St John Cambro ((top)) - Whitney

He was not what she expected. No dark glasses, no earpiece. Just a mild man in a beige raincoat, carrying a briefcase. He introduced himself as Mr. Albrecht and asked to see the codex.

Three days later, the fake codex sold to a private collector from Texas for two million pounds. O’Flaherty got his money. Szász got his warning. Gerald got a postcard from Whitney: a picture of Belmarsh Prison, with the words Thinking of you scrawled on the back. whitney st john cambro

Whitney took a slow sip of tea. “Mr. Albrecht,” she said, “you’re absolutely right. The codex is stolen. And I have proof that Mr. Szász obtained it originally through the forced sale of a Jewish family’s library in Budapest in 1944. My researcher found the records last night. Would you like to see them?” He was not what she expected

“He collects people who owe him things. O’Flaherty owes him two million from a bad horse deal. So O’Flaherty stole the codex, and now he’s selling it to pay Szász. But here’s the kicker: Szász wants it back. He’s already sent someone to London. A fixer. Calls himself ‘the Accountant.’” He introduced himself as Mr

The next evening, she stood in the warehouse—a converted piano factory in Hackney—as O’Flaherty arrived with a battered leather satchel. He was sweating through his good shirt.

She had, after all, a reputation to maintain.