by Gayle Lynds
“She goes around the yard hour after hour, loop after loop. She’s alone because she wants it that way. As I said, she’s smart—she’s learned to make herself invisible, uninteresting. Anyone who’s interesting around here can attract violence.”
Impressive both in her attitude and her ability to be inconspicuous, Tucker thought.
The warden clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m going to give you some advice. In prison, male cons either obey orders or defy them. Female cons ask why. Don’t lie to her. But if you have to, make damn sure she doesn’t catch you at it, at least not while you’re trying to convince her to do whatever it is you want her to do. You really aren’t going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”
“It’s national security.”
She gave a curt nod, and Tucker walked across the grass toward Eva Blake, catcalls and whistles trailing him. He wondered how long it would take her to realize she was his goal. A good hundred yards away, her strides grew nervy, and her chin lifted. She stopped and, in a slow, deliberate pivot, turned to face him. Her arms were apparently restful at her sides, but her stance was wide and balanced, a karate stance. Her reaction time was excellent, and from the way she moved, she was still in good physical condition.
He walked up to her. “Doctor Blake, my name is Tucker Andersen. I’d like to talk to you. The warden’s given us an interview room.”
“Why?” Her face was a mask.
“I may have a proposition for you. If so, I suspect you’ll like it.”
She peered around him, and he glanced back.
The warden was still standing in the doorway. Looking severe, she nodded at Blake. That made it an order.
“Whatever you say,” Blake said, relaxing her posture slightly.
As she started to move around him, she stumbled and twisted her ankle, bumping into him. He grabbed her shoulders, helping her. Regaining her equilibrium, she excused herself, moved away, and walked steadily back toward the prison.
The interview room had pastel walls, a single metal table with four metal chairs, and cameras poking out high from two corners.
Tucker sat at the widest part of the table and gestured at the other chairs. “Choose your poison.”
Not a smile. Eva Blake sat at the end. “You say your name is Tucker Andersen. Where are you from?”
“McLean, Virginia. Why?”
She pulled his wallet from beneath her shirt, opened it, and read the driver’s license, checking on him. She spread out the credit cards, all in the same name. She nodded to herself, put the billfold back together, and handed it to him. “First time I’ve ever seen a ‘visitor’ in the yard on a non-visitor day.”
He had not felt her pick his pocket, but her bumping into him had been a clue. As he followed her into the prison, he had patted his jacket and found the wallet missing.
“Nice dipping,” he said mildly, “but then you’re experienced, aren’t you.”
Her eyes widened a fraction.
Good, he had surprised her.“Your juvenile record is sealed. You should’ve had it expunged.”
“You were able to get into my juvenile record?” she asked.
“I can, and I did. Tell me what happened.”
She said nothing.
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” he said. “When you were fourteen, you were what is commonly called wild. You sneaked beers. Smoked some grass. Some of your friends shoplifted. You tried it, too. Then a man who looked like plainclothes security spotted you in Macy’s. Instead of reporting you, he complimented you and asked whether you had the guts to go for the big time. It turned out he didn’t work for the store—he was a master dipper running a half-dozen teams. He taught you the trade. You hustled airports, ball games, train stations, that sort of thing. Because you’re beautiful, you usually played the distraction, prepping and positioning vics. But then when you were sixteen, a pickpocket on your team was escaping with the catch when some cops spotted him. He ran into traffic to get away—”
She lowered her head.
“He was hit by a semi and killed,” Tucker continued. “Everyone beat feet getting out of there. You were gone, too. But for some reason you changed your mind and went back and talked to the police. They arrested you, of course. Then they asked you to help them bust the gang, which you did. Why?”
“We were all so young . . . it just seemed right to try to stop it while maybe we had time to grow up into better people.”
“And later you used the skill to work your way through UCLA.”
“But legally. At a security company. Who are you?”
He ignored the question. “You’re probably going to be released on probation next year, so you’ve been sending out résumés. Any nibbles?”
She looked away. “No museum or library wants to hire a curator or conservator who’s a felon, at least not me. Too much baggage because of . . . my husband’s death. Because he was so well-known and respected in the field.” She fingered a gold chain around her neck. Whatever was hanging from it was hidden beneath her shirt. He noted she was still wearing her wedding band, a simple gold ring.
“I see,” he said neutrally.
She lifted her chin. “I’ll find something. Some other kind of work.”
He knew she was out of money. Because she had been convicted of her husband’s manslaughter, she could not collect his life insurance. She’d had to sell her house to pay her legal bills. He felt a moment of pity, then banished it.
He observed, “You’ve become very good at masking your emotions.”
“It’s just what you have to do to make it in here.”
“Tell me about the Library of Gold.”
That seemed to take her aback. “Why?”
“Indulge me.”
“You said you had a proposition for me. One I’d like.”
“I said I might have a proposition for you. Let’s see how much you remember.”
“I remember a lot, but Charles, my husband—Dr. Charles Sherback—was a real authority. He’d spent his life researching the library and knew every available detail.” Her voice was proud.
“Start at the beginning.”
