Despite the presence of two bodyguards, the fact that my first experience wearing a thong was confirming all I’d ever supposed about the underwear, and my sheer nerves about what we were doing, I was actually enjoying dinner. Boone was telling me about the time he and his dad had gone ice fishing in Norway only to get stranded on the ice in a blizzard. “We had to eat raw fish for two days, so I’ve never become much of a fan of sushi,” he said with a smile.
“Me neither, but not because of any survival situation. I just think seafood tastes bad.” I laughed. “Really bad.”
“If you’re using such a simple word to describe something, Poe, that means it must really be so.” He tapped the side of his forehead. “No seafood for Poe. Got it.”
I smiled again. “Thanks.” Often, people, men especially, tried to convince me that I just hadn’t had the right seafood or cooked the way they preferred it, so I appreciated that Boone took me at my word, especially since even the smell of seafood made me a little nauseated.
As Boone refilled our wine glasses with some of the best chardonnay I’d ever had, I saw his eyes scan the room quickly before he smiled and raised his glass. “To us and the six people, not including our friends, who are watching us right now.”
I kept my eyes on our glasses as we clinked them. “Six, huh?” I said with a nod.
“At least. I expect there are one or two more in the kitchen.” His voice was low, and he was leaning forward like he was saying something just for me, and I guess he was. “Once our entrées arrive, it will be time. Are you ready?” He reached across the table and took my hand.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. “The question is are you ready?”
“It won’t be the first time,” he said, and behind his smile I saw a little sadness and found I wanted to hear all about anything that could make him feel low.
I took a deep breath as I saw the waiter coming our way with the food. “Holy cow that looks delicious.” The steaming steak he set in front of me looked incredible, and suddenly, despite my nerves, I was so very hungry. I hoped I’d have the chance to eat a few bites before the extravaganza began.
“Mine, too,” Boone said as he cut a piece off his chicken marsala and put it in his mouth. His eyes literally rolled back in his head with delight. “Try yours?”
I didn’t hesitate and savored the warm, tender filet as I chewed. “Wow. That is definitely the best steak I’ve ever had.” I took another bite.
We continued to eat as Boone reviewed the plan with me quietly. “To the left out the door. Frank will be right behind you.”
I nodded and reveled in the last bite of my steak before I said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
Boone swallowed and then raised his voice just enough that it would carry through the restaurant. “Look, I said I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” I shouted, far more loudly than him. “You’re sorry. All these months of skulking around in secret, of not being able to talk about our relationship with anyone, and now, here, on our first real date, you’re telling me you don’t want to be with me. You have some nerve.”
“Calm down, Poe,” Boone said as he patted the table. “Sit down. You’re making a scene.”
I channeled the fury of a lifetime into my performance as I remembered every time a man had told me I was too emotional or too sensitive, every time a boyfriend had told me something wasn’t a big deal when it felt like a very big deal to me. “No, I will not calm down,” I shouted, and then I picked up my water glass and flung it in his face before storming off across the restaurant to the front door.
My pace was fast, and my heart rate even faster. At the moment I couldn’t tell if it was nervousness or residual rage that was making me so quick, but before I could even think, I was out the door and heading to the right up the street. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late, and I knew I couldn’t turn around without drawing suspicion. I had to trust that Frank was with me and that he’d make do.
The plan had been for me to go left, pretend to hail a cab, and get into the car that Boone had arranged to meet at the corner. Now, though, I was going in the wrong direction and needed to improvise. I decided I’d take a lap around the block because that seemed realistic for a woman trying to steady herself. I hung a right at the corner and caught sight of Frank just behind me, moving quickly as if to catch up to me but also following my lead. I loved that guy.
I had just made my third right up an alley behind the row of shops beside Victora’s restaurant when a man in a suit stepped in front of me. “Ms. Baxter, may we provide you a place to gather yourself?” He pointed toward a small door at the back of a building. “Mr. Victora is so sorry about how you were treated. He’d like to make it up to you.”
I didn’t have time to think. Part of me knew it would be best to decline, to walk on to the corner and get in my cab, but the part of me that was becoming better at this spy thing told me that this was an opportunity I should take. So, I slowed down and nodded, allowing the man to lead me into the building just as, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frank step into the alley and smile.
