by Gayle Lynds
“Because you worry, Tucker.” Gloria turned off her computer. “The rest of us are necessary to make sure you’re able to concentrate on worrying. It’s a heavy job, but anything to serve the country.” She grinned. “Your messages are on your desk. As soon as I saw you on the outside monitors, I let Cathy know you were here. She’s waiting in your office. Have fun.” She snapped up her purse, took out her car keys, and headed for the door.
Feeling the weight of Jonathan’s death, Tucker walked down the long corridor. His office was the last one, chosen because it was quieter when the place was most active. As second in command, he got a few concessions, and his office was his favorite one.
He opened the door. Sitting in one of the two standard-issue armchairs in front of his cluttered desk was Catherine Doyle, the chief of Catapult.
She turned. “You look like crap.”
“That good? Thanks.” He shot her a grin and went to his desk.
Cathy Doyle chuckled. She was the same height as Tucker and dressed in a camel-colored pantsuit, her ankle boots planted firmly on the carpet. At fifty-plus, she was still a beauty, with short, blond-streaked hair and porcelain skin. She had been a model to support herself through New York University, graduating Phi Beta Kappa, then went on to earn a Ph.D. in international affairs from Columbia University, where Langley had recruited her.
“Gloria’s gone home.” He sat. “I can call over to Communications for coffee or tea.”
“I wouldn’t mind something stronger.”
“That strikes me just fine.” Tucker rotated in his chair to the file cabinet and unlocked the bottom drawer. He pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label Scotch and held it up, looking back.
Cathy nodded, and Tucker poured two fingers into two water glasses. The spicy fragrance of the blended whiskey rose into the air, complex in its smokiness and scents of malted grain and wood. He handed a glass to her and cradled his, warming it between his palms.
“That license plate number came up,” she told him. “It belongs to a Chevrolet Malibu reported stolen earlier today.”
“Not surprising. Anything about the Library of Gold, an international bank, and jihadist financing?”
A slew of Washington’s agencies—CIA, FBI, DIA, Customs, the IRS, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, the Office of Foreign Assets and Control, and the Secret Service—sent names of suspect individuals and groups to Treasury, which then forwarded them to a vast database of dubious financial transactions. The database compared the names to existing files and identified any matches.
Cathy shook her head. “Nothing yet.”
“What about SWIFT?”
The Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Tele -communication, SWIFT monitored international financial transactions on behalf of US counterterrorism efforts, looking for suspicious transactions that might be for terrorist financing, money laundering, or other criminal activity. The problem was, the information SWIFT had was no better than that provided by the banks at either end of the transactions.
“Nothing,” she told him. “If we had at least the name of the bank, we’d have something to go on. In any case, the usual suspicious transactions have turned up, and they’ll be investigated thoroughly anyway. And nothing about the Library of Gold was there, either.”
“What about Jonathan Ryder? Travel records, phone logs.”
“Zero so far. We’re still looking.” She studied him. “What’s been happening with you?”
He told her about the funeral and listening to Judd Ryder’s “bedtime story.”
“Interesting the father would do that,” she said. “Shows he had a longtime connection of some kind to the Library of Gold.”
“Exactly. Then I went to the Ryders’ place, and Judd and I searched Jonathan’s office. The only thing I found was a file in his desk—an unmarked file.” He handed the clippings to her. As she read them, he said, “All are about recent terrorist activity in Pakistan and Afghanistan—mostly the Taliban and al-Qaeda. In terms of money, there’s one about how difficult it is to track jihadist financing—finding a needle in a haystack is the cliché the article uses. Another talks about how subsidiary jihadist groups are funding themselves through fraud, kidnappings, bank heists, petty crime—just a fraction of what we know—and then tithing back to al-Qaeda central.”
