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the door card. “Would you like me to call for a valet to take care of your wet things?”
    â€œGreat. Thanks.” I headed for the elevators. I had not chosen one of London’s most expensive hotels out of mere indulgence. Alessio and whomever he worked with had already shown a penchant for vile tricks. They were fully capable of hacking into and freezing my credit cards too. But I counted on the hotel putting a hold on the amount needed for a two-week stay. Loading one of my credit cards to the gills would stop them from getting a good portion of my money. It was only a temporary solution. I’d stay for one night and in the morning tell the hotel I’d changed plans. Then I’d head straight to the bank and withdraw every cent before anyone could get his hands on it.
    When I entered the suite the bedside clock glowed 4 A.M. The valet arrived minutes later for my wet crumpled clothing. A long hot shower dispelled my chills and I fell into bed.

    Bright mid-morning sunshine poured through the windows. After a message from Corinne that Evelyn was in remarkably good spirits, I could pretend, for a few moments at least, that all was well.
    No nation on earth can trump a full English breakfast. The meal arrived with a discreet knock on my door: soft eggs, half a grilled tomato with parmesan, Canadian back bacon, crumpets perfectly browned and dripping with butter, orange bitter marmalade, and a pot of steaming coffee. Just as the valet reappeared to deliver my clothes, fresh and expertly ironed, my phone chirped.
    â€œMr. Madison,” the insurance agent said after he introduced himself, “I’m sorry to tell you this but you’re not covered. We can reimburse you for your coins. Not the book.”
    â€œThere’s got to be some mistake then. The policy’s watertight. I’ve used the same one many times before.”
    â€œIf there had been damage to the property, or accidental loss, yes. But you’re not covered for theft.”
    â€œThat’s impossible. Why bother taking out insurance otherwise? I bought the policy from Jack Edison. Can you transfer me so I can clear this up?”
    â€œHe’s on holidays.”
    â€œIn November? When’s he back?”
    â€œGone to Australia. Won’t be in the office until next month.” My temper rose with each punctilious syllable he uttered. I made one last effort to be civil. “Please check it again. No doubt you’ll find there’s been a … misreading or something.”
    â€œI have. And there isn’t.” He cleared his throat. “You’re claiming for a rare manuscript I believe.”
    â€œIt’s a codex. A bound book, not a manuscript.”
    â€œMy apologies.” He repeated the description I’d given last night. “We can’t accept your claim because it’s stolen property.”
    â€œOf course it is!” I shouted in exasperation. “That’s why I reported it.”
    â€œYou misunderstand me, Mr. Madison. The book you described was listed as stolen property before it went to auction. We don’t cover illegally acquired items.”
    I set my coffee cup down carefully. “You’re telling me Sherrods auctioned a stolen book? It is a highly respected firm. They check and double-check stuff like that.”
    â€œThe theft was registered with Interpol quite recently.” “How recently?”
    â€œYesterday afternoon.”

Five

    November 18, 2003
    London
    I t was entirely possible Sherrods had missed a theft report only hours before the actual auction. After getting the details from the insurance agent, I ended our call. With no clear title, the onus was on the auction house to return my client’s money. But if they chose to put up a fight, it could get sticky. Maybe a good lawyer could rescue me; that would cost an arm and a leg. In the meantime, I was on the hook for a small fortune.
    At first I found the Interpol