As the door closed behind me, I held onto Frank’s smile as encouragement and took a deep breath. I’d once had a coach tell me that anxiety was caused by the belief that we couldn’t handle a situation. So, I took another breath and repeated, silently, “I can handle this. I can handle this.”
I followed my guide down a short, dark hallway into a small room on the right. There, Allan Victora sat behind a beautiful wooden desk flanked by a filing cabinet and a small bookshelf. The space looked remarkably like my office back at the college.
“Ms. Baxter, I heard there was an unfortunate incident in the front of the house this evening. I’m so sorry. Please, allow me to offer you a glass of wine, or perhaps some coffee.”
I sat down in the chair across from him and slowly crossed my legs in what I hoped was an inviting way. A conversation between Victora and me hadn’t been a part of Boone’s plan—he had thought he’d be invited back here—but I still knew what our aim was. I let out a long slow breath. “Thank you, Mr. Victora. I appreciate your kindness. Perhaps just coffee this evening.” The last thing I needed was to be tipsy while I attempted my first solo bit of espionage.
Victora nodded at the man behind me, and he left, presumably to get the coffee. “Are you all right, my dear?”
I gritted my teeth at the way he referred to me and told myself that now was not the time to release a surge of anger at the patriarchy. “Yes, I am. Thank you. I lost myself out there. I do apologize.”
“Please, Ms. Baxter. From what I heard, it is Mr. Stallone who owes you the apology. Leading you on like that is absolutely unacceptable.”
The purr in Victora’s voice required me to bite my cheek so as not to growl back at him. The story of Boone’s and my relationship was one of mutuality, and I was sick of men patronizing me when they thought I was frail and weak. But again, now was not the time. Still, I couldn’t keep myself from saying, “It may not be quite accurate to give him full responsibility here. I was, after all, a party to the situation, too.”
Victora nodded. “Of course, of course. But after the end of your relationship with Mr. Anderson…” He didn’t finish his sentence because he didn’t have to. He had made his point. He knew about me and the men in my life.
“It has been a tiring week,” I said. Then, as eager to change the subject as anything, I tilted my head toward his bookshelf. “May I?”
“Oh yes, of course,” he said. “I keep some of my favorite titles here so I can see them often.” He stood and waited for me as I walked the few steps to the shelf. “Take this one for example.” He lifted a hardback with a mint-condition dust jacket off the shelf. “I picked it up from a used bookstore over in Jo’burg. The owner took great care of all of his books, but he didn’t know what he had.”
I carefully took the book from his hands and stared. It was a first-edition copy of Biko, Stephen Biko’s biography. I wasn’t sure how rare the book was, but given how special the story of the activist and how much it meant to me personally, the book was still a treasure. “It’s beautiful,” I said with sincerity. “May I ask how much you paid?”
Victora smiled. “350 rand. About $20 US.”
I appreciated the currency conversion since I hadn’t yet quite gotten that math down for myself. “Great find.” I handed the book back to him as I scanned the rest of the shelf. I tried to look casual, but of course I wanted to see if he had the Gordimer text that we were looking for. I didn’t see it, so I stepped back. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you, but I take it you didn’t see what you were looking for,” he said with a small smile.
I didn’t deny that I had been looking, but I had learned enough from Boone and Aaran to know it was better to not reveal what it wasn’t necessary to share. “I’m always looking for something,” I said. “It’s my business after all.” I hoped I sounded casual and confident because I didn’t feel that way at all.
“Ah, discretion, my dear. Wise choice.” Victora sat back down behind the desk.
I took the other chair again just as the bodyguard returned with my coffee. It was made just the way I liked it, sweet and creamy, and that small detail put me even higher on my guard.
“But it’s my understanding you are in the market now for a very specific title from one of our national treasures.” He didn’t look away as he waited for me to take a sip of my coffee.
“As I said, I am always looking. Do you have any titles you are wishing to sell?” I could feel the sharp edge of the line I was walking, but so far, I felt sure I was on the right side of it.
Victora’s smile faltered just a bit, but then he said, “I do. Several in fact. Perhaps you’d like to see them?”
