Miguel followed Dario into the richly appointed study, the image of the dangling, bleeding man still fresh in his mind. Nevertheless, he was calm and impassive; he hadn’t made it this far in the organization by letting shit rattle him. Miguel had never been in this room before, and as he looked around, he stifled a chuckle, imagining a scene from a mob movie. Dario was a small man, but his quiet confidence and the height of the custom desk chair picked up the slack as he seated himself behind the Edwardian walnut desk. He interlaced his fingers on the surface and looked at Miguel with an unreadable expression. Miguel stood equally impassive and waited.
“You show a lot of potential.”
“Thank you, senõr.”
“A lot of my muscle, their brains are in their biceps, you know?”
Miguel nodded.
“But you, you think.”
Another nod.
Dario mirrored the nod, as though satisfied with what he saw, and withdrew a small case from beneath his desk. He opened it, the lid blocking the view of its contents from Miguel. Dario withdrew a pair of loose-fitting gauzy gloves from the box, and then what appeared to be a book. He held it up for Miguel to see. It was housed in an opaque covering, but Miguel could still make out the cover.
“Ulysses.”
“First edition,” Dario confirmed. “I bought it ten years ago. Paid seventy-three thousand.”
Miguel arched a brow.
“I can only imagine what it’s worth now. Well, that’s not true. I know exactly what it’s worth.” He chuckled. Dario replaced the book and withdrew another, a frail copy of The Grapes of Wrath. He replaced it and withdrew a leather journal. Dario handled it as if it were the Centenary Diamond or an unstable isotope; perhaps it was both.
“The Journal of Yasunari Kawabata. Are you familiar with his work?”
“No, senõr.”
“Exceptional novelist. Won the Nobel Prize for literature.”
Miguel nodded.
“I’m auctioning these off at the Torvald rare book auction in Manhattan. I’m assigning you the task of delivering them.” Dario spun the case with uncharacteristic panache, showing the three books, each set in a recessed pocket of the case. Dario’s lips parted in a smile, a gesture so rare Miguel thought it took effort to accomplish.
“You will fly out with the books next week and deliver them to my man at the auction house. Here are the details.” Dario handed him an envelope. “My people at the other end will take it from there. Your job is to deliver the books.” Dario was incredibly strategic in business. No one cog in the wheel ever knew what any other was doing. Miguel would take the case from Point A to Point B and that was that. Explaining to Miguel about the auction was an uncharacteristic and unnecessary sidestep. He felt a flash of irritation that perhaps Dario was doing a little handholding. As if there were anything remotely challenging about delivering a bunch of books to a bunch of stick-up-the-ass collectors. One thought quelled Miguel’s pique; if Dario were auctioning off these books in a legitimate transaction, in a last-minute decision, he must need cash. That in itself was valuable information. Furthermore, accomplishing this errand without incident would improve his standing in Sava’s organization. He of all people understood the patience involved in infiltrations such as this; he was playing a long game. Miguel stood impassive while Dario once again closed the case and returned it to his safe. His desk phone rang, and Dario gave Miguel a curt nod and dismissed him.
Miguel left the house and walked across the grounds to his quarters. He passed the building that held the lab and nodded to the guard outside. He pondered the idea of snatching the toxin from the lab and smuggling it back to his team, concealed in one of the books, but he dismissed the idea immediately. While he had a certain amount of autonomy and latitude in his fieldwork, that was crossing the line to rogue. Miguel continued walking without altering his pace, swinging his hands casually at his side, when another thought halted him. The last informant who’d tried to infiltrate Dario Sava’s organization had been discovered. Sava had sent a spec ops team on a wild goose chase and the inside man on a fool’s errand before skinning him alive. Miguel searched his brain to try to recall the specifics. Sava had sent the informant to Buenos Aires to retrieve a set of custom knives—the instruments of his own death. Miguel shuddered. He thought of the careful way Sava had handled the books, his knowledge of each one. He gave himself a mental get your shit together. He was doing a good job. He was given this task because he showed potential. Miguel continued to his quarters; confident his cover was still intact. But the seed of uncertainty had been planted.