Whitney St John: Cambro

“The codex,” he said, placing it on the steel table.

“Collects things.”

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.” whitney st john cambro

That night, she did not go to the warehouse. She went instead to a small, dusty bookshop in Bloomsbury, run by a man named Ezra Pastern, who dealt in the sort of antiquities that had “complicated histories.” Ezra was eighty-three, half-blind, and entirely without scruples. “The codex,” he said, placing it on the steel table

Albrecht closed the folder. “What do you want?” And I know that O’Flaherty is planning to