Wait What Was the Name Again

Chapter I

THE HEIST

1.

The imposter borrowed the name of Neville Manchin, an bodily professor of American literature at Portland Land and soon-to-be doctoral student at Stanford. In his letter, on perfectly forged college jotter, "Professor Manchin" claimed to exist a budding scholar of F. Scott Fitzgerald and was neat to see the swell author'due south "manuscripts and papers" during a forthcoming trip to the Due east Coast. The letter was addressed to Dr. Jeffrey Brown, Director of Manuscripts Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Firestone Library, Princeton University. It arrived with a few others, was duly sorted and passed along, and eventually landed on the desk of Ed Folk, a career junior librarian whose task, among several other monotonous ones, was to verify the credentials of the person who wrote the alphabetic character.

Ed received several of these letters each week, all in many ways the aforementioned, all from self-proclaimed Fitzgerald buffs and experts, and fifty-fifty from the occasional true scholar. In the previous calendar year, Ed had cleared and logged in 190 of these people through the library. They came from all over the world and arrived wide-eyed and humbled, like pilgrims before a shrine. In his xxx-iv years at the same desk-bound, Ed had processed all of them. And, they were not going away. F. Scott Fitzgerald continued to fascinate. The traffic was as heavy at present as information technology had been three decades earlier. These days, though, Ed was wondering what could possibly be left of the nifty writer's life that had not been pored over, studied at cracking length, and written well-nigh. Not long ago, a true scholar told Ed that there were at present at to the lowest degree a hundred books and over ten thou published bookish articles on Fitzgerald the man, the writer, his works, and his crazy wife.

And he drank himself to death at forty-iv! What if he'd lived into old age and kept writing? Ed would need an banana, peradventure two, maybe even an unabridged staff. But then Ed knew that an early decease was often the key to later acclaim (non to mention greater royalties).

After a few days, Ed finally got around to dealing with Professor Manchin. A quick review of the library's register revealed that this was a new person, a new request. Some of the veterans had been to Princeton and so many times they simply chosen his number and said, "Hey, Ed, I'll be there next Tuesday." Which was fine with Ed. Non so with Manchin. Ed went through the Portland Land website and found his man. Undergraduate degree in American lit from the University of Oregon; principal'due south from UCLA; adjunct gig now for three years. His photo revealed a rather plain-looking beau of perhaps thirty-five, the makings of a beard that was probably temporary, and narrow frameless eyeglasses.

In his letter, Professor Manchin asked whoever responded to do so past e-mail, and gave a private Gmail address. He said he rarely checked his university address. Ed idea, "That's because you're only a lowly offshoot professor and probably don't fifty-fifty accept a real role." He oft had these thoughts, but, of course, was too professional person to utter them to anyone else. Out of caution, the next solar day he sent a response through the Portland Country server. He thanked Professor Manchin for his letter and invited him to the Princeton campus. He asked for a general thought of when he might make it and laid out a few of the basic rules regarding the Fitzgerald collection. There were many, and he suggested that Professor Manchin study them on the library's website.

The reply was automatic and informed Ed that Manchin was out of pocket for a few days. Ane of Manchin's partners had hacked into the Portland Land directory just deep enough to tamper with the English section'due south e-mail server; easy work for a sophisticated hacker. He and the imposter knew immediately that Ed had responded.

Ho hum, idea Ed. The next day he sent the aforementioned message to Professor Manchin's private Gmail address. Inside an hour, Manchin replied with an enthusiastic thank-y'all, said he couldn't wait to go there, and and then on. He gushed on most how he had studied the library's website, had spent hours with the Fitzgerald digital archives, had owned for years the multivolume series containing facsimile editions of the great author's handwritten first drafts, and had a particular involvement in the critical reviews of the first novel, This Side of Paradise.

Great, said Ed. He'd seen it all before. The guy was trying to impress him earlier he fifty-fifty got there, which was not at all unusual.

2.

F. Scott Fitzgerald enrolled in Princeton in the fall of 1913. At the historic period of sixteen, he was dreaming of writing the cracking American novel, and had indeed begun working on an early version of This Side of Paradise. He dropped out four years later to join the Army and become to war, only it concluded before he was deployed. His classic, The Great Gatsby, was published in 1925 simply did not become pop until later his death. He struggled financially throughout his career, and by 1940 was working in Hollywood, cranking out bad screenplays, failing physically and creatively. On December 21, he died of a eye attack, brought on by years of severe alcoholism.

