Beek heard a muffled POP … POP …