“There aren’t enough years left in the universe,” he said, staring at the pages he had torn out, “the weak will not survive.”

“Personal opinion?” I asked, my fingers just touching the magazine.

“Corporate policy. Crabbe? Would you?”

A foot descended on my hands from a second assailant, one whom I had not seen. I would have cried out in pain if I weren’t already in pain.

“Okay, okay,” I said, handing him the pistol, “let me keep my fingers.”

“It’s good news for you that you’re Protocol 451,” Crabbe breathed close to my ear. “It would give me immeasurable pleasure to put an end to the once-magnificent Thursday Next.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for? I might be able—”

I stopped, because when I turned back to look at Jack, he had gone.

“Time to go,” said Crabbe. “I hope we don’t meet again— next time I won’t be so charitable.”

He took my arm, twisted it until I crumpled in a heap, then walked across to where Jack had been standing. The book was lying on the floor, splayed downward, pages crumpled against the stone.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic sack, much like an evidence bag. He cracked it open, dropped the two pages Jack had been reading inside, zip-locked it, then broke a large phial that was inside the bag. There was a hissing noise, and he shook the bag twice, then let it fall to the floor, where it bubbled quietly to itself.

“Time to go,” he said again, and moved to the center of the room, where the shattered trapdoor was positioned. He fired a flare gun through the aperture and then jumped up, grabbed the parapet and was out in an instant. I heard his footfalls on the roof t a k i ng severa l long paces, t hen a pause, t hen t he high-pitched whine of a fast rope descender. I frowned. Now that I’d heard Crabbe’s descender I realized that I hadn’t heard Jack’s.

As the light from the parachute flare flickered red through the narrow window slits, the diversionary gunfire abruptly stopped, and within a few minutes it was calm once more, the only noises those from nuns who’d been wounded in the action.

“Shit,” I said, to no one in particular.

18. Tuesday: Smalls

18.

Tuesday: Smalls