“I would,” I said. “Are they here?”
“Oh, no, my dear.” I wondered if he knew that phrase grated on my nerves something fierce. “I keep the most valuable titles at my home. I would be honored if you’d be my guest, perhaps for dessert.”
A sweat broke out on my palms, and I almost dropped the coffee cup. But I took a deep breath, repeated “I can handle this” to myself again, and nodded. “That would be lovely.” I was going to have to trust that Boone, Frank, and Ivan had a close eye on the building and that Victora’s men didn’t prevent them from following.
The walk back down the dark hallway felt more ominous this time, but I kept repeating my mantra and breathing deeply. A crisis of confidence was not a good thing at the moment. Besides, I may have been about to locate the Gordimer and, perhaps, if I was very lucky, maybe find out about more stolen books for Boone’s operation.
There was also the chance I was going to be kidnapped by another set of villains and held as a hostage for something else someone wanted, but it wasn’t going to do me any good to consider that possibility. Instead, I concentrated on what book might excite me even more than the Gordimer.
I pictured a long-lost collection of South African myths, something with tales from the indigenous tribes of the area. Lavish illustrations done by tribal artists. Thick paper. A hand-sewn binding. By the time I was seated next to Victora in the back of a black sedan, I was actually feeling more excited than I was nervous about the trip.
That said, when I saw a small motorcycle join behind us and recognized the set of Frank’s shoulders, clad now in a leather jacket, I felt a great deal better. Someone was watching over me, and since I trusted Frank with my life and was coming to that place with Boone, too, my confidence was buoyed. This could be fun.
Victora’s house was at the edge of the city, but to call it a house was a bit of an understatement. Estate was more fitting of the tree-lined entrance and the massive mansion set behind a circular driveway. An uplit fountain shot water into the air from the middle of the drive, and I was fairly sure I caught sight of topiary shrubs off to the right of the house. A formal manor house, then. I was going to enjoy this.
Inside, the front hall was lit with an enormous chandelier, and its reflection gleamed from polished marble floors and the ornate wooden banister of a curved staircase. The house wasn’t old, but it paid tribute to older homes without appearing to be a knock-off. It wasn’t my taste, but it was beautiful.
“This way to the library, Ms. Baxter,” Victora said as he pointed to the right. “Please enjoy perusing the shelves while I speak with my staff about dessert.”
I followed his direction and walked into a library that rivaled even the best pictures I’d seen on Instagram. The mahogany shelves rose from floor to ceiling, and among the thousands of books in the room, Victora (or maybe his staff) had arranged various objects. I made my way to a teal vase that looked to be handmade and saw, carved in the bottom, the name Hannah. The object was clunky and misshapen, like a child had thrown it, and it was beautiful, especially set against the straight lines of the books and shelves.
I put the vase back and began to study the books themselves. He had a very impressive collection of world classics with titles from many, many countries, a fact that made me like Victora just a bit since he didn’t have books just by white Europeans or even South Africans. He also had a vast array of poetry books, many of which were signed. I tucked that fact away as something to discuss lest we need topics to carry us to more serious discussions. A man who appreciated poetry was rare indeed.
The books were arranged by publication date, moving from oldest at the left of the entrance door and ascending through time until the twentieth and twenty-first centuries on the other side of the doorframe. There, I slowed my study and read each title.
On the second shelf, I found what I was looking for and lifted the Gordimer text carefully from the shelf. Sure enough, inside I found the inscription we were looking for, and I felt a wave of excitement followed by fear. If Victora had the book here, who was Aaran meeting?
I didn’t have Spidey senses about these things yet, but something was wrong… and I had to find a way to let Frank know. Victora was going to be back any minute, so I did the only thing I could think of. I took the Gordimer book to a window, sat down in a chair in front of it, and flipped on a table lamp as if I wanted to study the volume more closely. Then, I positioned myself and the book in such a way that if someone was looking in, they could see the title. Then, quickly, to draw more attention to myself, I flicked the lamp off and then on again.
At that same moment, Victora stepped back into the room, two glasses of a brown liquid in his hands. “Ah,” he said, “I see you found what you were looking for.”
