The Diaries - 01 (18 page)

Four
possibilities, all enormous publishing houses with a strong presence
worldwide.
 
He would need senior editors,
but he also knew enough about publishing to know that they wouldn’t be able to
make the deal on their own, especially out of their Paris office.
 
Not the kind of deal he was going to ask for.

But that was
okay.
 
Once they realized the magnitude
of what he possessed, they’d be on the phone to New York or London, begging for
a preemptive blank check.

He called the
first one, one of the largest publishers in the world, specializing in
everything from children’s picture books to intricate medical textbooks.
 
He asked for a junior editor he’d met at the
Frankfurt Book Fair last year.
 
Voice
mail.
 
Michel touched zero, telling the
operator he needed to speak to him immediately.

“Well, sir, he’s
obviously busy if he didn’t pick—”

“Just get him,
lady!
 
If your company misses out on this
because of your obstinacy, you’ll be a part of France’s thirteen-percent
unemployment.”
 

A pause before her
curt reply.
 
“One moment.”
 

Michel willed
himself to be patient as he heard the hideous on-hold music.
 
After three-minutes, the young editor
answered.
 
Michel reminded him of who he
was, hearing the irritation in the editor’s voice when he asked what the fuss
was all about.

“Go right now to
your most senior editor and tell him or her that tomorrow, at the Ritz Paris,
there will be an auction for a volume of diaries.”

The editor exhaled
so loudly it modulated the reception on the phone.
 
“Diaries?
 
You pulled me from the Monday staff meeting for this?”

“Just tell the
senior most editor…is it a man or a woman?”

The editor’s voice
was monotone.
 
“She’s a woman, a
ball-buster, and doesn’t like junior editors hitting her up with hollow, bullshit
requests on busy Mondays.”

Michel
snorted.
 
“Then tell her that you’re the
last publisher I’ve called, and that many others will be there, and these
diaries will be the most earth-shattering, news-worthy literary finds since
those of Anne Frank.”
 
He paused.
 
“Scratch that…
bigger
than Anne Frank.
 
I
can guarantee you movies, ancillary books and studies, nightly news coverage
for months…not weeks…months.
 
These
diaries will shatter almost every notion about one of,
if not the
, most famous and notorious person to live in the
twentieth century.”

The junior editor
was silent.

“Are you there?”

“I barely know
you, Monsieur Brink.
 
If you’re
exaggerating it could get me—”

“I’m not
exaggerating, not one little whit, and that’s all I’m revealing for now.
 
This is the biggest literary event in your
lifetime, and right now, you can be a hero…or you can fuck it all up.”
 
Michel let that sink in for a few
seconds.
 
“You’ve got
five
minutes.
 
I’ll hold.”

“But she’s in the
staff meeting!”

“Imagine her
missing out on this because you didn’t have the balls to interrupt a piss-ant
meeting about e-readers and some sappy romantic novel that will be forgotten
two months after it’s published.”

“Then tell me
more.
 
Tell me who the diaries are
about.”

“Nothing
more.
 
Four and a half minutes.”

Michel was put
back on hold, to the same pathetic music.
 
He leaned back in the chair, imagining the price the diaries would
command.
 
Ten-million euro.
 
Twenty-million?
 
How do you put a
price on Hitler screwing a Jew, and fathering a child by her?
 
This would be the biggest publishing coup since…since…
he
threw his hands up as a grin split his face…Michel couldn’t find anything
comparable.

As the music
droned on, he thought about the presentation at the Ritz.
 
It has
to be utterly perfect.
 
Quick but expansive.
 
Enough to make the editors shit their pants
but not so much that it won’t leave them dying to hear—

Oh shit,
it just hit him.
 
Monika
or her American better have a credit card with a decent line on it, or we’ll
have to meet in one of the lobbies.
 
Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?
 

Then again, maybe the cozy Bar Hemingway
would be most appropriate.
 
Situated in
the back corner of the Ritz, it opens around five in the afternoon.
 
Perhaps, if given a taste of what’s about to
occur, the general manager of the hotel will agree to a private meeting prior
to the bar’s opening, if for no other reason to be able to say his famous
literary tavern hosted the inking of the largest deal in publishing history.

It will be perfect!
 
Champagne for everyone.
 
Good champagne, too.
 
Michel would have them bring in a tray of
their finest desserts and coffee.
 
He
would introduce Monika and Gregory telling them beforehand, no matter what was
said, to keep quiet.
 
And then, with
great fanfare, Michel would give a five-minute oratory on the diaries, making
the senior editors wait until the very end of his speech to learn of their
shocking content.
 
Upon digesting what
they’d just heard, the editors would be beside themselves, the gargantuan sales
numbers already whirring in their minds like runaway ticker-tape.
 
But of course they would want to
see
the diaries.
 
