Gerald leaned forward. “Because I know where Szász’s fixer is staying. And I know that O’Flaherty is planning to deliver the codex to your warehouse tomorrow night, not next week. He’s accelerating the timeline. You have twenty-four hours to either expose him or help him. I’m offering you a third option: give me the codex. I have a buyer in Monaco who doesn’t ask questions. We split it seventy-thirty. You keep your reputation, and Szász blames O’Flaherty.”
Whit—lovely to see the old name still doing work. The Marbury Codex. I know who really owns it. Hint: it’s not O’Flaherty. Meet me Friday, or I start making calls. whitney st john cambro
Albrecht opened his briefcase. Inside were photographs: O’Flaherty leaving the Düsseldorf collection. A bill of sale. A sworn statement from Viktor Szász. Gerald leaned forward
After he left, she unlocked the safe, swapped the real codex for Ezra’s forgery, and locked the fake inside. The real one she placed in a Pringles can—because criminals are, above all, practical—and drove to a 24-hour post office. She addressed the package to the National Museum of Ireland, Dublin, with a note: Anonymous donation. For the permanent collection. No questions asked. He’s accelerating the timeline
Whitney smiled. That was the trick. She was exactly like the others—she just hid it better.
“It’s St. John-Cambro. And the price is ten thousand, cash, no receipt.”
