Brookline University Sophomore Year by Jennifer Samson Read Free

CHAPTER I

THE HEIST

1.

The imposter borrowed the name of Neville Manchin, an actual professor of American literature at Portland State and shortlyhoped-for doctoral student at Stanford. In his letter, on perfectly forged college stationery, "Professor Manchin" claimed to exist a budding scholar of F. Scott Fitzgerald and was not bad to see the dandy writer's "manuscripts and papers" during a forthcoming trip to the East Coast. The letter of the alphabet was addressed to Dr. Jeffrey Dark-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 somewhen landed on the desk of Ed Folk, a career junior librarian whose task, amidst 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 same, all from self-proclaimed Fitzgerald buffs and experts, and even from the occasional truthful scholar. In the previous agenda yr, Ed had cleared and logged in 190 of these people through the library. They came from all over the earth and arrived wide-eyed and humbled, like pilgrims before a shrine. In his thirty-4 years at the aforementioned desk, Ed had processed all of them. And, they were non going away. F. Scott Fitzgerald continued to fascinate. The traffic was every bit heavy at present as it had been three decades earlier. These days, though, Ed was wondering what could possibly exist left of the keen author's life that had not been pored over, studied at great length, and written about. Not long ago, a true scholar told Ed that there were now at least a hundred books and over 10 thousand published bookish manufactures on Fitzgerald the man, the writer, his works, and his crazy wife.

And he drank himself to expiry at forty-iv! What if he'd lived into quondam historic period and kept writing? Ed would demand an banana, maybe 2, perhaps even an unabridged staff. But then Ed knew that an early on expiry was frequently the fundamental to later acclamation (not to mention greater royalties).

Afterward a few days, Ed finally got effectually to dealing with Professor Manchin. A quick review of the library'southward register revealed that this was a new person, a new request. Some of the veterans had been to Princeton so many times they just chosen his number and said, "Hey, Ed, I'll be there next Tuesday." Which was fine with Ed. Not so with Manchin. Ed went through the Portland State website and institute his man. Undergraduate caste in American lit from the University of Oregon; main'south from UCLA; offshoot gig now for three years. His photo revealed a rather manifestly-looking young homo of perhaps thirty-5, the makings of a bristles that was probably temporary, and narrow frameless eyeglasses.

In his alphabetic character, Professor Manchin asked whoever responded to do so by electronic mail, and gave a private Gmail address. He said he rarely checked his university address. Ed thought, "That'south considering y'all're just a lowly offshoot professor and probably don't even have a existent function." He often had these thoughts, but, of course, was besides professional to utter them to anyone else. Out of circumspection, 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 idea of when he might arrive 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 respond was automatic and informed Ed that Manchin was out of pocket for a few days. 1 of Manchin's partners had hacked into the Portland State directory merely deep enough to tamper with the English department'southward electronic mail server; easy work for a sophisticated hacker. He and the imposter knew immediately that Ed had responded.

Ho hum, thought Ed. The side by side mean solar day he sent the aforementioned message to Professor Manchin'south private Gmail accost. Within an hour, Manchin replied with an enthusiastic thank-you lot, said he couldn't wait to get there, and then on. He gushed on about how he had studied the library'due south website, had spent hours with the Fitzgerald digital archives, had owned for years the multivolume series containing facsimile editions of the dandy author's handwritten first drafts, and had a item interest 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 even got there, which was not at all unusual.

2.

F. Scott Fitzgerald enrolled in Princeton in the autumn of 1913. At the age of sixteen, he was dreaming of writing the great 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 go to state of war, just information technology ended earlier he was deployed. His classic, The Slap-up Gatsby, was published in 1925 but did not become popular until afterwards his death. He struggled financially throughout his career, and by 1940 was working in Hollywood, cranking out bad screenplays, declining physically and creatively. On December 21, he died of a heart assail, brought on by years of astringent alcoholism.

In 1950, Scottie, his daughter and simply child, gave his original manuscripts, notes, and letters—his "papers"—to the Firestone Library at Princeton. His 5 novels were handwritten on inexpensive paper that did not historic period well. The library quickly realized that it would exist unwise to let researchers to physically handle them. High-quality copies were made, and the originals were locked away in a secured basement vault where the air, light, and temperature were carefully controlled. Over the years, they had been removed only a handful of times.

3.

The man posing equally Professor Neville Manchin arrived at Princeton on a beautiful autumn day in early October. He was directed to Rare Books and Special Collections, where he met Ed Folk, who and so passed him forth to another assistant librarian who examined and copied his Oregon driver's license. It was, of course, a forgery, but a perfect i. The forger, who was also the hacker, had been trained by the CIA and had a long history in the murky world of individual espionage. Breaching a bit of campus security was hardly a challenge.

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

"Have you always seen the originals?" Manchin asked.

"Only once."

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

"Well, a certain famous scholar wished to see them. Nosotros accompanied him downwardly to the vault and gave him a look. He didn't touch the papers, though. Just our head librarian is allowed to do and then, and only with special gloves."

"Of course. Oh well, let'south get to piece of work."

