"Tell me again," Jacob Stone grunted as he hefted one end of a four-by-eight-foot long solid oak table to tilt it on its side, "why we're moving these tables?"

"Because Mr. Carsen said this table ought to be round," Jenkins answered from where he stood by the door that led to the Annex's elevator and thence to the basement. "I happen to agree with him."

Of course you would, Jacob thought. Why wouldn't Galahad want a round table?

He knew better than to voice the thought aloud, especially when Ezekiel Jones chimed in with a different take on the situation. "You're not the one moving the rectangular ones, mate."

"When you reach my age, Mr. Jones," Jenkins said, "you, too, will be exempt from physical labor."

"That's an if, Jenkins," Jacob said. "C'mon, Jones, the slower you go the longer we gotta carry this thing."

"These are the hands of a master thief," Jones declared. "I'm not going to risk them. I shouldn't be risking them in manual labor at all."

"Be risking more than your fingers if you don't get moving," Jacob snarled, and was pleased to see Jones flinch, if only a little. Paying attention to how his twin managed his own team of, yes, oddballs, had paid off.

Finally, they maneuvered the table into the elevator and Jacob touched the button for the basement. One of the basements, he corrected himself, and resigned himself to waiting until the doors chose to open. Even Cassandra had given up trying to count the floors beneath the main Library, saying, "It's a tesseract. There could be an infinite number of floors, or there could be none."

But there were floors when the doors opened, and Jacob tried to focus on that. Post-modern surrealist art was easier to understand than physics.

Finally the doors opened into a storage area, and Jacob again took the lead in getting the table out of the elevator and stored near its twin, and thank God someone had realized that a sixteen-foot-long table was impossible to maneuver even in a place that only had a passing acquaintance with the laws of physics like the Library.

When he and Jones made it back to the main room, Jacob saw that Flynn, Eve, and Cassandra had gathered around the Clippings Book in its temporary spot by the Back Door.

"New case?" Jacob asked. Jones beat him to the Clippings Book, but he peered between Flynn and Cassandra's shoulders at the clipping that signaled another event the Librarians needed to look into.

"A copy of Omar Khayyam's Treatise on Demonstration of Problems of Algebra has turned up," Flynn said. "Only there are notes in this one that aren't in any other known copies, so scholars are debating its authenticity. Of course they are. They don't know the right questions to ask."

Even across the few inches separating them, Jacob could feel Cassandra quivering with excitement. "If it is authentic, it would be a major find. And if those notes are magical notes, it could rewrite most of mathematics as we know it. I'm going to get it!"

"It does seem like this case was made for you," Flynn agreed.

"It's in Iran," Eve observed. "You're not going there alone, Cassandra."

"I'll go with her," Jones said. "The article says the manuscript's going on display at the Malik National Museum and Library. Very tight security. You'll need a thief to help you get it."

"All right, then, Jones - you go with Cassandra," Flynn said.

"I'm going, too," Eve said. Flynn looked ready to protest, but she glared him down. "It's Iran - not the safest place for Americans or Aussies. Iran's been having informal talks with NATO representatives, so my ID could be helpful if things get tight. Jenkins, do we have headscarves anywhere? And Cassandra, you'll need to wear a longer skirt."

Jacob looked at Flynn as the others disappeared into the depths of the Annex. "Guess that leaves you and me to set up the new table."

Moving a round table was much easier, Jacob decided. He almost hadn't needed Flynn's help to turn it onto its side and roll it into the main room, but the extra set of hands keeping it stable did make the job a little easier.

"Perfect," Flynn said once they'd righted the round table, and Jacob had to agree that the new table did suit the room and the Librarians better than the rectangular one had.

Jacob turned to the stacks on the floor to start putting them on the new table. Pride of place would go, of course, to the Clippings Book, and he lifted it carefully - only to almost drop it when it shuddered in his hands.

"What the -?" Even as he began the question, Jacob knew the answer. Another clipping had appeared in the book.

"Another case?" Flynn asked.

Jacob rested the book on the table, scanned the new article. It was brief, only a couple of column inches. "Edwin Ribera, former president of San Lorenzo, died this morning of an apparent heart attack. The villa where he was living and all its contents will be going on the auction block. The villa, once the property of international money launderer and antiquities smuggler Damien Moreau, is rumored to contain millions of dollars' worth of art and artifacts dating back to European prehistory."

"Sounds like a job made for you," Flynn said.

"San Lorenzo's been on my bucket list for a while," Jacob admitted. "Even at its best, it was only a minor British colony, so nobody pays it much attention. But I have this theory about British colonial architecture, and..."

"I'll read the paper you write on it," Flynn promised. "But the auction's set for tomorrow morning, their time, which means you need to get going."

Jacob nodded and couldn't help grinning as they set the Back Door for San Lorenzo. Even five years ago, he'd never imagined that not only would he check off almost every item on his bucket list, but he'd add new ones that he'd never dreamed existed - and check them off, too.

"See you later," Jacob said, and opened the door.

#

Eliot Spencer always had mixed feelings when the Bridgeport Brewpub closed for a private event. On one hand, he was glad that the brewpub was popular enough that people wanted to book it - he took that as a sign than he really did know how to manage a restaurant kitchen, as well as cook for one, and thank you, Toby, for all those lessons.

On the other hand, cooking for two hundred people at once was far more challenging than serving the same number of people over several hours with different seating times, and the brewpub staff didn't have as much practice with those logistics as a professional catering kitchen staff would.

Still, Eliot relished the challenge when it came up, and so far, his kitchen crew hadn't let anyone down. They wouldn't start tonight, either, he vowed privately. Not when they were cooking for a friend.

Technically, Tabatha Delavega was more than a friend. She'd been a client once, and Eliot had dated her briefly after that job was finished. He stayed friendly with her after they'd broken up and she'd started dating someone else, and was honestly happy for her when she told him she was getting married. Then she'd complained over coffee about how expensive wedding venues were, and he'd offered the brewpub at a nominal rent.

Now, Tabatha and her fiancé were getting ready to exchange vows in the special events room, and Eliot was overseeing the preparation of the reception meal.

His phone rang in his pocket, and he reached for it. With any luck, it'd be the baker saying they were on the way with the cake.

But the display read only, "J."

"Sorry, Jake, busy," he muttered and shoved the phone back into his pocket without answering, then turned back to his kitchen. He had a lot of food to prepare and not a lot of time to get it done.

Almost an hour later, Eliot surveyed the brewpub with satisfaction. The entrée and main courses had been served, and his job was officially over. Unofficially, he'd hang around and help with the cleanup, but for now he could take a moment to relax.

He stepped through a door marked Staff Only and into Leverage, Inc.'s command center, the only place he could be sure to be out of the way and have a moment's quiet at the same time. Remembering the call that had come earlier, he pulled out his cell phone and tapped the button for voice mail.

The message sent a chill down his spine.

"Imagine my delight when my men told me they'd captured you, Eliot." It wasn't Jake speaking, but Eliot recognized Damien Moreau's voice immediately. "And then imagine my surprise when it turned out not to be you, but instead a twin brother. Call me when you're in country, no more than twenty-four hours from now, or … well. You know there are always consequences."