I nodded. “Indeed. Thank you for inviting me to see it.” I figured the time for coyness was past and decided to be straightforward. “Is this one of the volumes you might sell?”
Victora handed me the glass, which smelled strongly of liquor, and said,” That depends, of course, on what you are offering.”
My blood turned icy. “We could pay $40,000 US,” I said, even though I was absolutely certain he wasn’t interested in a cash offer.
He inclined his head toward me and smiled. “That is, indeed, a generous price, but I was hoping for more, shall we say, of a barter.”
I smiled as the image of trading Garbage Pail Kids cards in third grade came to mind. I’ll give you Stinky Pete for Grungy Gina, I thought and had to suppress a laugh at the ideas that flooded my mind when I considered which Kids Victora might want most. Sometimes my leaping thoughts did me a favor.
“Are you looking to trade something in particular?” I asked as I pushed back a snicker at the thought of him picking up Nasty Neville.
He looked at me with an expression that sat somewhere between pity and exasperation and raised his eyebrows to his hairline. “Come now, my dear. I think we both know what I want.”
I had expected this, at least partially, but given that he knew about Bev, I figured he’d also know that set I’d sold her was no longer in my possession. Or hers for that matter. And maybe he did know and this was some sort of game.
“Why did you not buy the set yourself at the auction?” I asked partially out of curiosity and partially to stall as I tried to figure out the best way forward.
Victora turned away and walked a few steps further into the library and looked out the window. “Such affairs are complicated, as you can imagine. That particular lot was in high demand, and as I also own the restaurant in which that auction took place, I had a certain level of decorum to maintain as the host. A… professional distance, shall we say?”
I nodded along even as I knew he was giving me a line of nonsense. If he had been able to buy those books then, he would have. He’d hosted that auction because he was a known trader in black-market books. No, there had to be another reason he hadn’t bought the books when they were more publicly for sale.
My mind was racing as I tried to sort through the situation using my limited knowledge and experience, and not for the first time, I wished Boone was there to put it all together. I had no doubt he’d already have an angle and be working it.
But I wasn’t Boone. I was Poe Baxter, and many a student had attempted to con me in my teaching career. I could figure this out. “Well, I certainly understand the need for professional distance,” I said.
Apparently, this vague response suited Victora well enough because he smiled. “Excellent. Now, I realize that you paid far more for the collection than the value of that one book.” He looked down to where I still held the Gordimer in my hands. “So please take your time selecting a lot to satisfy a fair trade, and then we will make arrangements for the exchange.” With that, he held out a hand for my now empty glass and left the room.
I slumped into the chair by the window again and looked out at the driveway and fountain, hoping to see a flash of a reflection or some other signal that my friends were out there and just waiting for my signal to come in. I didn’t see anything. This was all up to me.
My best ideas came when I was relaxed and could let my mind wander, but obviously, relaxation wasn’t really an option. I could, however, make myself more comfortable. I took off Beattie’s brutal shoes and grabbed a cashmere throw blanket off the back of my chair to cover my lap before I folded my legs under me and closed my eyes.
I already knew which books I would suggest we include. Victora had a sixteenth-century copy of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales that would be a perfect addition to Uncle Fitz’s collection, and if I also suggested we add the first edition copy of Achebe’s Things Fall Apart that I’d seen on the shelves, we’d have a barter that would work out in our favor, at least monetarily.
But there was something else at play here, something about that particular collection of tales that had everyone trying to get it… by any means necessary. Think, Poe, think.
I let my mind wander a bit, hoping my subconscious would start to draw threads together that I couldn’t yet see. I thought of my students, all the times they tried to convince me to give them enough extra credit to make up for an entire semester’s worth of missed assignments. I remembered one girl who had spent most of our class meetings texting and touching up her nail polish. She’d come to ask for another paper to write when we had one week left of the course, said she’d been distracted by family stuff. I had denied her request and received her best death glare and a threat of a call from her mother. Given that I wasn’t legally allowed to speak to parents, the threat was meaningless, but I let her think she had some power.