She recounted the story from the library’s growth in the days of the Byzantine Empire to its disappearance at Ivan the Terrible’s death.
He listened patiently. Then: “What happened to it?”
“No one knows for sure. After Peter the Great died, a note was found in his papers that said Ivan had hidden the books under the Kremlin. Napoléon, Stalin, Putin, and ordinary people have hunted for centuries, but there are at least twelve levels of tunnels down there, and the vast majority are unmapped. Its location is one of the world’s great mysteries.”
“Do you know what’s in the library?”
“It’s supposed to contain poetry and novels. Books about science, alchemy, religion, war, politics, even sex manuals. It dates all the way back to the ancient Greeks and Romans, so there are probably works by Aristophanes, Virgil, Pindar, Cicero, and Sun Tzu. There are Bibles and Torahs and Korans, too. All sorts of languages—Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, Greek.”
Tucker was quiet a moment, considering. After a rocky start as a teenager, she had righted herself to go on to a high-level career, which showed talent, brains, and responsibility. She had muted herself to fit into prison, and that indicated adaptability. Pickpocketing him because he was an aberration told him she still had nerve. He was operating in a vacuum with this mission. None of the targeting analysts had found anything useful, and the collection of Jonathan Ryder’s clippings had turned out to be little help.
He studied the face beneath the prison cap, the sculpted lines, the expression that had settled back into chilly neutrality. “What would you say if I told you I have evidence the Library of Gold is very much in existence?”
“I’d say tell me more.”
“The Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection has loaned some of its illuminated manuscripts to the British Museum for a special show. The highlight is The Book of Spies. Do y
ou know the work?”
“Never heard of it.”
“The book arrived at the reference door to the Library of Congress wrapped in foam inside a cardboard box. There was an unsigned note saying it had been in the Library of Gold and was a donation to the Rosenwald Special Collection. They tested the paper and ink and so forth. The book’s authentic. No one’s been able to trace the donor or donors.”
“That’s all the evidence you have it’s from the Library of Gold?”
He nodded. “For now it’s enough.”
“Does this mean you want to find the library?” When he nodded, she said, “What can I do to help?”
“Opening night of the British Museum exhibit is next week. Your job would be to do what you used to do when you traveled with your husband. Talk to the librarians, historians, and afficionados who’ve been trying to find the library for years. Eavesdrop on conversations among them and others. We hope if The Book of Spies really did come from the collection it’ll attract someone who knows the library’s location.”
She had been leaning forward. She sat back. Emotions played across her face. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you do a good job, you’ll return to prison of course. But then in just four months, you’ll be released on parole—assuming you continue your good record. That’s eight months early.”
“What’s the downside?”
“No downside except you’ll have to wear a GPS ankle bracelet. It’s tamper-resistant and has a built-in GSM/GPRS transmitter that’ll automatically report your location. You can remove it at night, to make sleeping more comfortable, if you wish. I’ll give you a cell phone, too. You’ll report to me, and you must tell no one, not even the warden, what you’ll be doing or what you learn.”
She was silent. “You opened my juvenile record. You can get me out of prison. And you can reduce my sentence. Before I agree, I want to know who you really are.”
He started to shake his head.
She warned, “The first price of my help is the truth.”
He remembered what the warden had said about not lying to the inmates. “I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“That’s not in your billfold.”
He reached down and un-Velcroed a pocket inside his calf-high sock. He handed her the ID. “You must tell no one.
Agreed?”
She studied the laminated official identification. “Agreed. If anyone there knows where the library is, I’ll find out. But when I’m finished, I don’t want to come back to prison.”
Inwardly he smiled, pleased by her toughness. “Done.”
Years seem to fall from her. “When do I leave?”
8
London, England
The world seemed excitingly new to Eva—no handcuffs, no prison guards, no eyes watching her around the clock. It was 8:30 P.M. and raining heavily as she hurried across the forecourt toward the British Museum. She hardly felt the cold wet on her face. London’s traffic thundered behind her, and her old Burberry trench coat was wrapped around her. She looked up at the looming columns, the sheer stone walls, the Greek Revival carvings and statues. Memories filled her of the good times she and Charles had spent in the majestic old museum.
Dodging a puddle, she ran lightly up the stone steps, closed her umbrella, and entered the Front Hall. It was ablaze with light, the high ceiling fading up into dramatic darkness. She paused at the entrance to the Queen Elizabeth Great Court, two sweeping acres of marble flooring rimmed by white Portland stone walls and columned entryways. She drank in its serene beauty.
At its center stood the circular Reading Room, one of the world’s finest libraries—and coming out its door were Herr Professor and Frau Georg Mendochon.
Smiling, Eva went to greet them. With glances at each other, they hesitated.
“Timma. Georg.” She extended her hand. “It’s been years.”
“How are you, Eva?” Georg’s accent was light. He was a globe-trotting academic from Austria.
“It’s wonderful to see you again,” she said sincerely.
“Ja. And we know why it has been so long.” Timma had never been subtle. “What are you doing here?” What she did not say was, You killed your husband, how dare you show up.
