Tommy moved one of his gaming pieces and glanced up at Gryffin. “Want to play? Might help pass the time.”
Gryffin shook his head, and the siblings bent over the playing board.
I stood and watched them, brooding. Tindra said I was free to go, but I was reluctant to leave Gryffin. I knew he’d rat me out to the cops in a heartbeat once he had the chance.
And who was Tindra Bergstrand? All I knew was that she had enough money to purchase a rare book that was worth more than I cared to contemplate; a book that, so far, had left more bodies in its wake than the Maltese Falcon. I didn’t want to be another one.
I stared at my feet. I wished I’d never seen Gryffin again. I wished I was back in Reykjavík with Quinn. I wished I never bought that posh leather bag or the cashmere hoodie. Now I only had five hundred euros left.
But if I could find the book before Tindra did—or Gryffin, or the cops—and if I could find Quinn, and if Quinn could find a buyer, the two of us would finally have enough money to get away someplace safe. I wouldn’t have to return to a landlord waiting to boot me out of my rent-stabilized crib so he could sell the building to a developer who’d raze it and put up a high-rise that would block the sun for whatever poor schmoes were still holding out on Houston Street.
And Quinn wouldn’t have to return to living in a sheet-metal Quonset hut in Reykjavík, selling off his dwindling collection of rare vinyl. We could go to Greece. We could go anywhere.
If we found the book. If I found Quinn. Except I had no more idea where Quinn was than Tindra’s stolen book: only the words rotherhithe darwin, a persistent taunting whisper in my head.
I took a deep breath and walked over to the Space Invaders console, motioning for Gryffin to follow. After a glance at the twins, he joined me.
“Give me your mobile,” I said.
“What?”
“Your mobile—give it to me.”
“Forget it.”
Lyla glanced at us, frowning. I gave her a little wave and leaned into Gryffin.
“Gryffin, do not be an asshole. They’re not letting you out of here, not anytime soon. This way I can use your contacts, people you know who know Harold. Maybe someone has heard something.”
“You don’t even know how to use a smartphone.”
This was true. Before he could move, I snatched the mobile from his pocket. “What’s your password?”
I thought he might finally lose it. Instead, after a moment he muttered it under his breath.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I rolled my eyes and tapped in “B00KS.” “Okay, show me your contacts in London. Bookdealers, runners, anyone who might help me.”
“No one’s going to help you, Cass. You don’t know anything about books.”
“I worked at the Strand for thirty-three years.”
“In the stockroom!”
“Listen to me. Who else knows about The Book of Lamps and Banners?”
“No one.”
“Bullshit. The guy who bought it in Baghdad, he knows. Your guy at Berkeley suspected something.”
“They’re both dead.”
“Right, and I’m trying not to see a pattern there. Harold’s accountant must know something, if he just wired money. Tindra knows. And them.”
I cocked a thumb at the twins. “That’s three dead people and six live ones, counting us. Which is a lot of people to know about something that’s supposed to be a secret. Did Harold have any enemies? A rival?”
“The book business doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, something fucking works like that. Come on, Gryffin! Anyone who knows Harold, anyone who might know about this book? Dealers or, I dunno, alchemists.”
Gryffin removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me think.” He took the mobile from me and began to scroll through his contacts. “Nathan Ballingstead, he lives in Wapping. A runner.”
“Who else?”
“Lucy Ryman-Briggs used to have a shop in Farringdon. But she only sells online now, I haven’t talked to her in a while. Malloy Townson—another runner, he’s pretty sketchy. I don’t have an address for him, and I don’t know if that phone number’s still good.”
“Who else do you know who’s sketchy? Because those are the people who might actually be useful.”
He tapped the mobile’s screen. “This guy. And maybe him, he’s in Clerkenwell.” He sighed. “That’s it. Not many people still doing business.”
“Do any of these people know you’re here?”
“No.”
“That’s good.”
Gryffin’s scowl suggested he thought otherwise. I let my lips brush his ear.
“Gryffin,” I murmured. “If they don’t know you’re here, they won’t know you’re missing, and they won’t call the cops. We do not want to call the cops. Got that?”
I slid the mobile into my pocket, and he grabbed my hand. “What the hell are you doing? Give me that!”
“No way. Hey,” I called over to Lyla and Tommy. “Can one of you let me out of here?”
As Lyla stood, Gryffin turned to me. “Goddamn it, Cass. Go to the consulate. Or call them anonymously. Something. You have to do something.”
“I am doing something. Look at the bright side—maybe Tommy will teach you how to play Missile Command.”
Lyla escorted me to the underground garage. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she warned. “My brother served in Afghanistan. He came back different. Episodes. He couldn’t find work. Tindra’s my best friend, she hired him. Both of us. Now go.”
She gave me a push and closed the door.