I shifted in the chair. An idea had begun to take shape at the back of my mind, a connection to this girl’s motives and the books, but it was too amorphous for me to see it yet. I settled back and let my mind skip to another student, a man in his early 30s who was working toward his associate’s in nursing. He’d done all the assignments, but he struggled with the concept of a thesis. For whatever reason, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that a paper needed to have a central argument, just one point it wanted to make above all others.
“Ms. Baxter, I’ve been trying, but—” his voice cracked, and I saw him gather himself. “Is there anything I can do to pass this class? It’s my last one before I start clinicals.”
I understood the predicament he was in. He worked a part-time job and had two young kids at home. If he had to also take a class on top of his nursing rotations, he wasn’t going to do well at anything. Life was already stretching him too thin. So, I gave him the assignment that I gave everyone who I let have one last try—an argument for why they should pass the class.
That student wrote a perfect essay, clear thesis and all, and he passed with a C—all he needed to move on and get this obstacle behind him. I smiled to myself as I remembered his note in my inbox. “You gave me what I needed without asking more than I could give. Thank you.”
I sat bolt upright in the chair and let the blanket fall from my lap. “That’s it,” I shouted to the books. I knew what I had to do, and the first thing I needed was for Victora to come to me.
Fortunately, my outburst had brought the bodyguard into the room, and after I scrambled to grab the blanket and reintroduce some decorum to my cross-legged seat on the chair, I said, “Please let Mr. Victora know I am ready to offer a barter.”
The man didn’t even blink as he turned and left the room, and I wondered, briefly, if we had created AI bodyguards yet. The idea seemed like a good one.
I didn’t have much time to take my robot dreams beyond an initial query, though, because Victora strolled in just a moment later. “I’m so glad you’re ready to offer a deal, my dear.”
There was that phrase again, and I suppressed a cringe before I said, “My offer of trade has three stipulations. First, you need to stop calling me your ‘dear.’ We don’t know each other that well, and you have not earned that term of affection for me. It’s condescending, and I don’t like it. Do you agree to stop using that phrase?”
This addition to the trade was a spur of the moment decision, but I needed to establish my equality in this transaction. And I was tired of feeling skeezed out.
Victora frowned a moment but then nodded. “All right, Ms. Baxter.”
Pleased, I continued by telling him that we’d like the Chaucer and the Achebe along with the Gordimer in our trade.
He didn’t even hesitate before agreeing. “And your third request?”
I sighed. “My third requirement,” I put extra emphasis on that word to keep my equal footing in this negotiation, “is that Mr. Stallone be available when we make the exchange. Since he is my employer and the collection in question is actually his property, he needs to be present to give final approval for my selections.”
Victora looked at me carefully and paused for just a moment. “Very well. Mr. Stallone can have final say and be present at our exchange of the books.” He put out a hand to help me to my feet and held onto it just a bit too long. “I understand how important a boss’s approval can be.”
I withdrew my hand from his and glared at him. “Thank you for agreeing to my terms, Mr. Victora. Now, please, will you kindly take me to my hotel so that I can brief Mr. Stallone and get back to you with a time and place.” I could feel the adrenaline that had carried me through this negotiation beginning to fade from my system. I needed to get out of there before my body’s next phase of stress reaction—tears—began.
“Very good. But may I suggest something to simplify this process? Perhaps we could do the exchange at your hotel. Save you the trouble.” Victora smiled in what I imagined he thought was a casual but warm way.
“I will discuss that with Mr. Stallone. Thank you for the offer,” I said as I began to walk toward the door. The quiver in my voice was a tell-tale sign I was about to break down, and I would lose all the position I’d gained in the last few minutes if that happened. Nothing let a man feel he was more powerful than bringing a woman to tears.
“Humphrey,” Victora said over his shoulder. “Please take Ms. Baxter back to The Silo.” He put out his hand and shook mine again. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you shortly.”
“I’ll be in touch by midnight,” I said as I bent down to pick up Beattie’s shoes. “Thank you for your hospitality.” I followed Humphrey out the door and then stepped into the back of the same sedan that had brought me here.
As we drove back into the city, I squeezed my hands into fists so tight that my knuckles went white, but I was able to keep my composure until Humphrey helped me out of the car. Then, I walked, shoes in hand, across the lobby and only let the tears fall when I got into the elevator. I had done it.