In 1950, Scottie, his daughter and merely child, gave his original manuscripts, notes, and letters—his "papers"—to the Firestone Library at Princeton. His 5 novels were handwritten on cheap paper that did not age well. The library rapidly realized that it would be unwise to allow researchers to physically handle them. High-quality copies were fabricated, and the originals were locked abroad in a secured basement vault where the air, light, and temperature were carefully controlled. Over the years, they had been removed but a handful of times.

3.

The man posing every bit Professor Neville Manchin arrived at Princeton on a cute fall day in early on October. He was directed to Rare Books and Special Collections, where he met Ed Folk, who then passed him along to some other assistant librarian who examined and copied his Oregon commuter's license. It was, of course, a forgery, simply a perfect i. The forger, who was likewise the hacker, had been trained past the CIA and had a long history in the murky world of private espionage. Breaching a fleck of campus security was inappreciably a claiming.

Professor Manchin was so photographed and given a security badge that had to be displayed at all times. He followed the assistant librarian to the 2nd flooring, to a large room with two long tables and walls lined with retractable steel drawers, each of which was locked. Manchin noticed at to the lowest degree 4 surveillance cameras high in the corners, cameras that were supposed to be seen. He suspected others were well hidden. He attempted to chat up the assistant librarian but got little in render. He jokingly asked if he could see the original manuscript for This Side of Paradise. The banana librarian offered a smug grin and said that would not be possible.

"Have you lot ever seen the originals?" Manchin asked.

"Only once."

A pause as Manchin waited for more, then he asked, "And what was the occasion?"

"Well, a sure famous scholar wished to see them. Nosotros accompanied him down to the vault and gave him a look. He didn't touch the papers, though. Only our caput librarian is allowed to do so, and only with special gloves."

"Of form. Oh well, allow'due south get to piece of work."

The banana opened 2 of the large drawers, both labeled "This Side of Paradise," and withdrew thick, oversized notebooks. He said, "These comprise the reviews of the book when it was first published. Nosotros have many other samples of later reviews."

"Perfect," Manchin said with a smile. He opened his briefcase, took out a notepad, and seemed set up to pounce on everything laid on the tabular array. Half an hour later, with Manchin deep in his work, the assistant librarian excused himself and disappeared. For the benefit of the cameras, Manchin never looked upward. Somewhen, he needed to find the men's room and wandered away. He took a wrong turn here and another one at that place, got himself lost, and eased through Collections, avoiding contact with anyone. There were surveillance cameras everywhere. He doubted that anyone at that moment was watching the footage, only it c

ould certainly exist retrieved if needed. He establish an elevator, avoided information technology, and took the nearby stairs. The first level beneath was similar to the ground flooring. Below information technology, the stairs stopped at B2 (Basement 2), where a large thick door waited with "Emergencies Simply" painted in bold letters. A keypad was next to the door, and some other sign warned that an alarm would sound the instant the door was opened without "proper authorization." Ii security cameras watched the door and the area around it.

Manchin backed away and retraced his steps. When he returned to his workroom, the assistant was waiting. "Is everything okay, Professor Manchin?" he asked.

"Oh aye. Only a bit of a stomach bug, I'g agape. Hope information technology's not contagious." The assistant librarian left immediately, and Manchin hung around all mean solar day, earthworks through materials from the steel drawers and reading old reviews he cared nothing about. Several times he wandered off, poking around, looking, measuring, and memorizing.

4.

Manchin returned three weeks later and he was no longer pretending to be a professor. He was clean shaven, his hair was colored a sandy blond, he wore fake eyeglasses with red frames, and he carried a artificial student card with a photo. If someone asked, which he certainly didn't await, his story was that he was a grad student from Iowa. In real life his name was Mark and his occupation, if one could call information technology that, was professional thievery. High-dollar, world-course, elaborately planned smash-and-grab jobs that specialized in art and rare artifacts that could be sold back to the desperate victims for bribe. His was a gang of five, led by Denny, a sometime Regular army Ranger who had turned to criminal offense afterwards existence kicked out of the military. And so far, Denny had not been defenseless and had no record; nor did Marker. However, two of the others did. Trey had 2 convictions and two escapes, his concluding the year before from a federal prison in Ohio. It was there he'd met Jerry, a petty art thief now on parole. Another art thief, a sometime cellmate serving a long sentence, had first mentioned the Fitzgerald manuscripts to Jerry.

The setup was perfect. There were simply 5 manuscripts, all handwritten, all in one place. And to Princeton they were priceless.

