The book, p.28
The Book, page 28
The breath caught in Holden’s chest as they entered the city in their scrappy van. The last time he had been anywhere near the spotless buildings that passed leisurely by their vintage, rain-saturated windows, he had been running. In the opposite direction. The most frightening bite of that sandwich was that, from the perspective of the Publishing House, nothing had changed. Right now it tasted good to be back with a plan to take them down, but it could turn stale and soggy real quick if they were seen. Just in case, Holden tipped the brim of his cowboy hat over his eyes and waited for them to reach the hotel.
Minutes later, Marion called from the back seat with the digital map in her palm. “Moby, we’re looking for Hotel Tailor. It’s supposed to be up here on Independence and New Jersey.”
Holden tilted his hat and peeked out the window to see the hotel. The structure had been comprised of an enormous collection of separately built boxes and geometric shapes that pierced one another with erratic intention. The glass windows that looked down on the van with disgust, popped from the ridges of the building at the most irregular, unexplainable intervals.
“Don’t you think this is a bit flashy for us?” Holden mused, recalling how important it had been for him to look inconsequential to the world only weeks earlier.
“No, this is perfect,” Winston cheered, nodding. “No one would expect that we would be paying eight thousand dollars a night.”
Marion wanted to cry out, but she lost her voice. It took an extra moment to react. “What? That’s crazy! Do you know how much we could do with that money back at the house?”
“Yes, and we’re using it tonight. We are making this happen. And if this is happening tomorrow, it is very crucial that we sleep free and protected this evening. Even if that means we have to spend eight thousand per person.”
“I thought you said per night?”
“Per person,” he corrected.
“Awhoooo…”
The van was getting warm.
“Marion, don’t worry about it,” Moby told her, as he drove the classic mini-van toward the valet. “The guy’s loaded.”
A young, very chipper valet opened the passenger-side door and greeted them with a smile.
“Be a good man and take this wretched walker away from me.”
“Now, now…” Marion declared, suddenly forced to play the character they had decided would work best. “It’s my job to look after you and I’m planning to have a good night’s sleep. So you grab onto those handlebars and keep chuggin’, pilgrim. Lift, one two. Lift, one two. Remember? It’s a little dance, all the way to the room.” Marion leaned toward the valet and nudged him with her elbow. “Otherwise, I’ll be hearing it all night. My legs. My legs. Why’d you let me walk?”
The valet giggled, “Can’t have that.”
“No, we cannot. You guys coming or what? This guy’ll park our car for us, ya’ know.”
“Yeah, I’m coming.” The broad, sliding door on the opposite side of the van shot open with an ungreased twang and Holden hopped out wearing his slouched cowboy hat and dark sunglasses. According to Winston, and according to his checking account, Holden’s hat and boots were extremely expensive. But, apparently, it was worth the price to achieve the perfect balance of curiosity and disinterest needed to keep the vultures off their backs.
Moby stepped from the driver’s seat, flicked the keys to the valet and ambled back to the hatch where he tugged out a few bags almost as large as him and tossed them easily onto the nearby cart. A bellman noticed and skipped forward with a chirpy little grin.
“I’ll handle this, kid,” Moby warned. A few of the suitcases were empty and he didn’t need the whispering of a punky bellman to ruin everything.
“Actually, sir, it’s hotel policy that guests not take the…”
“Kid. You hear me now?” Moby snapped two of his fingers out and the boy could see a hundred mixed into the fold of the deliciously green bills.
“Certainly, sir. Right this way.” He motioned for them to follow and the unlikely quartet of law-breaking, anarchist book lovers entered the hotel lobby and looked for a place to sit.
They had previously agreed that Moby would keep an eye on the bags, Winston would check them in (because of cameras) and Holden and Marion would keep a low profile somewhere near a coffee machine. As soon as Winston finished paying for their thirty-two thousand dollar (plus twelve percent tax) hotel room, they were ushered through the hallways by the bellman and left to rise to the top floor alone aboard the crystalline elevators.
The ride wasn’t very long. It was illegal to construct tall buildings in Washington DC and naughty to even throw shadows on the more important ones. From their viewpoint, through their glass windows that swapped from opaque to clear with a twist of a knob on the wall, they were able to look out upon the white city and see the object of their focus beyond the bustle. Moby, Winston and Marion stared at the Library of Congress and envisioned the many steps each of them would have to take before they’d be on their way home, a success. Holden stared instead at a building to the left of the hotel. It was very average looking. Simple, square structure with stone and glass and steel and stone and glass. And steel. It had a nearly nonexistent entrance and didn’t grab much attention from the sidewalk. There was no signage on the building or any feature that was worth noting other than a feathery metal sculpture that could be seen through the lobby windows and an exquisite emergency exit door.
“Is that it, Holden?” Marion asked, as she noticed him staring away at the building. “The Publishing House?”
“First three floors, at least. Simple, isn’t it?”
“I would have never known,” Winston muttered as he followed their eyes toward the building. “My mother worked there for thirty-seven years. I knew the name of the airport, the street she worked on and the floor, but I never saw an image of the building. I suppose they kept that secret for a reason.”