The assistant opened two of the big drawers, both labeled "This Side of Paradise," and withdrew thick, oversized notebooks. He said, "These contain the reviews of the volume when information technology was showtime published. We have many other samples of later reviews."

"Perfect," Manchin said with a grin. He opened his briefcase, took out a notepad, and seemed ready to pounce on everything laid on the table. Half an hour afterward, with Manchin deep in his work, the banana librarian excused himself and disappeared. For the benefit of the cameras, Manchin never looked up. Eventually, he needed to discover the men's room and wandered away. He took a incorrect plow here and another one at that place, got himself lost, and eased through Collections, avoiding contact with anyone. In that location were surveillance cameras everywhere. He doubted that anyone at that moment was watching the footage, simply it c

ould certainly exist retrieved if needed. He found an elevator, avoided it, and took the nearby stairs. The first level below was similar to the footing floor. Below it, the stairs stopped at B2 (Basement 2), where a large thick door waited with "Emergencies Simply" painted in bold messages. A keypad was side by side to the door, and some other sign warned that an warning would audio the instant the door was opened without "proper dominance." Two security cameras watched the door and the surface area around it.

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

"Oh aye. Just a chip of a tummy bug, I'm afraid. Promise it's non contagious." The assistant librarian left immediately, and Manchin hung around all day, digging through materials from the steel drawers and reading old reviews he cared nix 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 make clean shaven, his hair was colored a sandy blond, he wore imitation eyeglasses with ruby-red frames, and he carried a artificial student bill of fare with a photo. If someone asked, which he certainly didn't expect, 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 it that, was professional thievery. High-dollar, world-class, elaborately planned nail-and-take hold of 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 Ground forces Ranger who had turned to law-breaking after being kicked out of the military machine. And then far, Denny had not been caught and had no record; nor did Marker. However, two of the others did. Trey had two convictions and 2 escapes, his final the year before from a federal prison house in Ohio. Information technology was in that location he'd met Jerry, a petty art thief at present on parole. Another art thief, a sometime cellmate serving a long judgement, had first mentioned the Fitzgerald manuscripts to Jerry.

The setup was perfect. There were only five manuscripts, all handwritten, all in i place. And to Princeton they were priceless.

The fifth fellow member of the team preferred to work at home. Ahmed was the hacker, the forger, the creator of all illusions, merely he didn't have the nervus to bear guns and such. He worked from his basement in Buffalo and had never been defenseless or arrested. He left no trails. His 5 percent would come off the top. The other 4 would take the residual in equal shares.

By nine o'clock on a Tuesday night, Denny, Marker, and Jerry were inside the Firestone Library posing every bit grad students and watching the clock. Their faux educatee IDs had worked perfectly; non a single countenance had been raised. Denny found his hiding place in a tertiary-floor women'due south restroom. He lifted a panel in the ceiling above the toilet, tossed upwardly his student backpack, and settled in for a few hours of hot and cramped waiting. Mark picked the lock of the main mechanical room on the first level of the basement and waited for alarms. He heard none, nor did Ahmed, who had easily hacked into the university's 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 hidden among rows of stacked tiers property books that had not been touched in decades.

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

The library closed at midnight. The four team members, as well every bit Ahmed in his basement in Buffalo, were in radio contact. Denny, the leader, announced at 12:15 that all was proceeding as planned. At 12:xx, Trey, dressed like a student and hauling a bulky backpack, entered the McCarren Residential College in the centre of the campus. He saw the same surveillance cameras he had seen the previous week. He took the unwatched stairs to the second floor, ducked into a coed restroom, and locked himself in a stall. At 12:twoscore, he reached into his haversack and removed a can about the size of a xx-ounce bottle of soda. He set a delayed starter and hid information technology backside the toilet. He left the restroom, went to the third flooring, and set another flop in an empty shower stall. At 12:45, he institute a semi-dark hallway on the second floor of a dormitory and nonchalantly tossed a string of 10 jumbo Black True cat firecrackers down the hall. As he scrambled down the stairwell, the explosions boomed through the air. Seconds afterwards, both smoke bombs erupted, sending thick clouds of rancid fog into the hallways. As Trey left the building he heard the showtime wave of panicked voices. He stepped behind some shrubs near the dorm, pulled a disposable phone out of his pocket, called Princeton's 911 service, and delivered the horrifying news: "There's a guy with a gun on the second floor of McCarren. He's firing shots."

Smoke was drifting from a second-floor window. Jerry, sitting in the dark written report carrel in the library, made a similar call from his prepaid cell phone. Shortly, calls were pouring in as panic gripped the campus.

Every American higher has elaborate plans to handle a state of affairs involving an "active gunman," but no one wants to implement them. It took a few dumbstruck seconds for the officeholder in accuse to push the correct buttons, just when she did, sirens began wailing. Every Princeton educatee, professor, ambassador, and employee received a text and e-mail service alert. All doors were to be closed and locked. All buildings were to be secured.

