Nightingale grinned. ‘A Corona would be good,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind me drinking a Mexican beer?’
‘Hey, what they did at the Alamo is old news,’ said Wainwright. ‘You can’t spend your life looking back. It’s like the whole slavery thing. You’ve got to move on.’
‘You don’t look like someone who’s been held back on any front,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Wainwright. He sucked on his cigar and then blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘I was glad to get your call, Jack. The last time we met I was a bit worried.’
‘Because?’
‘Because you were talking about Gosling selling your soul.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’m still here.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said the American.
Nightingale took a computer printout from his jacket pocket and gave it to the American. ‘My secretary’s been through about five hundred of the books in my late father’s library,’ he said. ‘We haven’t bothered with anything that looked like it was mass-produced — I figured if there’d been substantial print runs you’d already have them. This list is the old stuff, leather-bound, antique. Some of them are hundreds of years old.’
The blonde stewardess handed Nightingale a bottle of Corona with a sliver of lime in the neck. He smiled his thanks and pushed the lime down into the bottle.
Wainwright sucked on his cigar as he studied the list. He raised his eyebrows. ‘This one, De Lamiis. It’s a first edition it says here.’
‘Then that’ll be right,’ said Nightingale. ‘My assistant is thorough.’
‘It says published in 1489, but there were two editions that year, both marked as firsts. It’s the woodcuts that I’m interested in.’ Wainwright looked up from the printout. ‘You need to check if there are small upturned crosses in the bottom corners, left or right. If the crosses are there you can name your own price.’
‘If they’re not?’
‘Then it’s just a book,’ said the American. He jabbed his cigar at Nightingale. ‘The woodcuts of the first edition are a little bit special. There are seals in there that have never been published before or since.’
‘Seals as in stamps?’
‘Satanic seals,’ said Wainwright, nodding. ‘Secret insignia. There were only a hundred copies published with the special woodcuts but then the author came under pressure from the Vatican to remove them. Which he did.’
‘I’ll check as soon as I get back.’
‘I’m serious, Jack. If you’ve got the right edition, I’ll give you this plane. And the girls.’
The two stewardesses beamed at Nightingale as if they were happy to be included in the deal.
Wainwright went back to scrutinising the list while Nightingale sipped his beer.
‘Have you seen the copy of Daemonologie?’ said Wainwright, tapping the list. ‘Do you know what state it’s in?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen that one. My secretary did most of the books.’
‘If it’s pristine then I’ll buy it,’ he said. ‘The copy I have is pretty shabby. You know King James the Sixth of Scotland wrote it, right?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yeah, at the end of the sixteenth century. Not much of real use in it, but it’s worth owning. I’ll pay top dollar.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Nightingale.
Wainwright picked up a Mont Blanc pen from a side table and put ticks next to a dozen or so of the titles. ‘You’ve got two books here by Aleister Crowley,’ he said. ‘ Magick Book 4 and Liber Al Vel Legis, The Book of the Law. I’ll have them both. But what I really want is a diary of his. He’s rumoured to have written one during the last five years of his life and it’s believed that one of his followers published a very limited edition after he died. A dozen copies at most were printed and distributed to his closest friends and members of his coven. The presses used to print the book were destroyed and the typesetter is supposed to have killed himself. No one knows where the twelve copies are or who has them.’
‘I’ll have a look in the basement,’ said Nightingale. ‘Any idea what it’s called?’
‘It might not even have a title,’ said Wainwright. ‘It would have been published in 1948, that’s all I can tell you. But I have to warn you: if you do come across a copy, you mustn’t sell it.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘To anyone other than you, you mean?’
‘To anyone,’ said Wainwright. ‘The rumour is that if a copy was ever sold, the buyer and the seller would both die.’
‘It’s cursed, you mean?’
‘It’s not really a curse. The book itself is fine, and ownership is quite safe. But if a copy is sold for money…’ He shrugged.
‘You believe that?’
‘I know that Aleister Crowley was one of the most powerful Satanists who ever lived,’ said Wainwright. ‘And his closest followers were only one step behind him.’
‘And a book can be cursed?’
‘Anything can be cursed,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’m serious about this, Jack. If you do find a copy don’t try to sell it. Come to me and we’ll work out a deal.’
‘A deal?’ Nightingale grinned. ‘You’re not after my soul, are you?’
‘A deal for the diary — one that doesn’t involve a financial transaction,’ said the American. He handed the list back to Nightingale and put down the pen. ‘Let me know when I can see those and I’ll come along with cash. And I need you to keep an eye out for another book. It’s called The Lemegeton. Or The Lesser Key of Solomon. First published in the seventeenth century. But I need to know about the binding. The binding is as important as the content.’
Nightingale nodded and put the list away. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ he asked.
Wainwright picked up a crystal tumbler filled with whiskey and ice. ‘Can’t promise I’ll answer, but go ahead.’
‘You’re rich, right?’
‘Not as rich as Bill Gates or Warren Buffet, or that Mexican who heads the rich list, but I do okay for a black guy.’
‘But you weren’t born rich, were you? You don’t come from money.’
‘Made every cent myself.’ He raised his glass to Nightingale. ‘Started from nothing. Less than nothing. Father ran off before I was born, mother did laundry to try to make ends meet and failed miserably. Had no money to pay for any sort of education. Had to do what I had to do to survive.’
Nightingale nodded and tapped the neck of his bottle against his temple. ‘That’s one hell of a jump. From there to here.’
‘And I’m guessing you want to know how much is down to my specialist knowledge of the occult?’
‘You got me,’ said Nightingale. He took a long drink from his bottle, his eyes never leaving Wainwright’s face. ‘Is everything you’ve achieved the result of a deal you did with…’ He grinned and shook his head. ‘I feel stupid even asking,’ he said. ‘We’re sitting in a Gulfstream jet and I’m talking about something that would have had us burned at the stake in the Middle Ages.’
‘Actually, if you’d gone around telling people that you could sit in a metal bird and fly from here to America in six hours they’d probably have burned you as a witch anyway,’ said Wainwright. ‘Much of the technology we take for granted in the twenty-first century would have had you put to death or committed to an asylum back then.’
‘But what we’re talking about is the exact opposite, isn’t it?’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re saying that you can do a deal with a devil and get rich. And if you went around saying that, you’d be treated as an idiot or fitted for a straitjacket.’
‘I’m not saying anything of the sort,’ laughed Wainwright. ‘You’re the one who’s doing all the talking at the moment.’
‘But you’re not contradicting me, are you?’
Wainwright chuckled. ‘There’s the cop in you coming out,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale, settling back in his seat. ‘Old habits die hard.’
‘Nah, I see where you’re coming from,’ said the American. ‘This is all new territory for you and you want as much information as you can get. But there’s a limit to what I can tell you. There’s an element of non-disclosure involved, you have to understand that. The true believers don’t shout it from the rooftops because they’ve a vested interest in keeping the knowledge to themselves. And the principals, well, they’ve always preferred to work in the shadows.’