Decimated by intelligence agencies and the military, and largely cut off from previous sources of income, al-Qaeda’s highly skilled, operationally sophisticated inner circle no longer could carry out attacks across continents. Now the major threat was the al-Qaeda movement—the numerous regional franchises and grassroots operations being born or refashioning themselves as affiliates.
“I’m eager to hear what the analysts think,” Tucker said. “Several banks are mentioned in the articles. Right now it seems to me Jonathan was gathering research but didn’t know precisely what he was looking for.”
“My thought, too, although he was focusing on the two countries.” She set the clippings on his desk.
“After I left the Ryders’, I had another incident.” He described the Chevy Malibu’s chase. “I figure the guy spotted me at Jonathan’s funeral, so he knows what I look like now. I can’t drive the Olds again until this is over.”
“Damn right. You can’t go home, either. He may figure out where you live.”
“I’ll sleep here. It’s cozy.” He grimaced and drank. “Karen’s packing. She’s driving to a friend of hers in the Adirondacks until this is over. You have the adjustments to my cover at State set up?”
“I did that first. Probably an hour ago. Took you long enough to get here.”
“I had to dry-clean my trail—you know the drill.” He sat back, turning his whiskey glass in his hands. “I got a hit about the Library of Gold in our database. A few years ago a man who claimed to be the chief librarian managed to get in touch with one of our operatives. He said all sorts of international criminal activity was going on with the book club—those are the people who own it—and he couldn’t escape. Unless we extracted him.”
“What kind of activity?”
“He wouldn’t be specific. Claimed the information might be traced back to him and get him killed, but he’d tell us everything once he was safe. When we asked him to prove his bona fides, he smuggled out one of the illuminated manuscripts—The Book of Spies. It was created in the 1500s. We lost contact with him after that, and now Langley has the book somewhere in storage.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “You have a plan?”
“I’m putting one together.”
“Okay, but it’ll be hard to let you have any bodies. I’m shorthanded as it is, especially if you’re going to work on this.”
“No problem.” He described how Judd had found him in the garage where he had hidden from the Chevy. “His full name is Judson Clayborn Ryder. I want to put him on board as a private contractor. He’s got the credentials, and I can use him.”
“Bad idea. He’s emotionally involved.”
“True, but he calmed down quickly, and he’s going to look into it no matter what. This way I can keep my eye on him, and he was military intelligence, so he’s got expertise.”
She thought about it. Finished her whiskey. “I’ll have Langley check his background.”
6
Jefferson County, Missouri
The night was crisp and clear over Missouri’s rolling hills as the man exited Interstate 55, heading west past farms and woodland. The truck was a Class-6 Freightliner with sweet power steering. His fingers bounced on the wheel as he watched the countryside pass by. On the seat beside him lay an M4 carbine rifle, the primary weapon for most special forces soldiers and rangers. It was an old friend, and when he moonlighted like this, he brought it along for companionship. He smiled, thinking about the money he was going to make.
The clothing factory lay ahead. It was squat, the size of a football field, encircled by a high chain-link fence and concertina wire. Stopping at the gate, he showed the credentials
Preston had given him. The sleepy security guard glanced at them and waved him through.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he drove on, counting the loading docks sticking out like gray teeth on the south side of the building. When he figured out which was number three, he circled the truck and backed up to it. The brakes huffed.
Once on the dock, he swore, staring at the mountain of crates. For two hours he labored, driving his dolly between the dock and the open maw of the truck, packing the boxes inside. It was a lousy job for one man. He was going to bitch to Preston about that. Who would’ve thought uniforms would take up so much room?
When he finished, he was sweaty. Still, at least this part, the most dangerous part, was finished. He climbed behind the wheel and drove sedately toward the guard kiosk. The gate opened as he approached, and he passed safely through. That was the thing about Preston. He knew how to plan a job. He grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number. Time to give him the good news.
