by Gayle Lynds
Being home all day every day after the accident had been hard. She watched for Charles in the shadows, listened for his voice calling from the garden, slept with his pillow tight against her cheek. The emptiness had closed around her like a cold fist, holding her tight in a kind of painful suspension.
“I’m so sorry, Eva,” Peggy was saying. “Charles was a great scholar.”
She nodded. Again her fingers went to the chain around her neck. At the end of it hung an ancient Roman coin with the profile of the goddess Diana—her first gift from Charles. She had not taken off the necklace since he died.
“Dinner tonight?” Peggy said brightly. “My treat for letting me tap into that big brain of yours.”
“Love to. I’ve got karate class, so I’ll meet you afterward.”
They decided on a restaurant, and Eva went to her workstation. She sat and pulled the arm of her stereo-binocular microscope toward her. She liked the familiarity of the motion and the comfort of her desk with its slide kits, gooseneck lamp, and ultraviolet light stand. Her project was an adventure manuscript about the knights of King Arthur completed in 1422 in London.
She stared through the microscope’s eyepiece and used a scalpel to lift a flaking piece of green pigment from the gown of a princess. The quiet of the work and the meticulous focus it required soothed her. She carefully applied adhesive beneath the paint flake.
“Hello, Eva.”
So deep was her concentration, the voice sent a dull shock through her. She looked up. It was her attorney, Brian Collum.
Of medium height, he was in his late forties, with eyebrows and hair the gray color of a magnet and the strong-jawed face of a man who knew what he wanted from life. Impeccably turned out in a charcoal suit with thin pinstripes, he was the name partner in the international law firm of Collum & Associates. Because of their friendship, he was representing her in the trial for Charles’s death.
“How nice to see you, Brian.”
He lowered his voice. “We need to talk.” Usually his long face radiated optimism. But not now. His expression was grim.
“Not good news?” She glanced at her colleagues, noting they were studiously attending to their projects.
“It’s good—or bad, depending on what you think.”
Eva led him outdoors to a courtyard of lawns and flowers. A water fountain flowed serenely over perfectly arranged boulders. This was all part of the Getty Center, a complex of striking architecture sheathed in glass and Italian travertine stone crowning a hill in the Santa Monica Mountains.
Silently they passed museum visitors and sat together on a bench where no one could overhear.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
He was blunt. “I have an offer from the D.A.’s office. If you plead guilty, they’ll give you a reduced sentence. Four years. But with good behavior you’ll be out in three. They’re willing to make a deal because you have a clean driving record and you’re a respected member of the community.”
“Absolutely not.” She forced herself to stay calm. “I wasn’t driving.”
“Then who was?”
The question hung like a scythe in the sparkling California air.
“You really don’t recall Charles getting behind the wheel?” she asked. “You were standing in your doorway when we drove away. I saw you. You had to have seen us.” They had been at a dinner party at Brian’s house that night, the last guests to leave.
“We’ve been over this before. I went inside as soon as I said good night—before either of you got close to your car. Alcohol plays tricks with the mind.”
“Which is why I’d never drive. Never.” Working to keep the horror from her voice, she related the story again: “It was after one A.M., and Charles was driving us home. We were laughing. There wasn’t any traffic on Mulholland, so Charles wove the car back and forth. That threw us against our seat belts and just made us laugh harder. He drove with one hand, then with the other . . .” She frowned to herself. There was something else, but it escaped her. “Suddenly a car shot out from a driveway ahead of us. Charles slammed the brakes. Our car spun out of control. I must’ve lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I was strapped down to a gurney.” She swallowed. “And Charles was dead.”
She smoothed the fabric of her skirt and stared off as grief raged through her.
Brian’s silence was so long that the distant roar of traffic on the San Diego Freeway seemed to grow louder.