“That’s why I sketched out the plans,” Holden finished, stepping back from the window. His eyes were done seeing things that only pissed him off. “Who knows, maybe we’ll need to access that building one day. Now, at least, you’ll know which one it is.”
“Doesn’t matter though.” Marion added, “As long as you know which one it is we could always come back.”
Holden looked back at her and smiled, reluctantly. “Right. Totally.” Holden knew she was fishing. Marion seemed to believe, just as much as he did, that this trip was of the one-way type and she wanted to know why Holden thought the same. He turned toward the room and left her a warm smile instead.
Without talking it through, they unpacked the small amount they had brought with them and walked the open suitcases to the closet as a group. They had brought them along for the ride, hoping that the woman from the Library of Congress would be bringing them some books that evening. There was no guarantee of this, of course, but Winston’s contact said the woman was more than eager to save anything she could.
They tried to relax and use the volumetric expanse of their suite to spread out, maybe put their legs up a bit, but the sudden shift from days of focused driving to minutes of waiting around was insufferable. Winston forced them to order something off the room service menu but even his stomach, the one that was usually pleased with anything, wasn’t agreeing with him. Marion ordered a fruit plate and most of them abandoned the extravagant meals that came up to the room on fine, shiny china for a handful of red grapes and a bite of imported Havarti.
Time passed slowly in that room and they decided it was best to leave the television off and listen to the rain that seemed to follow them to the capital. It was better to avoid hearing any news about Holden, or seeing his face at the bottom of the screen and being reminded of the obstacles ahead and the odds that were stacked higher than the clouds against them.
At nine thirty-one in the evening a knock came at the door.
Wordless, they thought they had imagined it.
At nearly nine thirty-two, it came again.
Moby, being the most oppressive and least recognizable, went to the door and looked through the eyehole. With the distorted viewpoint, the woman appeared very round and, at the same time, very thin. Her eyes darted back and forth and she seemed to be mumbling, as if debating with herself why she hadn’t gone home. Moby opened the door and, in quite an ordinary way, to avoid any increase in tension, greeted the woman with a gentle smile.
“You must be Rosemary.”
“Yes…yes…” she stammered, rocking in place with two nylon, department store bags held at her sides. Her gray and blonde streaked hair hung in sweaty ropes from her scalp and her thick, librarian eyeglasses hung low on her nose. Moby could tell she was impatient to push them back into place.
“Please come in. We’ve been expecting you.”
Marion looked across the room at Holden, her cropped black hair swinging over her fretful eyes as her lips folded under each other. There was no going back now. Any opportunity they’d had to turn around had vanished. Gone with the wind.
Winston couldn’t have been more thrilled to see her. He was sick of waiting around and had been looking forward to discovering what she had brought with. He hobbled out from one of the side bedrooms and, leading with his left leg, extended a hand as he approached. It took him ten steps to reach Rosemary, but she warmed in the presence of his simple temperament.
“I’m Winston. I am so, so overjoyed to see you,” he gleamed, releasing her hand. “We have much to talk about.”
“Not too much, I hope,” she replied, looking jumpy.
“Is there something wrong?” Marion asked, eyeing the canvas bags.
“No. I’ve just…never been involved in anything like this before. I’m not really the adventurous type.”
“Neither are we. Join the club.”
“Quite literally…do.” Winston chuckled, stupidly. “We have no membership fees and all we ask is that you clip down that flimsy nail on your pointer finger.” Rosemary stifled a giggle at Winston’s charm and searched for a seat nearby.
“Can we get you anything to drink or eat?” Moby inquired, nervously.
“I’m fine. Thank you. If it’s alright…with you…I would like to discuss the matter and head out. It’s not that I am not behind this one hundred percent. I am.” She calmed for a moment before repeating, “I am. I simply don’t do very well under such…pressure.”
“You’re doing just fine,” Holden said, stepping around Moby to console her. With his hat, glasses and outfit removed, she recognized him instantly from the television and a sudden understanding washed over her.
“That’s why you’re wanted. Because of this. Because of The Book.” She took another look at Marion and began to nod unhurriedly. “Both of you. You aren’t involved with The Free Thinkers at all.”
“No,” Winston confirmed, with a curl of his nose. “An untruth that has been thrust upon them.”
Rosemary nodded and seemed to relax. Although this was another layer to the cake that unquestionably increased her level of danger, it also added an engaging certainty that she had previously been unable to grasp. That everything Winston had told her friend was entirely true and that, with her job, she had been the literal embodiment of in the right place at the right time.
Over coffee (and cake), they discussed the plan for the next day. How Rosemary would begin moving some of the more important books at an earlier hour and how she would leave a few specific doors unlocked for Holden. Since her position at the library was rather elevated, her access was shockingly unlimited and she chose to memorize the list they provided her of the most important books in history, the ones she needed to work the hardest at retrieving, for her own safety.
“They can’t search my mind,” she noted, timidly. “Not yet, at least.”
