Page 46 of The Librarians

Ryan, who’s been passing around fruits to the guests, tosses Conrad a fig. “What things?”

Conrad catches the fig. “Have you guys ever heard of the Skripals?”

Only Hazel answers in the affirmative. “The ones poisoned with Novichok—those Skripals?”

“Novichok?” exclaims Ryan. “The same nerve agent that was used on Navalny?”

Conrad nods. “Papa Skripal was a Russian double agent who settled down in Salisbury, in the UK, for what was to be a nice, uneventful life for himself and his family.

Then one day, he and his daughter were found unconscious in a park.

Before the authorities figured out it was Novichok, they first suspected fentanyl.

“Because of that, the article I was reading brought up that in 2002—remember the Moscow theater hostage crisis?”

Jonathan vaguely recollects having walked by a TV with the story blasting. “Sorry, I was in high school and not exactly paying attention to world events.”

“I remember it,” says Hazel. “I was already in Singapore and the rest of the world is much closer to Singapore than it is to the contiguous United States. The story was on TV for days. And didn’t Russian security forces pump some sort of gas into the theater, which allowed them to storm the place and kill the hostage takers but also killed a bunch of hostages? ”

“Over a hundred hostages. And guess what was in the gas?”

“Jesus, not fentanyl?” whispers Ryan.

“Possibly a mixture of carfentanil and remifentanil, aerosolized.”

The violent death of the homeless patron made Jonathan feel as if he’s barely holding on to a storm-tossed dinghy. But this—this is the cold shock of seawater engulfing him.

Ryan swears and taps a button to reveal a hidden bar. On the glass shelves, bottles gleam darkly under recessed lighting. He pours himself a shot of gin. “Are you really talking about weaponized carfentanil, Conrad?”

“I would love for it not to be the case, but at this point, it would be irresponsible not to consider the possibility.”

Ryan downs his shot. “The Kremlin wants Hazel’s husband’s Bitcoin?”

“Hardly. American military weapons are smuggled all over the world. The Russian military—and intelligence service—are far more corrupt. I would not be at all surprised that weapon-grade carfentanil is sold to civilians or otherwise fenced.”

“Okay, slightly better,” deems Ryan. “But still, what are we supposed to do with this information?”

Jonathan feels equally dazed.

For the first time since they came out of the alcove, or so it seems, Hazel gazes directly at Conrad, who frowns and says, “We need to talk to Astrid.”

“You’re pretty good at this,” says Conrad as he studies the direction from which they came.

They are parked right next to the steps that lead to the top of Mount Bonnell, which offers a panoramic view of Austin during the day but is now dark and deserted.

Hazel has driven Nainai’s Miata up the steep, winding lane at nearly unsafe speeds.

Then turned off the headlights, shifted to neutral, and drifted to a parking spot.

“Defensive driving is for others. My mom believes in evasive driving for heiresses.”

They continue to wait. If they are being tailed, they will know soon.

An SUV zooms into sight, headlights blazing, and swings into a parking spot with a screeching of tires.

Hazel tenses, but a gaggle of young people spill out.

They are tipsy, judging by their raucous laughter—and the fact that they plan to leave their ride unattended in a place notorious for smashed windows at night.

Conrad’s watch beeps. “That’s five minutes,” he says. “We can go now.”

Hazel reverses and shifts into first, making as little noise as possible, while longing for the resolute silence of an electric vehicle.

Brake. Downshift. Turn. Accelerate. Upshift. She tries to keep her mind focused only on the mechanics of driving as the inadequately lit road dips and swerves through the opening folds of Texas Hill Country.

Beside her, Conrad looks out of the window. In the kitchen of his house she was always aware of his attention. But now that they are alone in this tiny car, his presence a constant sensation of pinpricks on her skin, he seems to be distancing himself.

And then he turns toward her and asks, “What are you afraid of?”

Her stomach clenches—so does her heart. In that moment, it almost feels as if they are back on Madeira and the deeply perceptive young man she’s just met is asking What makes you happy? , the question no one has posed to her before or since.

A minute passes before Hazel can bring herself to say, “Kit had Russian clients.”

“And?”

She accelerates to beat a yellow light. “And nothing. Every British and European art dealer worth their salt has Russian clients. Besides, he didn’t steal from his clients—he embezzled from his employer, a British establishment.”

Does she feel a hint of warmth just above her right hand on the gear shift? Is he about to take her hand? But he only leans more toward the window and says, “But?”

They are on a local highway now and the illumination is adequate. Yet she feels as if she’s driving into fog and shadows. She bites the inside of her cheek. “What if we find Kit at the end of it?”

There, she has named her fear. But the fear does not lessen, it only coils tighter around her, a python bent on suffocation.

“Kit is dead, Hazel,” Conrad says quietly.

Or so she—and everyone else—has been told.

But is it the truth, or is it just something they are supposed to accept at face value?