At last he said kindly, “I’m sure that’s what you remember, but we have no evidence to support it. And I’ve spent enough of your money hiring investigators to look for witnesses that I have to believe we’re not going to find any.” His voice toughened. “How’s a jury going to react when they learn you were found lying unconscious just ten feet from the driver’s door—and it was hanging open, showing you were behind the wheel? And Charles was in the front passenger seat, with the seat belt melted into what was left of him. There’s no way he was driving. And you had a 1.6 blood alcohol level—twice the legal limit.”
“But I wasn’t driving—” She stopped. With effort, she controlled herself. “You think I should take the D.A.’s deal, don’t you?”
“I think the jury is going to believe you were so drunk you blacked out and don’t remember what you did. They’ll go for the maximum sentence. If I had a scintilla of hope I could convince them otherwise, I’d recommend against the offer.”
Shaken, Eva stood and walked around the tranquil pool of water encircling the fountain. Her chest was tight. She stared into the water and tried to make herself breathe. First she had lost Charles and all their dreams and hopes for the future. He had been brilliant, fun, endlessly fascinating. She closed her eyes and could almost feel him stroking her cheek, comforting her. Her heart ached with longing for him.
And now she faced prison. The thought terrified her, but for the first time she admitted it was possible—she had never in her life blacked out, but she might have this time. If she had blacked out, she might have climbed behind the wheel. And if she did—that meant she really had killed Charles. She bent her head and clasped the gold wedding band on her finger. Tears slid down her cheeks.
Behind her, Brian touched her shoulder. “You remember Trajan, the great ruler who expanded the Roman empire?”
She quickly wiped her face with her fingers and turned around to him. “Of course. What about him?”
“Trajan was ruthless and cunning and won every great battle he led his troops into. He had a rule: If you can’t win, don’t fight. If you don’t fight, it’s no defeat. You will survive. Take the deal, Eva. Survive.”
3
Washington, D.C.
April, Two years later
Carrying a thermos of hot coffee and two mugs, Tucker Andersen crossed into Stanton Park, just five blocks from his office on Capitol Hill. The midnight shadows were long and black, and the air was cool. There were no children in the playground, no pedestrians on the sidewalks. Inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass, he listened as traffic rumbled past on C Street. All was as it should be.
Finally he spotted his old friend Jonathan Ryder, almost invisible where he sat on a bench facing the granite statue of Revolutionary War hero Nathanael Greene. Tonight a call had come in from Tucker’s wife that Jonathan was trying to reach him.
Tucker closed in. A slender man of five foot ten, he had the long muscles of the runner he still was. His eyes were large and intelligent behind tortoiseshell glasses, his mustache light brown, his gray beard trimmed close to the jaw. Mostly bald, he had a fringe of gray-brown hair dangling over his shirt collar. He was fifty-three years old, and although his official credentials announced CIA, he was both more and less.
“Hello, Jonathan.” Tucker sat and crossed his legs. “Nice to see you again. What’s it been—ten years?” He studied him. Jonathan looked small now, and he was not a small man. And tense. Very tense.
“At least ten years. I appreciate your meeting me on such short notice.” Jonathan
gave a brief smile, showing a row of perfect white teeth in his lined face. Lean and fit, he had a high forehead topped by a brush of graying blond hair. He was wearing black sweatpants and a black sweatshirt with a Yale University logo on the sleeve instead of his usual Savile Row business suit.
Tucker handed him a mug and poured coffee for both of them. “Sounded important, but then you could always make sunrise seem as if it were heralding angels.”
“It is important.” Jonathan sniffed the coffee. “Smells good.” His hands shook as he drank.
Tucker felt a moment of worry. “How’s the family?”
“Jeannine’s great. Busy with all her charities, as usual. Judd’s left military intelligence and isn’t going to reenlist. Three tours in Iraq and a tour in Pakistan were finally enough for him.” He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the past lately.”