Jerry made another call to 911 and reported that two students had been shot. Smoke boiled out of McCarren Hall. Trey dropped three more smoke bombs into trash cans. A few students ran through the fume every bit they went from building to building, non sure where exactly the safe places were. Campus security and the City of Princeton police raced onto the scene, followed closely by one-half a dozen fire trucks. And then ambulances. The kickoff of many patrol cars from the New Jersey Land Police arrived.

Trey left his backpack at the door of an office building, then called 911 to report how suspicious it looked. The timer on the last fume bomb inside the backpack was gear up to go off in x minutes, simply equally the demolition experts would be staring at it from a distance.

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

Denny replied, "Cut the lights."

Ahmed, sipping potent tea in Buffalo and sitting on get, quickly routed through the schoolhouse's security console, entered the electrical grid, and cutting the electricity not only to the Firestone Library but to half a dozen nearby buildings also. For skillful measure, Mark, now wearing night vision goggles, pulled the main cutoff switch in the mechanical room. He waited and held his jiff, then breathed easier when the backup generator did not engage.

The power outage triggered alarms at the fundamental monitoring station inside the campus security complex, but no ane was paying attending. There was an active gunman on the loose. There was no fourth dimension to worry about other alarms.

Jerry had spent ii nights inside the Firestone Library in the past week and was confident there were no guards stationed within the building while information technology was closed. During the night, a uniformed officer walked effectually the building one time or twice, shined his flashlight at the doors, and kept walking. A marked patrol car made its rounds too, but it was primarily concerned with drunkard students. More often than not, the campus was similar any other—dead betwixt the hours of 1:00 and 8:00 a.m.

On this night, withal, Princeton was in the midst of a frantic emergency every bit America's finest were being shot. Trey reported to his gang that the scene was total anarchy with cops scrambling most, SWAT boys throwing on their gear, sirens screaming, radios squawking, and a million red and blue emergency lights flashing. Smoke hung by the copse like a fog. A helicopter could exist heard hovering somewhere shut. Total chaos.

Denny, Jerry, and Marker hustled through the dark and took the stairs downward to the basement nether Special Collections. Each wore nighttime vision goggles and a miner's lamp strapped to his forehead. Each carried a heavy haversack, and Jerry hauled a small-scale Army duffel he'd hidden in the library two nights earlier. At the 3rd and final level down, they stopped at a thick metallic door, blacked out the surveillance cameras, and waited for Ahmed and his magic. Calmly, he worked his way through the l

ibrary's alarm system and deactivated the door's four sensors. In that location was a loud clicking dissonance. Denny pressed down on the handle and pulled the door open up. Inside they found a narrow square of infinite with two more metal doors. Using a flashlight, Mark scanned the ceiling and spotted a surveillance camera. "There," he said. "Only one." Jerry, the tallest at six feet three 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 exercise you lot see?" Ahmed asked from Buffalo.

"Two metal doors, identical," Denny replied.

"I got nothing here, fellas," Ahmed replied. "In that location's nothing in the system across the outset door. First cutting."

From his duffel Jerry removed two 18-inch canisters, one filled with oxygen, the other with acetylene. Denny situated himself before the door on the left, lit a cut 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 away from the chaos effectually McCarren and was hiding in the blackness across the street from the library. Sirens were screaming equally more emergency vehicles responded. Helicopters were thumping the air loudly in a higher place the campus, though Trey could non run across them. Around him, even the streetlights were out. There was not another soul near the library. All hands were needed elsewhere.

"All's repose outside the library," he reported. "Any progress?"

"We're cut now," came the terse reply from Marker. All five members knew that chatter should be limited. Denny slowly and skillfully cut through the metal with the torch tip that emitted eight hundred degrees of oxygenated heat. Minutes passed equally molten metal dripped to the floor and red and xanthous sparks flew from the door. At i point Denny said, "It'south an inch thick." He finished the top edge of the square and began cutting straight down. The work was slow, the minutes dragged on, and the tension mounted simply they kept their absurd. Jerry and Mark crouched backside Denny, watching his every move. When the bottom cut line was finished, Denny rattled the latch and it came loose, though something hung. "It's a commodities," he said. "I'll cut it."

5 minutes later, the door swung open. Ahmed, staring at his laptop, noticed goose egg unusual from the library'southward security system. "Nothing here," he said. Denny, Mark, and Jerry entered the room and immediately filled information technology. A narrow table, two feet wide at most, ran the length, virtually ten feet. Four large wooden drawers covered i side; four on the other. Mark, the lock picker, flipped upward his goggles, adjusted his headlight, and inspected 1 of the locks. He shook his head and said, "No surprise. Combination locks, probably with computerized codes that change every solar day. There's no style to pick it. We gotta drill."

"Become for it," Denny said. "Start drilling and I'll cut the other door."

Jerry produced a three-quarter drive battery-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. But a shaving spun off, and then some other, and as the men shoved the bracing bars the drill bit ground deeper into the lock. When it gave way the drawer still would non open. Mark managed to slide a thin pry bar into the gap above the lock and yanked downwards violently. The woods frame dissever and the drawer opened. Within was an archival storage box with black metal edges, seventeen inches past twenty-two and three inches deep.

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

"Who the hell?"

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