Michel would bring along a box of his
acid-free latex gloves, making everything seem incredibly well thought
out.
 
He was the expert here.
 
That had to be established from the first ten
seconds.
 
They knew all about new books; but
it was he, Michel Brink, who was master of the antique.
 

He would allow the
editors perhaps fifteen minutes each to examine the diaries, and then one more
hour to get on the phone and finalize their tender.
 
The publishers would have to offer sealed
bids, on thick Ritz stationary.
 
No
conditions, no damned lawyers, just the name of the publisher and an advance of
the sales.
 
There would be a reading of
the bids and a fifteen-minute window for a second bid, and that would be
it.
 
The final shot.
 
He and Monika and the American would retain
the rights, and would demand twenty percent of every printed copy sold.
 
He would demand half, or even more, for
electronic versions.
 
Period.
 
The publishers wouldn’t like the terms, but
they would pay.
 
Someone would surely
pay.

And Michel, like
any good agent, would take home twenty-five percent of the advance.
 
Twenty-five
percent!
 

Tomorrow evening, after
years of pretending to be, Michel Brink would finally be rich.

He leaned back, warmth
flushing his face as he imagined the villa he would buy on the southern coast
of Spain.
 
Not some gauche beachfront
monstrosity, but something tasteful, up in the hills with an azure Mediterranean
view.
 
He would want a swimming pool—the
infinity kind he’d seen at the opulent hotel in Monaco—a cabana, and a personal
library, air-conditioned and loaded with the good books he’d labored so long to
sell but never had the time to enjoy at his leisure.
 
Oh, how
glorious it all will be!
 
They would
get to know him in town, the locals brimming with pleasure each time he graced
their establishment with his presence, and his ubiquitous money.

And no relationships.
 
None!
 
Michel
would give that time, lots of time.
 
Everything changes when a person has money, and all of a sudden he
becomes far more alluring to a wider range of people.
 
Especially those lacking good intentions.
 
No, he would take things slow, making his
home and his new life his focus.
 
He’d
stay clear of the coke and booze, instead focusing on a healthy lifestyle with
the finest fresh fruits and lobster salads.
 
He’d enlist a trainer (
females
only…no relationships!
) telling her he wanted to be no more than seventy-five
kilos by spring.
 
Maybe he would even
keep the shop in Metz as a novelty, allowing Gerard to be the general
manager.
 
He could return for a few weeks
every summer, riding back in on his white horse just to survey his king—

“Michel?”
 
The junior editor.
 
Breathless.

“
Oui
?”

“She wasn’t
pleased with the interruption, but she was
gallingly
intrigued
, I might term it.
 
She said
she will be there.”

“Good.
 
3 p.m. sharp.
 
She should ask the concierge for the location within the hotel.
 
Tell her to come alone.”

“Alone?”

“Those are my
conditions.
 
Thank you and good day.”
 
Michel hung up the phone, clasping his hands
in front of him in a victory pose.
 
The
cut under his eye hurt from his smiling so broadly but the smile faded.
 
There was more work to do.
 
He wrote the name of the publisher on his
legal tablet, placing a bold check mark beside the name.
 
Then he wrote the other three.
 
Once he was done setting up the meeting with
each of them, he needed to think about how to get Monika and her friend Gregory
on board with his grand plan.

He could do it
somehow.
 
He
had
to.

Michel dialed the
next number.

Chapter 6

Detective
Damien Ellis dropped
his bags in the small hotel, using his phrase book to speak to the attendant at
the front desk.
 
After washing his face
and brushing his teeth, he grabbed his just-started Stephen King novel—one of the
oldest ones—and followed the clerk’s directions to a restaurant on the hillside
near the center of the city.
 
It was a
fine, cold day, the remaining snow blowing like dust on the pedestrian streets.
 
Being from the southern U.S., even after
several duty stations with frequent winter weather, snow was still somewhat of a
novelty to him.
 
He took his time as he
walked, focusing on the positives in his life.
 
He was healthy, possessed a keen mind, had a little money in the bank,
and—most important of all—he was on vacation.
 
His sadness had left him on the train; Rose
would want him to have a good time on this trip, and that’s what he intended to
do.
 
His mouth tingled from the
anticipation of his first glass of fine red wine.
 
He smacked his lips, tugging on his hat as he
passed two elderly women.

It was late
afternoon.
 
The owner of the café fawned
over him—her only customer at the moment—as she took his order and personally
prepared his meal.
 
People of African heritage
weren’t all that uncommon in France, but in her café they obviously were.
 
After a glass of gloriously tart
Pouilly-Fumé
with
fresh-baked bread and
salade
verte
, Ellis
gorged himself on
boeuf-bourguignon
while
enjoying half a bottle of perfectly matched 1996 burgundy.
 
