Free The Codex by Douglas Preston Page B

popped in the fire. Skiba felt a muscle twitching somewhere behind his left knee.
    Hauser went on: “When I deliver the Codex to you and you’ve authenticated it, as you will naturally insist on doing, you’ll wire fifty million dollars to an offshore account of my selection. That’s the deal I’m offering. No negotiations—just a yes or a no will suffice.”
    “Fifty million? That’s totally insane. Forget it.”
    Hauser rose and headed for the door.
    “Wait,” Graff called, jumping up. “Mr. Hauser? None of this is engraved in stone.” The sweat was trickling down from his well-groomed scalp as he chased after the man in the cheap suit.
    Hauser kept walking.
    “We’re always open to—Mr. Hauser!”
    The door closed in Graff’s face. Hauser was gone.
    Graff turned toward Skiba. His hands were shaking. “We’ve got to stop him.”
    Skiba said nothing for a moment. What Hauser had said was true: If they got their hands on the manuscript, the announcement alone would turn around their stock. Fifty million, however, was blackmail. Dealing with a man like this was odious. But some things couldn’t be helped. Skiba said, “While there’s only one way to pay a debt, there are a million ways not to pay it. As you well know, Mike.”
    Graff couldn’t quite muster a smile through the sheen of sweat on his face.
    Skiba spoke into his intercom. “That man who was just here, don’t let him leave the building. Tell him we agree to his terms and escort him back up here.”
    He laid the phone back in its cradle and turned to Graff. “I hope for both of our sakes this guy is for real.”
    “He is,” said Graff. “Believe me, I looked into this very thoroughly. The Codex exists, and the sample page is real.”
    In a moment Hauser was standing in the door.
    “You’ll get your fifty million,” Skiba said brusquely. “Now take a seat and tell us your plan.”
     
    10
     
    Charlie Hernandez felt drained. The funeral had been long, the interment longer. He could still feel the grit of the dirt on his right hand. It was always hell when one of their own had to be buried, let alone two. And he still had a court appearance and half a shift to get through. He glanced over at his partner, Willson, catching up on paperwork. Smart guy; too bad his handwriting looked like a kindergartner’s.
    The buzzer rang, and Doreen said, “Two people to see, ah, Barnaby and Fenton.”
    Christ, this was just what he needed. “What about?”
    “They won’t say. Won’t talk to anyone but Barnaby and Fenton.”
    He sighed heavily. “Send them in.”
    Willson had stopped writing and was looking up. “You want me—?”
    “You stay.”
    They appeared in the doorway, a stunning blond and a tall guy in cowboy boots. Hernandez grunted, sat up, smoothed a hand over his hair. “Sit down.”
    “We’re here to see Lieutenant Barnaby, not—”
    “I know who you’re here to see. Please take a seat.”
    They sat down, reluctantly.
    “I’m Officer Hernandez,” he said, addressing the blond. “May I ask what your business with Officer Barnaby is?” He spoke with the practiced voice of officialdom, slow, stolid, and final.
    “We’d prefer to deal directly with Officer Barnaby,” said the man.
    “You can’t.”
    “Why not?” He flared up.
    “Because he’s dead.”
    They stared back at him. “How?”
    God, Hernandez felt tired. Barnaby had been a good man. What a waste. “Automobile accident.” He sighed. “Perhaps if you told me who you were and how I could help you?”
    They looked at each other. The man spoke. “I’m Tom Broadbent, and about ten days ago Lieutenant Barnaby investigated a possible break-in at our house off the Old Santa Fe Trail. Barnaby handled the call, and I wondered if he filed a report.”
    Hernandez glanced over at Willson.
    “He didn’t file a report,” Willson said.
    “Did he say anything?”
    “He said it had been some kind of misunderstanding, that Mr. Broadbent had moved some artworks and