now.”
Preston stepped back.
As Robin joined them, Charles removed the foam bundle. “Move the coffee, Robin. Leave the napkins.”
She picked up the tray and carried it away. Although the table appeared clean, he used the linen napkins to wipe it. Then he set down the bundle and unpeeled layers of foam and transparent polyethylene sheeting. At last only archival polyester film remained.
He paused, feeling a visceral reaction. His throat full, he gazed at the illuminated manuscript glowing through the clear protective barrier.
“Ready?” He lowered himself into the reading chair and looked up.
Preston nodded.
“Hurry,” Robin said.
He unfastened the polyester and let it fall to the sides.
“Oh, my Lord,” Robin breathed.
“It’s a beauty, all right,” Preston agreed.
Charles stared, drinking in the sight of the fabled Book of Spies, compiled on orders of Ivan the Terrible, who had been fascinated by spies and assassins. Covered in gold, the volume was large, probably ten by twelve inches and four inches thick, decorated with fat emeralds, great rubies, and lustrous pearls—a fortune in gems. The emeralds were arranged along the edges of the cover, a rectangular frame of brilliant green. The pearls were gathered into the shape of a glowing dagger in the top two thirds, and beneath the dagger’s point lay the scarlet rubies, shaped like a large drop of blood. The jewels caught the lamplight and sparkled like fire.
Awed silence filled the room. Robin handed Charles clean white cotton gloves. Putting them on, he opened the book and slowly turned pages, savoring the style, the paint, the ink, the feel of the fine parchment between his cautious fingers. Each page was a showcase of lavish pictures, austere Cyrillic letters, and intricate borders ablaze with color. He felt a thrill at the effort involved not only in gathering the knowledge but in creating such art.
“Six years of painstaking labor went into this master-work,” Charles told them. “Twelve months a year, seven days a week, twelve to fourteen hours a day. The crudest brushes and paints. Only sunlight and oil lamps to work by. No good heating during the brutal Moscow winters. The constant attack of mosquitoes in summer. Imagine the difficulty, the dedication.”
Robin sat on the floor and leaned an elbow on the table to be closer. Preston pulled up a chair and sat, watching the turning pages. The paintings showed secretive spies, rotund diplomats, monarchs in furs, soldiers in colorful uniforms, villains with wily faces. It was a rich compendium of stories about real and mythical assassins, spies, and missions since before biblical times.
“You’re sure it’s authentic?” Robin asked in a low, excited voice.
“The style’s correct, tending toward naturalism,” Charles told her. “The final touches are in liquid gold—not gold leaf.” Naturalism and liquid gold appeared only at the end of the Middle Ages, which matched the year the manuscript was finished in Moscow—1580. “What clinches its authenticity are the tiny letters beneath some of the colors. See? They’re almost invisible. Even the best forgers forget that telling detail.”
He pointed without touching the page. The letters stood for the Latin words for the colors the long-ago artist had been instructed to use to fill in the line drawings, which had been rendered by a previous artist. R for ruber , meaning red; V for viridis , meaning green; and A for azure , meaning blue.
“It was painted by an Italian who was working in Ivan’s court,” Charles explained.
“I remember the book well,” Preston said. “The stories about spies are inspiring. Those who find the secrets and take them to their graves are the real heroes. That’s what we signed on for when we went to work for the Library of Gold. Complete loyalty.”
As Preston talked, Robin stared at Charles. Her eyebrows knitted together with determination, and her lips thinned. The message was clear: If he
Preston stepped back.
As Robin joined them, Charles removed the foam bundle. “Move the coffee, Robin. Leave the napkins.”
She picked up the tray and carried it away. Although the table appeared clean, he used the linen napkins to wipe it. Then he set down the bundle and unpeeled layers of foam and transparent polyethylene sheeting. At last only archival polyester film remained.
He paused, feeling a visceral reaction. His throat full, he gazed at the illuminated manuscript glowing through the clear protective barrier.
“Ready?” He lowered himself into the reading chair and looked up.
Preston nodded.
“Hurry,” Robin said.
He unfastened the polyester and let it fall to the sides.
“Oh, my Lord,” Robin breathed.
“It’s a beauty, all right,” Preston agreed.
Charles stared, drinking in the sight of the fabled Book of Spies, compiled on orders of Ivan the Terrible, who had been fascinated by spies and assassins. Covered in gold, the volume was large, probably ten by twelve inches and four inches thick, decorated with fat emeralds, great rubies, and lustrous pearls—a fortune in gems. The emeralds were arranged along the edges of the cover, a rectangular frame of brilliant green. The pearls were gathered into the shape of a glowing dagger in the top two thirds, and beneath the dagger’s point lay the scarlet rubies, shaped like a large drop of blood. The jewels caught the lamplight and sparkled like fire.
Awed silence filled the room. Robin handed Charles clean white cotton gloves. Putting them on, he opened the book and slowly turned pages, savoring the style, the paint, the ink, the feel of the fine parchment between his cautious fingers. Each page was a showcase of lavish pictures, austere Cyrillic letters, and intricate borders ablaze with color. He felt a thrill at the effort involved not only in gathering the knowledge but in creating such art.
“Six years of painstaking labor went into this master-work,” Charles told them. “Twelve months a year, seven days a week, twelve to fourteen hours a day. The crudest brushes and paints. Only sunlight and oil lamps to work by. No good heating during the brutal Moscow winters. The constant attack of mosquitoes in summer. Imagine the difficulty, the dedication.”
Robin sat on the floor and leaned an elbow on the table to be closer. Preston pulled up a chair and sat, watching the turning pages. The paintings showed secretive spies, rotund diplomats, monarchs in furs, soldiers in colorful uniforms, villains with wily faces. It was a rich compendium of stories about real and mythical assassins, spies, and missions since before biblical times.
“You’re sure it’s authentic?” Robin asked in a low, excited voice.
“The style’s correct, tending toward naturalism,” Charles told her. “The final touches are in liquid gold—not gold leaf.” Naturalism and liquid gold appeared only at the end of the Middle Ages, which matched the year the manuscript was finished in Moscow—1580. “What clinches its authenticity are the tiny letters beneath some of the colors. See? They’re almost invisible. Even the best forgers forget that telling detail.”
He pointed without touching the page. The letters stood for the Latin words for the colors the long-ago artist had been instructed to use to fill in the line drawings, which had been rendered by a previous artist. R for ruber , meaning red; V for viridis , meaning green; and A for azure , meaning blue.
“It was painted by an Italian who was working in Ivan’s court,” Charles explained.
“I remember the book well,” Preston said. “The stories about spies are inspiring. Those who find the secrets and take them to their graves are the real heroes. That’s what we signed on for when we went to work for the Library of Gold. Complete loyalty.”
As Preston talked, Robin stared at Charles. Her eyebrows knitted together with determination, and her lips thinned. The message was clear: If he
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