San Diego County, California
The young man parked his stolen sedan under the branches of a pepper tree at the distant edge of the sprawling truck stop off busy Interstate 15. He slid his FAMAS bullpup service rifle into its special holster inside his long jacket and got out, walking casually through the nighttime shadows along the rim of the parking lot, staying far from the brightly lit station with its restaurant, sleeping rooms, truck wash, and repair garage. With the trucks roaring in and out, the stink of diesel, and the taste of exhaust fumes, the place was an assault on the senses.
Scanning carefully, he headed toward thirty trucks parked in neat rows, their lights off while their drivers were inside tending to business, food, or entertainment. The truck he wanted was a Class-7 Peterbilt, a heavy eighteen-wheeler.
He found it quickly, then read the license plate to be sure. Satisfied, he glanced around, then tried the door. As expected, it was unlocked. He hiked himself inside. The key was in the ignition. He fired up the engine, noted the tank was full, and drove off. As soon as he was on the interstate, he phoned Preston.
Howard County, Maryland
At last Martin Chapman heard the car in his drive. He looked out of his third-floor window, the moon spilling silver light across Maryland’s hunt country. His wife was at their château in San Moritz, catching the end of the ski season, and the interior of his big plantation-style home was silent. His German shepherds barked outside on the grounds, and the horses whinnied from the pasture and barns. The security lights were shining brightly, displaying only a fraction of his enormous Arabian horse spread.
He pressed the intercom button. “I’ll get the door, Bradley. Go back to sleep.” Bradley was his houseman, a faithful employee of twenty years.
Still dressed, Chapman glanced at the photo on his desk, showing Gemma in a long tight gown, diamonds sparkling at her ears and around her throat, and him in a rented tuxedo. They were smiling widely. It was his favorite portrait, taken years before, while he was studying at UCLA and she at USC, miles apart geographically, worlds apart economically, but deeply in love. Now both were in their early fifties. Full of warm emotion, he pulled himself away, a tall man with a head of thick white hair brushed back in waves, blue eyes, and an unlined, untroubled face.
Hurrying downstairs, he opened the door. Doug Preston stood on the long brick porch, golf cap in his hands. Rangy and athletic, Preston radiated calm confidence. Forty-two years old, he had honed, aristocratic features. Little showed on his deeply tanned face except his usual neutral expression, but Chapman knew the man better than he knew himself: There was tightness around his eyes, and his lips had thinned. Something had happened that Preston did not like.
“Come in,” Chapman said brusquely. “Do you want a drink?”
Preston gave a deferential nod, and Chapman led him into his enormous library, where towering shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes. He looked at them appreciatively, then headed for the bar, where he poured bourbon and branch water for both of them.
With a polite thank-you, Preston picked up his drink, walked to the French doors, and peered out into the night.
Watching him, Chapman felt a moment of impatience, then repressed it. Preston must be handled carefully, which was why he manipulated him with the same adroitness he lavished on his multibillion-dollar, highly competitive business.
“What have you learned about the stranger in the park?” Chapman asked, reining him in. Preston had run down the sniper with his Mercedes and pulled the corpse inside. The man had had to be eliminated; too many people had seen his face.
Preston turned and made a focused report: “I waited outside Jonathan Ryder’s funeral, got photos of the guy who was with Mr. Ryder in the park, and ran them through several data banks. His name is Tucker Andersen. He works for State. I followed Andersen to the Ryder house, then picked him up when he left. I wasn’t able to scrub him—the man drives as if he’s a NASCAR pro. That kind of talent could mean something, but maybe it doesn’t. So I called a high-level contact in State Human Resources. Andersen is a documents specialist, and he’s scheduled to leave for Geneva tonight for a UN conference on Middle East affairs. It lasts three weeks. I checked, and he has a reservation at the conference hotel. Just to make sure, I’ve put a team on his house in Virginia, and I’ll keep in close touch with my man at State. If Andersen doesn’t leave, we’ll know we’ve got trouble. I’ll be ready for him and take him out.”
