When he finished, Carlisle said, “Obviously, our priority is getting the manuscripts. Catching the crook would be nice, but right now that doesn’t really matter.”

Elaine said, “So, we’re not including the FBI?”

Farley said, “Legally, we don’t have to. There is nothing wrong with a private transaction, but we’d like your thoughts. You know them much better than we do.”

Elaine shoved the folder a few inches away and thought about her response. She spoke slowly, every word measured. “I talked to Lamar Bradshaw two days ago. The three men who stole the manuscripts are in custody and one has cut a deal. The two accomplices have not been found but the FBI has their names and the search is on. As far as the FBI is concerned, the crime has been solved. They will frown on such a private deal, but they will understand. Frankly, they’ll be relieved if the manuscripts are returned.”

“You’ve done this before?” Carlisle asked.

“Oh yes, several times. The ransom is secretly paid. The goods are returned. Everybody is happy, especially the owner. And the crook, too, I suppose.”

Carlisle said, “I don’t know. We have a great relationship with the FBI. They’ve been superb from the beginning. It just doesn’t seem right to exclude them at this point.”

Elaine replied, “But they have no authority in France. They’ll be forced to bring in the authorities over there and we’ll lose control. A lot of people will get involved and it could get messy. One small mistake, something no one can predict beforehand, and the manuscripts are gone.”

Farley asked, “Assuming we get them back, how will the FBI react when it’s over?”

She smiled and said, “I know Lamar Bradshaw pretty well. If the manuscripts are safely tucked away in your library and the thieves are in prison, he’ll be a happy boy. He’ll keep the investigation open for a few months and maybe the crook will make a mistake, but before long he and I will have a drink in Washington and share a good laugh.”

Carlisle looked at Farley and Kendrick, and finally said, “Okay. Let’s proceed without them. Now the sticky question of the money. Mr. Lance?”

The CEO cleared his throat and said, “Well, we’re on the hook for twenty-five million, but that’s for a complete loss. This is shaping up to be something far different.”

“Indeed it is,” Carlisle said with a smile. “Assuming the crook has all five, the math is easy. Of the twenty, how much might you be willing to kick in?”

Without hesitation, Lance said, “We’ll do half. No more.”

Half was more than Carlisle was hoping for, and as an academic he felt somewhat off balance trying to negotiate with a hardened CEO of an insurance company. He looked at Farley and said, “Arrange the other half.”

11.

On the other side of Rue St.-Sulpice, and less than forty feet from the front door of Librairie Gaston Chappelle, was the Hôtel Proust, an old, quaint, four-story place with typically cramped rooms and a single elevator barely large enough for one adult and his or her luggage. Bruce used a fake Canadian passport and paid cash for a room on the third floor. In the window he set up a small camera aimed at the front of Gaston’s shop. He watched the live footage on his iPhone in his room at the Hôtel Delacroix, around the corner on Rue de Seine. Noelle, in her room at the Hôtel Bonaparte, watched it too. On her bed were the five manuscripts, each in a different type of bag.