Tucker set the thermos on the seat beside him. They had been close friends during their undergraduate days at Yale. “I remember when we were in school and you started that investment club. You made me a grand in two years. That was a hell of a lot of money in those days.”
Jonathan nodded. Then he grinned. “I thought you were just a smart-ass—all looks, no brains, no commitment. Then you saved my skin that night in Alexanderplatz in East Berlin. Remember? It took a lot of muscle—and smarts.”
After college, both had joined the CIA, in operations, but Jonathan had left after three years to earn an MBA at Wharton. With an undergraduate degree in chemistry, he had worked for a series of pharmaceutical companies, then gone on to found his own. Today he was president and board chair of Bucknell Technologies. Monied and powerful, he was a regular on Washington’s social circuit and at the president’s yearly Prayer Breakfast.
“Glad I did the good deed,” Tucker said. “Look where you ended up—a baron of Big Pharma, while I’m still tilling the mean streets and urine-scented dark alleys.”
Jonathan nodded. “To each his own. Still, if you’d wanted it, you could’ve headed Langley. Your problem is you make a lousy bureaucrat. Have you heard of the video game called Bureaucracy? If you move, you lose.”
Tucker chuckled. “Okay, old friend. Time to tell me what this is all about.”
Jonathan looked at his coffee, then set it on the seat beside him. “A situation’s come up. It scares the hell out of me. It’s more your bailiwick than mine.”
“You’ve got a lot contacts. Why me?” Tucker drank.
“Because this has to be handled carefully. You’re a master at that. Because we’re friends, and I’m going to go down. I don’t want to die in the process.” He stared at Tucker, then looked away. “I’ve stumbled onto something . . . an account for about twenty million dollars in an international bank. I’m not sure exactly what it’s all about, but I’m damn sure it has to do with Islamic terrorism.” Jonathan fell silent.
“Go on,” Tucker snapped. “Which bank? Why do you think the twenty million is connected to jihadism?”
“It’s complicated.” He craned around, checking the park.
Tucker looked, too. The wide expanse remained empty.
“You’ve come this far.” Tucker controlled an urge to shake the information out of him. “You know you want to tell me.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m not exactly an angel myself. . . But I don’t understand how anyone could—” Jonathan shuddered. “What do you know about the Library of Gold?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s key. I’ve been there. It’s where I found out about this—”
Tucker watched Jonathan intently as he spoke. He was leaning forward slightly, gazing off into the middle distance.
There was no sound. No warning. A red dot suddenly appeared on Jonathan’s forehead and the back of his head exploded with a loud crack. Blood and tissue and bone blasted into the air.
Tucker’s training kicked in immediately. Before Jonathan’s lifeless body had time to keel over, Tucker hit the sidewalk and rolled under the bench. Two more sniper shots dug into the concrete, spitting shards. His heart pounded. His friend’s blood dripped next to him. Tucker swallowed and swore. He had come unarmed.
Using his mobile, he dialed 911 and reported the wet job. Then he peeled off his blazer, rolled it thick, and lifted it to attract attention. It was a light tan color, a contrast against the shadows. When no more rounds were fired, he snaked out from under the bench. Hurrying off through the park, he headed toward Massachusetts Avenue, where he thought the bullets had originated. As he moved he considered what Jonathan had said: Islamic terrorism . . . $20 million in an international bank . . . the Library of Gold. . . . What in hell was the Library of Gold?
As he crossed the street, Tucker scanned the area. A young couple was drinking from Starbucks coffee cups, the man carrying a briefcase. Another man was pushing a grocery cart. A middle-aged woman in a running suit and wearing a small backpack jogged past and circled back. Any of them could be the shooter, the rifle quickly broken down and concealed in the briefcase, the shopping cart, the backpack. Or the shooter could be someone else, still tracking him.
When he reached Sixth Street, Tucker ran into the swiftly moving traffic. Over the noise of honking horns, he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet whistling overhead. Crouching between the lanes of rushing cars, he spun around and stared back. A man was standing on the sidewalk at the corner, holding a pistol in both hands.