The fifth fellow member of the team preferred to piece of work at abode. Ahmed was the hacker, the forger, the creator of all illusions, merely he didn't take the nerve to carry guns and such. He worked from his basement in Buffalo and had never been caught or arrested. He left no trails. His v percentage would come off the top. The other four would take the rest in equal shares.

By ix o'clock on a Tuesday night, Denny, Marking, and Jerry were inside the Firestone Library posing as grad students and watching the clock. Their fake pupil IDs had worked perfectly; non a unmarried countenance had been raised. Denny found his hiding place in a 3rd-floor women'south restroom. He lifted a panel in the ceiling above the toilet, tossed up his educatee backpack, and settled in for a few hours of hot and cramped waiting. Mark picked the lock of the main mechanical room on the starting time level of the basement and waited for alarms. He heard none, nor did Ahmed, who had easily hacked into the university'due south security systems. Mark proceeded to dismantle the fuel injectors of the library's backup electric generator. Jerry found a spot in a written report carrel subconscious among rows of stacked tiers holding books that had not been touched in decades.

Trey was drifting around the campus, dressed like a pupil, lugging his backpack, scoping out places for his bombs.

The library airtight at midnight. The iv team members, as well as Ahmed in his basement in Buffalo, were in radio contact. Denny, the leader, appear at 12:15 that all was proceeding as planned. At 12:20, Trey, dressed like a student and hauling a bulky haversack, entered the McCarren Residential College in the heart of the campus. He saw the same surveillance cameras he had seen the previous week. He took the unwatched stairs to the second flooring, ducked into a coed restroom, and locked himself in a stall. At 12:40, he reached into his backpack and removed a tin can can about the size of a twenty-ounce bottle of soda. He set a delayed starter and hid information technology behind the toilet. He left the restroom, went to the 3rd floor, and set another bomb in an empty shower stall. At 12:45, he found a semi-dark hallway on the second flooring of a dormitory and nonchalantly tossed a string of x jumbo Black Cat firecrackers downwards the hall. Every bit he scrambled down the stairwell, the explosions boomed through the air. Seconds later, both smoke bombs erupted, sending thick clouds of rancid fog into the hallways. As Trey left the building he heard the first wave of panicked voices. He stepped behind some shrubs near the dorm, pulled a disposable telephone out of his pocket, called Princeton'due south 911 service, and delivered the horrifying news: "There'due south a guy with a gun on the 2nd floor of McCarren. He'due south firing shots."

Smoke was drifting from a second-floor window. Jerry, sitting in the dark study carrel in the library, fabricated a similar call from his prepaid cell telephone. Soon, calls were pouring in as panic gripped the campus.

Every American college has elaborate plans to handle a situation involving an "active gunman," but no one wants to implement them. Information technology took a few dumbstruck seconds for the officeholder in charge to push button the right buttons, only when she did, sirens began wailing. Every Princeton student, professor, administrator, and employee received a text and email alarm. All doors were to be closed and locked. All buildings were to be secured.

Jerry made some other call to 911 and reported that two students had been shot. Smoke boiled out of McCarren Hall. Trey dropped iii more than smoke bombs into trash cans. A few students ran through the fume every bit they went from building to building, not sure where exactly the condom places were. Campus security and the City of Princeton constabulary raced onto the scene, followed closely by half a dozen burn down trucks. And then ambulances. The showtime of many patrol cars from the New Bailiwick of jersey State Police force arrived.

Trey left his haversack at the door of an office edifice, so called 911 to report how suspicious it looked. The timer on the last smoke bomb inside the backpack was set to go off in x minutes, but equally the demolition experts would be staring at it from a distance.

At 1:05, Trey radioed the gang: "A perfect panic out hither. Smoke everywhere. Tons of cops. Go for it."

Denny replied, "Cut the lights."

Ahmed, sipping strong tea in Buffalo and sitting on get, quickly routed through the school'south security panel, entered the electric grid, and cut the electricity not only to the Firestone Library only to half a dozen nearby buildings as well. For proficient measure, Marking, at present wearing night vision goggles, pulled the main cutoff switch in the mechanical room. He waited and held his breath, and so breathed easier when the fill-in generator did non engage.

The power outage triggered alarms at the central monitoring station inside the campus security circuitous, only no one was paying attention. There was an active gunman on the loose. There was no time to worry most other alarms.

Jerry had spent two nights inside the Firestone Library in the past week and was confident at that place were no guards stationed within the building while information technology was closed. During the nighttime, a uniformed officer walked effectually the building once or twice, shined his flashlight at the doors, and kept walking. A marked patrol car made its rounds also, but it was primarily concerned with drunk students. More often than not, the campus was similar any other—dead between the hours of ane:00 and 8:00 a.m.