Eva glanced down, staring at the gold wedding band on her finger. She had known this was going to be difficult. She had come to accept that she had killed Charles, but the guilt of it still ravaged her.
Looking up, she ignored Timma’s tone. “I was hoping to see old friends. And to view The Book of Spies, of course.”
“It is very exciting, this discovery,” Georg agreed.
“It makes me wonder whether someone has finally found the Library of Gold,” Eva continued. “If anyone has, surely it’s you, Georg”—now that Charles is gone, she thought to herself, missing him even more.
Georg laughed. Timma relented and smiled at the compliment.
“Ach, I wish,” he said.
“There’s no word anyone’s close to its discovery?” Eva pressed.
“I have heard nothing like that, alas,” Georg said. “Come, Timma. We must go to the Chinese exhibit now. We will see you upstairs, Eva, yes?”
“Definitely, yes.”
As they crossed the Great Hall, Eva headed toward the North Wing and climbed the stairs to the top floor. The sounds of a multilingual crowd drifted from a large open doorway where a sign announced:
TRACING THE DEVELOPMENT OF WRITING
SPECIAL EXHIBITION FROM THE
LESSING J. ROSENWALD COLLECTION
She found her invitation.
The guard took it. “Enjoy yourself, ma’am.”
She stepped inside. Excited energy infused the vast hall. People stood in groups and gathered around the glass display cases, many wearing tiny earphones as they listened to the show’s prerecorded tour. Museum guards in dress clothes circulated discreetly. The air smelled the way she remembered, of expensive perfumes and aromatic wines. She inhaled deeply.
“Eva, is that you?”
She turned. It was Guy Fontaine from the Sorbonne. Small and plump, he was standing with a huddle of Charles’s friends. She scanned their faces, saw their conflicted emotions at her arrival.
She said a warm hello and shook hands.
“You’re looking well, Eva,” Dan Ritenburg decided. He was a wealthy amateur Library of Gold hunter from Sydney. “How is it you’re able to be here?”
“Do not be crass, Dan,” Antonia del Toro scolded. From Madrid, she was an acclaimed historian. She turned to Eva. “I am so sorry about Charles. Such a dedicated researcher, although admittedly he could be difficult at times. My condolences.”
Several others murmured their sympathies. Then there was an expectant pause.
Eva spoke into it, answering their unasked question. “I’ve been released from prison.” That was what Tucker had told her to say. “When I saw there was a manuscript from the Library of Gold here, of course I had to come.”
“Of course,” Guy agreed. “The Book of Spies. It is beautiful. Incroyable.”
“Do you think its appearance means someone has found the library?” Eva asked.
The group erupted in talk, voicing their theories that the library was still beneath the Kremlin, that Ivan the Terrible had hidden it in a monastery outside Moscow, that it was simply a glorious myth perpetuated by Ivan himself.
“But if it’s a myth, why is The Book of Spies here?” Eva wanted to know.
“Aha, my point exactly,” said Desmond Warzel, a Swiss academic. “I have always maintained that before he died Ivan sold it off in bits and pieces because his treasury was low. Remember, he lost his last war with Poland—and it was expensive.”
“But if that’s true,” Eva said reasonably, “surely other illuminated manuscripts from the library would’ve appeared by now.”
“She is right, Desmond,” Antonia said. “Just what I have been telling you all these years.”
They continued to argue, and eventually Eva
excused herself. Listening to conversations, looking for more people she knew, she wove through the throngs and then stopped at the bar. She ordered a Perrier.
“Don’t I know you, ma’am?” the bar steward asked.
He was tall and thin, but with the chubby face of a chipmunk. The contrast was startling and endearing. Of course she recalled him.
“I used to come here a few years ago,” she told him.
He grinned and handed her the Perrier. “Welcome home.”
Smiling, she stepped away to check the map showing where in the room each woodcut book, illuminated manuscript, and printed book was displayed. When she found the location of The Book of Spies, she walked toward it, passing the spectacular Giant Bible of Mainz, finished in 1453, and the much smaller and grotesquely illustrated Book of Urizen, from 1818. It was William Blake’s parody of Genesis. A few years ago, on a happy winter day, Charles and she had personally examined each in the Library of Congress.
The crowd surrounding The Book of Spies was so thick, some on the fringes were giving up. Eva frowned, but not at the imposing human wall. What held her was a man leaving the display. There was something familiar about him. She could not see his face, because he was turned away and his hand clasped one ear as he listened to the tour.
What was it about him? She set her drink on a waiter’s tray and followed, sidestepping other visitors. He wore a black trench coat, had glossy black hair, and the back of his neck was tanned. She wanted to get ahead so she could see his face, but the crowd made it hard to move quickly.
Then he stepped into an open space, and for the first time she had a clear view of his entire body, of his physicality. Her heart quickened as she studied him. His gait was athletic, rolling. His muscular shoulders twitched every six or eight steps. He radiated great assurance, as if he owned the hall. He was the right height—a little less than six feet tall. Although his hair should have been light brown, not blue-black, and she still could not see his face, everything else about him was uncannily, thrillingly familiar. He could have been Charles’s double.