He almost offended the proprietor when he
refused dessert, asking instead for a café au
lait
.
 
She reluctantly relented, displaying a regretful
smile at the naïve American as she placed the ghastly epilogue in front of him,
watching him sip it as he nestled himself into the candle-lit booth with his
novel.

Ellis was warm
from the wine and coffee and, as the early evening flurries began again, the
lines on his face lessened while the stress of his recent year began to float
away.
 
His mind, as it often did, turned
to Rose.
 
He thought about the way she used
to playfully untie his tie, back when he had been on the force, nibbling on his
ear as she told him how much she loved him.
 
Sometimes, during her summer breaks from teaching, he would slip by
their small house during his lunch hour, where they would make love as they
listened to classical music or light jazz.
 
She’d always liked it slowly, and traditional, just like the music she
preferred.
 
He missed their Sunday
mornings, before church, when she would bring him his breakfast in bed with the
Sunday paper.
 
On Saturdays, it had
always been her day to be pampered.
 
He
would tend to the house as she had her hair done with all the girls down at
Jenny’s place.
 
It was always an all-day
affair, and Damien had been happy to welcome her home to a spotless house and a
fine roast in the oven.

She’d readily
agreed with his decision to join the Army, eager to see new places.
 
And when he struggled at work, he’d come home
to a glass of wine and she would rub his shoulders and listen to his
troubles.
 
They were truly one spirit,
and now Damien Ellis was forced to relearn life without Rose.

Oh, Rose, my sweet love, I miss you so!

He placed the book
on the table, pausing to stare out the window at the people bustling about as
the ambient light of the short day gave way to twilight.

Then he saw her,
standing the way she always would when she was trying to get his attention, one
arm on her hip, the other arm waving.
 
He
couldn’t hear her, but her mouthed words were as clear to him as if she were
whispering in his ear.
 
The flurries were
collecting on her heavy wool coat and striking cranberry beret. He watched as
she spoke the words, laughing as she mimed them.
 
She said: “Damien, you enjoy yourself, and
that’s an order.
 
Don’t worry about me.
 
You just move along now, because I’m fine.”

She beamed at him,
her large white teeth framed inside her trademark, full red lips.
 
With a final, whimsical wave, Rose turned and
sauntered away, glancing in the store windows before disappearing in the
direction of the Moselle.

Ellis leaned back
in his booth, wiping his eyes with his napkin but not at all sad.
 
There were no other patrons, so he spoke in
his full, bass voice as he stared down the street.
 
“Thanks, Rose.
 
I’m fine, too.”

After several deep
breaths, and without a single care in the world, Damien Ellis resumed his
reading with fervor.
 
Old Stevie was in
rare form in this one.

***

Bruno stiffened,
one of his arms sliding over the table and rousting Leon.
 
“There’s one of the fags, leaving.
 
He’s locking the door.”

Leon had been
dozing, his head resting on his palm.
 
It
was dark outside, the pedestrian street well lit by gas lamps.
 
He rubbed his eyes, watching the employee,
not the owner, as he hurried off down the street, holding the top of his jacket
closed against the flurries and wind.

“Keep watching,”
Leon muttered.
 
“I
gotta
piss.”
 
He walked to the bored-looking
waitress, ordering a pot of coffee and listening to her instructions on how to
find the WC, located down a flight of stairs.

When he returned,
Bruno was animated, motioning with his large paw for Leon to move quickly.

“What is it?”

“Two people just
went inside.
 
The owner unlocked the door
for them.”

“Who were they?”
Leon asked.
 
The waitress arrived with
their coffee.
 
He threw a ten euro bill
at her.

“I
dunno
.
 
A woman, real
pretty, and a man, kind of a big guy.”

“Big as in fat?”

“No.
 
Big as in strong-looking.
 
Not as big as me, but he didn’t look like a pansy
like that little store owner.”

Leon slid into the
booth, removing his pistol from his jacket and concealing it to his side.
 
He checked the chamber to make sure there was
a round seated, instructing Bruno to do the same.

“Are we going in
there?” Bruno asked.

“Damn right we
are.
 
That sonofabitch owes me
money.”
 
Leon reached over the table,
tugging on Bruno’s jacket.
 
“You follow
my lead, and if you see any kind of trouble brewing, you shoot to kill.
 
Do you understand?”

Bruno’s leaden
eyes were coal black.
 
“Do you think I’m
stupid?”

“Just do as I say.”
 
Leon stood.
 
“Let’s go get this item of ‘
immeasurable
value’
.”

***

Michel ushered
Gage and Monika into the back room with great fanfare.
 
One of the work tables was covered in red
felt and in its center, sitting in a silver chiller, was a bottle of Alfred
Gratien
champagne.
 
Next to the chiller, on a small platform, was the 1938 diary.
 