Chapman heard the annoyance in Preston’s voice. The failure to liquidate Andersen was difficult to swallow for a man who detested loose ends.
Still, all was not lost. “Good work.” Chapman paused, noted the flash of gratitude in Preston’s eyes. “What about the District police?”
For the first time, Preston smiled. “They’re still not asking any questions about the library, and they would be by now if they knew about it. It’s beginning to look as if Mr. Ryder either didn’t or wasn’t able to tell Andersen anything import -ant.” Chief of security for the Library of Gold for more than ten years, Preston was a man passionate about books and completely loyal, traits not only prized but required of library employees.
“That’d be a good result.” Chapman moved on to his next concern: “What about the library dinner?”
Preston drank deeply, relaxing. “Everything’s on track. The food, the chefs, the transportation.”
Book club members had been flying into the library throughout the past month, working with the translators to find and research questions in preparation for the annual banquet’s tournament. It was during Jonathan’s visit to the library just days before that he had learned about Chapman’s new business deal and become alarmed.
“Where are you with the Khost project?” Khost was a province in eastern Afghanistan, on the border with Pakistan. It was there Chapman planned to make back his huge losses from the global economic crash, and more.
“On schedule. The uniforms and equipment have been picked up. They’ll be shipped out in the morning. I’ve got it well in hand.”
“See that it stays that way. Nothing must interfere with it. Nothing. And keep your eye on the situation with Tucker Andersen. We don’t want it to explode in our faces.”
7
Chowchilla, California
Two weeks later
At 1:32 P.M. Tucker Andersen finished briefing the warden of the Central California Women’s Facility. She was a stout woman with graying brown hair and a habit of folding her hands in front of her. She escorted him out of her private office.
“Tell me about Eva Blake,” Tucker said.
“She doesn’t complain, and she hasn’t gotten any 115 write-ups,” the warden said. “She started on the main yard, tidying up and emptying trash cans. Ten months ago we rewarded her with an assembly-line job in our electronics factory. In her free time she listens to the radio, keeps up with her karate, and volunteers—she teaches literacy classes and reads to inmates in the hospital ward. A couple of months ago she sent out a raft of résumés, but none of
the other convicts knows it. There’s an unwritten law here—you don’t ask an inmate sister what she’s done or what she’s doing. Blake has been smart and kept her mouth shut about herself.”
“Who are her visitors?” Tucker asked as they passed the guard desk.
“Family occasionally, from out of state. A friend used to drive up every few months from L.A.—Peggy Doty, a former colleague. Ms. Doty hasn’t been to see her in a while. I believe she’s working at the British Library in London now. This is Blake’s housing unit.”
They stepped into a world of long expanses of linoleum flooring, closed doors, harsh fluorescent lighting, and an ear-bleed volume of noise—intercoms crackling, television programs blaring from the dayrooms, and loud shouts and curses.
The warden glanced at him. “They yell as much to give them something to do as to express themselves. We’re at double capacity here, so the noise is twice as loud as it should be. Blake is in the unit’s yard. She gets three hours every day if she wants it. She always does.”
The warden nodded at the guard standing at the door. He opened it, and the raw odor of farmland fertilizer swept toward them. They stepped outside, where the Central Valley sun pounded down onto an open space of grass, concrete, and dirt. Women sat, napped, and moved aimlessly. Beyond them rose high brick walls topped with electrified razor wire.
Tucker scanned the prisoners, looking for Eva Blake. He had studied photos as well as a video of the court appearance in which she had pleaded guilty to vehicular manslaughter in the death of her husband. He looked for her red hair, pretty face, lanky frame.
“You don’t recognize her, do you?” the warden asked. “She’s that one.”
He followed her nod to a woman in a baggy prison shirt and trousers, walking around the perimeter of the yard. Her hair was completely hidden, tucked up into a baseball cap. Her expression was blank, her posture non-threatening. She looked little like the very alive woman in the photos and video.