“I’m sure that’s something they’re working on,” Moby added.
The laugh they shared was much needed because the discussion was about to elevate. About to get serious. And dangerous. Holden needed to talk to her about the fire.
The one detail they had not been sure of was where in the library to actually ignite the blaze. From the plans he and Shane had reviewed, there were nine areas that seemed most likely to stay aflame if all of the fire protection was off. What they needed to know was which of the nine corners had a collection of books that was alright to destroy. The topic was very sensitive to all of them and they had to force themselves to remember what they were doing it for and that their mission made sense and that it was all for the greater good. Some books were sacrificing themselves to save others. The ones that would change things.
Rosemary didn’t even hesitate as she scanned the digital blueprints.
“This is the spot. Right here,” she said, pointing. “No books. Just a card catalog. That can burn.”
Holden circled it with a stylus pen and closed the log book. “Once the fire is set, there won’t be much time. This stuff is old. It’s going to light up real quick and we have to make sure the fire reaches high enough to react with the sprinkler heads. Once it does, all the sequences in the system will try to exterminate the fire, but I’ll have shut those down already. The sprinkler heads will come on. They will sputter and trail off to a dull spray that won’t be effective against the blaze. Leaving me enough time to escape,” he lied, hoping no one would catch it, “That’s when you overreact and begin all those security measures we talked about.”
“And there’s a lot to that,” she breathed, imagining the turmoil. “There’s a full team of guards and an office staffed with people that are instructed not to leave in case of a fire. They have to help save the books.”
“Well, Uncle Sam must keep up appearances,” Winston added.
“After that,” Holden continued, “when the first truck is full and sent down the street, the one with as many of the books from that list as possible, you leave the building. At that point, Marion will be standing by to call Winston and tell him that it’s left the building. Winston, you will be here at the window watching the truck with binoculars. Once the truck reaches the intersection we discussed, you will call Moby. Then Moby –”
“I take over, man. Like I said, I’ve got a group of guys on standby. All they know is that it’s a heist and that they’re well paid.”
“By that time, Marion and I meet outside and move to the hotel while the fire department takes care of the building and saves the rest of the books. We arrive in ten minutes and then the three of us check out and drive home where we’ll meet up with Moby. That’s it.” Holden looked around the room and felt the need to prepare them for what was actually going to happen. When they find themselves wondering why he hadn’t left the building. “All I want to add is that it’s very likely we may come upon a few hitches here and there. Some things might not go exactly to plan and when that happens, don’t panic. Just take a second. Regroup. And then try to develop a secondary option of what you can do in the moment. If that happens, remind yourself that we have thought out every detail and that the plan is still going to work. Alright?”
They all agreed and Holden agreed with them, knowing that it would not at all go to plan. He was going to stay behind as the fire climbed the walls and he was going to wait until the fire department arrived to make sure that nothing and no one could come and ruin it all.
After working out a few of the minor details, Rosemary took the two canvas bags that she had left near the door and brought them to a table at the center of the room. One by one, she removed the books, like a midwife removing innocent twins from a mother’s womb, and laid them out upon the crystal glass surface as gently as her muscles allowed. The four of them circled the table and admired the majestic pieces, each one from the top of their list of importance. A few times Winston stumbled in place, as if he hadn’t believed a real copy existed. Once, when Rosemary took out The Valiance of Raphael Petitto, he reached for Moby’s hand and gripped it tightly, pulling the man’s enormous meat cleaver to his chest to stabilize his lungs as raspy, disbelieving breaths escaped his cheeks. Not only were the books on the table some of the most precious in the world, but they were in near mint condition. Their spines. Their bindings. Their covers and pages. Perfect. The four of them had never seen a book in such condition outside of a museum and it was a shock they had not been expecting. If these were the emotions they would feel over two canvas bags, how would their group react when Moby returned to Holden’s estate with truck loads?
Rosemary folded the green, reusable canvas bags with the seal of the Library of Congress stamped onto the handles and stuffed them indifferently into the garbage. “This is all I could get…I mean…all I felt safe taking. I could have gotten more. I know I could have. I just felt so nervous.”
Holden bellowed a deep laugh and collected himself quickly. “If you even knew what you have done for our cause, you wouldn’t be saying that. Just a few of these books are worth the trip down here.”
“Just this book,” Winston stammered, reaching out for a novel that rested alone at the corner of the table. He almost didn’t want to touch it, as if the acid in his fingers would turn it to dust.
Rosemary reached for her purse and jacket. “I’m afraid I must go. We’ve talked much longer than I was comfortable with and, what with the curfew, I think I shouldn’t push my luck.”
“Curfew?” Marion questioned. “What are you talking about?”
“Right. You’re not from around here. It was the Department of Environmentalism’s idea. A way to conserve our energy resources by enacting a curfew every night from eleven o’clock until four. During that time, there’s only minimal electricity available and stoplights stay on for safety. That way it will keep people off the streets, generate less crime and the police will be able to monitor while we conserve energy at an outrageous rate.”