Gage frowned.
 
What is all this?
 
Michel swept to the other side of the table,
sliding fluted glasses in front of them.

“Champagne?”
Monika asked.

Michel removed the
bottle, wiping the cold water from the bottle with a towel.
 
He untwisted the lead wire, turning the
bottle, pressing with his thumbs until the cork blew out, landing after a few
ricochets behind a stack of battered books.

“A celebration,”
he answered after a considerable delay.
 
He poured Monika’s first, then Gage’s, and then filled his own glass,
lifting it.

“To the beginning
of a beautiful, highly profitable partnership.”
 
He touched both of their glasses and drank.

Gage held his
glass in front of him, his brows lowered.
 
“Excuse me, Michel, but what partnership do you speak of?
 
And what happened to your face?”
 
His radar was coming up, a few distant
klaxons ringing in the back of his head.
 
Something was amiss.

After finishing
off half of his glass, Michel suppressed a burp, covering his smiling mouth with
the back of his hand.
 
“Well, Gregory,
after you two retired for the afternoon, I was so excited by the diary that I bumped
my head on a metal shelf.
 
I’m such a
klutz.”
 
He lifted a solitary
finger.
 
“But, as I promised, I began to
do some checking on the value of such a series of diaries.
 
Truthfully, however, I was unable to
determine even a broad range due to the fact that there is no precedent.”

“What do you
mean?” Monika asked.

“These diaries,
sweet cousin,” he said, tapping the 1938 diary, “are worth more than any of us
can imagine.
 
They won’t simply be hot
sellers for a year or two; they will generate millions of sales for decades to
come…maybe even centuries.”

Gage could hear
his pulse in his ears.
 
He concentrated
to control his breathing, but could feel the migraine from earlier in the day,
glowing faintly, painfully, like a smoldering ember in his brain.
 
“Michel, what are you getting at?”

“Gregory,” Michel
said, placing his hand on Gage’s, “do not be angry with me, but I went ahead
and took the liberty of lining up some publishers, heavy-hitters, the biggest
on the globe, to meet with us tomorrow.”

“You did what?”
Gage nearly yelled, his left hand shooting up to press on his temple.
 
Monika gripped Gage’s right arm, restraining
him.

Michel held both
palms up, placating him.
 
“I didn’t tell
them anything identifiable.
 
I didn’t
tell them about either of you, nor did I disclose the content of the diaries.”

Gage’s face was
trembling.
 
Monika looked from him back
to her cousin.
 
“Michel, you shouldn’t
have done that.
 
We’re not interested in
selling, at least not right now.
 
These
diaries could be someone else’s property.
 
There’s a
human life
that
could possibly be upended by their contents.”

“
Moni
, listen to—”

“I’m not
finished,” she hissed.
 
“What you’ve done
is very disrespectful, and I don’t appreciate it one bit.
 
Now pick up your damned phone and cancel
those meetings until we decide, as a group, what to do.”

Michel began to
pout at the rebuke.
 
He looked
plaintively at Gage, his voice trembling.
 
“We’re not talking about insignificant monies here, we’re talking about
a veritable fortune…twenty, thirty million euros plus future royalties!
 
We can find any additional possible rights
holders or decedents later.
 
Hell, we’ll
let the lawyers do all that, but we must go to Paris tomorrow.
 
It’s all set up!”

A loud knock on
the glass door in the front silenced the three of them.
 
Michel and Monika turned to the sound the way
two normal people would.
 
Gage, however, only
glanced towards the sound—then whirled towards the back room, appraising it for
escape routes and possible weapons.

“Stay right
there,” he commanded Michel.
 
“Don’t
answer it.”

Michel blew him
off, seemingly irritated by their not having accepted his proposal with open
arms.
 
He walked to the front.
 
“Let me just see who it is.”
 
He disappeared through the heavy curtains,
muttering something about the clearly posted hours on the front door.

Monika squeezed
Gage’s hand.
 
“I’m so sorry he did
this.
 
He had no right to—”

“Be quiet,” he commanded.
 

“Oh my God,” came
Michel’s muffled voice through the curtain.
 

Gage grabbed
Monika’s hand.
 
“Unlock that back door and
stand in the shadow beside it.
 
Be ready
to run.”
 

He flipped the
coverlet over the diary before scanning the room.
 
His thoughts were sliced by the bell of the
front door, then deep voices.
 
The cold
air rushed into the back of the shop, carrying the smell of burning wood and
rustling the heavy curtain.

 
“Gage, what are you going—”

“Do it now,” he
hissed.
 
Gage’s face and eyes were as
hard as tempered steel.
 
The voices in
the front grew louder; Michel was protesting and then a large man pushed
through the curtain, followed by Michel and a shorter man in an expensive-looking
leather jacket.