As the man fired again, Tucker put on a burst of speed, running with the cars. More horns honked. Curses filled the air. A taxi was entering traffic after dropping off its fare. Tucker pounded the fender to slow it, yanked open the back door, and fell inside.
The driver’s head whipped around. “What in hell?”
“Drive.”
As the taxi took off, Tucker peered out the rear window. Behind him, the killer ran into the congestion, looking everywhere, his gun still searching for its target. A van entered traffic, and Tucker lost sight of him. When the van turned the corner, opening up the view again, he spotted the man three blocks back. A car slewed around him, horn blaring. Another car skidded. The man pivoted, and a racing sedan slammed into him. He vanished under the wheels of the car.
“Let me off here,” Tucker ordered. He shoved money at the driver and jumped out.
Running back, he studied the stream of cars. They should have stopped. At least they should be swerving around the downed shooter.
As two police cars arrived at the park, sirens screaming, Tucker walked up and down the tree-lined block. Both sides. Traffic roared past. There was no sign of a body.
4
The funeral for Jonathan Ryder was held in the Chevy Chase Presbyterian Church in north-west Washington. A somber crowd packed the sanctuary—business people, lawyers, investors, philanthropists, and politicians. Jonathan’s widow, Jeannine; his son, Judd; and assorted relatives sat in the front row, while Tucker Andersen found a spot in back where he could watch and listen.
After Jonathan was killed, the police had searched the buildings around Stanton Park and questioned all potential witnesses. They interviewed the widow, son, neighbors, and business associates, who were mystified why anyone would want to murder a good man like Jonathan. The police investigation was continuing.
Checking into Jonathan’s last words, Tucker had found only one mention of the Library of Gold in Langley’s database. Then he researched the library online and talked with historians at local universities. He also queried the targeting analysts in the counterterrorism unit. Thus far he had found nothing helpful.
“In Jesus Christ, death has been conquered and the promise of eternal life affirmed.” The pastor’s voice resonated against the high walls as he conducted the Service of Witness to the Resurrection. “This is a time to celebrate the wonderful gifts we received from God in our relationships with Jonathan Ryder. . .”
Tucker felt a wave of grief. Finally the celebration of Jonathan’s life ended, and the strains of “The Old Rugged Cross�
� filled the sanctuary. The family left first, Judd Ryder supporting his mother, her head bowed.
As soon as it was decent, Tucker followed.
The reception was in the church, in Chadsey Hall. Tucker chatted with people, introducing himself as an old college friend of Jonathan’s. It lasted an hour. When Jeannine and Judd Ryder were walking alone out the door, Tucker intercepted them.
“Tucker, how nice to see you.” Jeannine smiled. “You’ve shaved your beard.” A petite brunette, she was dressed in a black sheath dress with a string of pearls tight against her throat. She had changed a lot, no longer the lively wife he remembered. She was his age, but there was a sense about her of having settled, as if there were no longer any questions to be asked.
“Karen was in a state of shock,” Tucker admitted with a smile. He’d had a beard off and on for years. “It’s been a while since she’s seen my whole face.”
He shook hands with Jonathan’s son, Judd. “The last time we met, you were at Georgetown.” He remembered when Judd was born, Jonathan’s pride. His full name was Judson Clayborn Ryder.
“A long time ago,” Judd agreed genially. “Are you still with State?” Six feet one inch tall, he was thirty-two years old, wide-shouldered, with an easy stance. Fine lines covered his face, swarthy from too many hours in the sun. His hair was wavy and chestnut brown, while his brown eyes had faded to a dark, contemplative gray. His gaze was rock steady, but a sense of disillusionment and a hint of cynicism showed. Retired military intelligence, Tucker remembered.
The State Department was Tucker’s longtime cover. “They’ll have to pry my fingers off my desk to get rid of me.”