On this nighttime, withal, Princeton was in the midst of a frantic emergency as America'south finest were being shot. Trey reported to his gang that the scene was total chaos with cops scrambling about, SWAT boys throwing on their gear, sirens screaming, radios squawking, and a million red and blue emergency lights flashing. Fume hung past the trees like a fog. A helicopter could exist heard hovering somewhere close. Total chaos.

Denny, Jerry, and Mark hustled through the dark and took the stairs down to the basement nether Special Collections. Each wore nighttime vision goggles and a miner's lamp strapped to his forehead. Each carried a heavy backpack, and Jerry hauled a small Ground forces duffel he'd subconscious in the library two nights earlier. At the third and final level downwardly, they stopped at a thick metallic door, blacked out the surveillance cameras, and waited for Ahmed and his magic. Calmly, he worked his mode through the l

ibrary'southward warning system and deactivated the door's four sensors. There was a loud clicking noise. Denny pressed down on the handle and pulled the door open. Within they found a narrow square of space with 2 more metal doors. Using a flashlight, Marking scanned the ceiling and spotted a surveillance photographic camera. "There," he said. "Only ane." Jerry, the tallest at six feet iii inches, took a small can of blackness paint and sprayed the lens of the camera.

Denny looked at the two doors and said, "Wanna flip a coin?"

"What do you see?" Ahmed asked from Buffalo.

"Two metal doors, identical," Denny replied.

"I got nothing hither, fellas," Ahmed replied. "In that location's nothing in the system beyond the get-go door. Commencement cutting."

From his duffel Jerry removed 2 eighteen-inch canisters, one filled with oxygen, the other with acetylene. Denny situated himself before the door on the left, lit a cutting torch with a sparker, and began heating a spot six inches above the keyhole and latch. Within seconds, sparks were flying.

Meanwhile, Trey had drifted abroad from the chaos around McCarren and was hiding in the blackness beyond the street from the library. Sirens were screaming as more than emergency vehicles responded. Helicopters were thumping the air loudly above the campus, though Trey could not see them. Effectually him, even the streetlights were out. In that location was not another soul nearly the library. All hands were needed elsewhere.

"All's serenity outside the library," he reported. "Whatever progress?"

"Nosotros're cutting now," came the terse respond from Marker. All five members knew that churr should be limited. Denny slowly and skillfully cut through the metallic with the torch tip that emitted eight hundred degrees of oxygenated heat. Minutes passed as molten metal dripped to the floor and red and yellow sparks flew from the door. At 1 indicate Denny said, "It's an inch thick." He finished the top edge of the foursquare and began cutting straight downward. The work was wearisome, the minutes dragged on, and the tension mounted merely they kept their cool. Jerry and Mark crouched backside Denny, watching his every movement. When the bottom cutting line was finished, Denny rattled the latch and it came loose, though something hung. "It's a commodities," he said. "I'll cut it."

V minutes afterward, the door swung open. Ahmed, staring at his laptop, noticed nothing unusual from the library's security organisation. "Goose egg here," he said. Denny, Mark, and Jerry entered the room and immediately filled it. A narrow tabular array, ii feet wide at virtually, ran the length, nearly ten feet. 4 large wooden drawers covered one side; four on the other. Marking, the lock picker, flipped upwards his goggles, adjusted his headlight, and inspected one of the locks. He shook his head and said, "No surprise. Combination locks, probably with computerized codes that alter every twenty-four hours. There's no way to selection it. We gotta drill."

"Go for information technology," Denny said. "Showtime drilling and I'll cut the other door."

Jerry produced a iii-quarter drive bombardment-powered drill with bracing bars on both sides. He zeroed in on the lock and he and Mark applied as much pressure as possible. The drill whined and slid off the brass, which at first seemed impenetrable. Merely a shaving spun off, then another, and every bit the men shoved the bracing bars the drill bit ground deeper into the lock. When information technology gave style the drawer still would not open. Marking managed to slide a thin pry bar into the gap to a higher place the lock and yanked down violently. The wood frame split and the drawer opened. Inside was an archival storage box with black metal edges, seventeen inches by twenty-two and iii inches deep.

"Careful," Jerry said as Mark opened the box and gently lifted a thin hardback volume. Marker read slowly, "The collected poems of Dolph McKenzie. Just what I always wanted."

"Who the hell?"

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