by Gayle Lynds
She looked up. The bartender was setting a full pint glass in front of Ryder, and he was paying the bill. She had little time. Her fingers flew as she touched buttons, and the handheld’s screen came to colorful life. She saw he was tracking two bugs. She keyed onto the first. Schematics flashed and coalesced into a map of London, showing a location: Le Méridien Hotel in the West End. She was not familiar with the hotel, and she did not have time to check the other bug. She slid the handheld back into his peacoat.
He was heading toward her, pint in hand, staring. As he stopped at the table, she saw his face had done a strange shift, revealing something hard and a little frightening.
She patted then smoothed his peacoat. “Forgive me. My nose is starting to run. I was just going to look for a tissue.” The condition of her nose was true.
Without comment he took a handkerchief from his pocket, handed it to her, and sat with his pint of oatmeal stout.
“Thanks.” She blew her nose, then wrapped her hands around her hot cup of tea. “When Charles and I visited London, we sometimes came here. In case you don’t know, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, and the Bloomsbury Group were regulars. Editors and writers still show up. The pub seemed to us the epitome of old Bloomsbury, the beating heart of London’s literary world.”
“You’re feeling better,” he decided.
She nodded. “Why didn’t Tucker tell me about you?”
“You’re not trained, and we wanted you to act normally. Some people can’t handle being watched over. You wouldn’t have known how you’d react, and we wouldn’t have known either, until you were actually in the museum. There was only one opening night, and we were doing everything we could to maximize your chances of success.”
“Is your name really Judd Ryder?”
“Yes. I’m a CIA contract employee. Tucker brought me in for the job.”
“Then you’re working for Catapult.” Tucker had told her about his unit, which did counteroperations. “Why you?”
Ryder gazed down into his glass then looked up, his expression somber. “My father and Tucker were friends in college. They joined the CIA at the same time, then Dad left to go into business. A couple of weeks ago he asked Tucker to meet him in a park on Capitol Hill. Just the two of them. It was late at night. . . A sniper killed Dad.”
Seeing the pain in his eyes, she sank back. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. It must’ve been awful for you.”
“It was.”
She thought a moment.“But murder is a job for the police.”
“Dad was trying to warn Tucker about something that had to do with a multimillion-dollar account in an unnamed international bank—and Islamic terrorism.”
“Terrorism?” Her brows rose with alarm. “What kind of terrorism? Al-Qaeda? One of their offshoots? A new group?”
“We don’t know yet, but he appeared worried some disaster was about to happen. Dad had collected news clippings about jihadism in Pakistan and Afghanistan, but so far they don’t make a lot of sense. Of course Catapult is staying on top of international bank activity. The only real detail is where you come in—Dad said he’d discovered the information in the Library of Gold.”
“In the library? Then the library really does exist.”
“Yes. Dad also told Tucker some kind of book club owns it.”
“Was your father in the book club?”
He shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know yet.”
“If your father was a member of the book club, it sounds to me as if he had a secret life.”
He nodded grimly. “Just like your husband’s.”
She leaned forward. “You want to find out what your father was doing and who’s behind his death.”
“Damn right I do.” Anger flashed across his face.
“Why didn’t Tucker tell me any of this?”
“You didn’t have need-to-know, and we thought your assignment would be simple.”
“Both of us have personal reasons to find the library, but this is on a whole different level. So much bigger.”
“It is personal for both of us.” He set down his glass, put his hand into his jacket pocket, and slid her gold wedding band and necklace across the table. “I thought you might want these back.”
Staring at them, she moved her hands away from her cup and dropped them into her lap. “I don’t need them anymore. That was another life. Another person.”
He studied her. Then he scooped up the jewelry and returned it to his pocket. “Tell me about Charles and the car crash.”
“He was driving us home on Mulholland after a dinner party, and—” She stopped. In her mind she went back over the trip—Charles’s carefree laughter, his playful weaving of the car back and forth across the deserted road. . . She told Ryder about it. Then: “A car shot out from a driveway ahead, and Charles slammed on the brakes. Our car careened. I was nauseated and dizzy. And I lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I woke up on a gurney.” She hesitated.“Charles must’ve given me some kind of drug. Later the coroner found his wedding ring on the corpse, and the corpse’s teeth matched Charles’s dental records.”
“That shows a lot of planning, money, and dirty resources. Could Charles have pulled it off alone?”
“No way. He was an academic. Someone had to have helped him.”
“Who?”
She mulled. “I don’t know anyone who could have.”
“Where do you think he’s been?”
“God knows. He’s got a good tan, so it’s someplace sunny.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“Dedicated. Our world’s small. Only a few thousand people are well-educated about illuminated manuscripts. Maybe a hundred are true experts. Most of us know one another in varying degrees. I suppose to outsiders we seem peculiar. We play card games from Greek and Roman times, and we have our own trivia contests. Our conversations can seem funny—we use Latin and Greek, for instance. Charles was considered by some to be the top authority on the Library of Gold. He was immersed in it, lived it, ached for it, and that’s why he was so knowledgeable. It would’ve been hard for him to live with anyone who couldn’t appreciate that in him.”
“And you did?”
“Yes. It made sense to me.”
He nodded. “Could his disappearance have been related to the library?”
“He was working awfully long hours before the car crash. He might’ve had some insight or uncovered something and felt he needed to disappear so no one would be tipped off while he closed in.”
She followed Ryder’s gaze as he surveyed the old pub. The polished brass fixtures glinted. A few customers had left; a few more had entered.
“I shot about an hour of video of the people around The Book of Spies,” he told her. “If there’s a cyber café open at this hour, we can look at it together.”
She pulled her satchel to her. “We don’t have to go anywhere. I have my laptop with me.”
They moved around the U-shaped banquette so they were sitting next to each other. As she put her computer on the table and turned it on, he produced a palm-size video camera, USB cord, and software disk from his jacket pockets.
Within minutes they were viewing the exhibition. Ryder fast-forwarded until Charles appeared. She pointed out Charles’s striking walk, described the changes he had made in his appearance, and identified the other people she recognized. But Charles spoke to no one, and no one spoke to Charles. And at no time did she see Charles make eye contact with anyone.
“That’s interesting,” Ryder murmured. He stopped the film and replayed it in several places. Although earlier he had been recording from a distance, he now was shooting close to the exhibit. “Look at how Charles is inching around the display case. Check out his right hand.”
She focused on the hand. Charles was holding it near his waist, cupped casually. The hand rose and fell as he moved, and his thumb twitched.
She stared. “Is he secretly photographing The Book of Spies?”
“Appea
rs to be. But why? The addiction of a wacko bibliomaniac?”
“Or it could have something to do with the Library of Gold—but what?”
“My question, too.” He checked his watch. “It’s late. We should go. You’re staying with your friend Peggy Doty.” He frowned. “Would Charles know that?”
Her throat went dry. She grabbed her cell and dialed.
At last there was a sleepy answer. “Hello?”
“Peggy, it’s Eva again. You’ve got to get out of there. I know it sounds impossible, but I saw Charles tonight at the museum.”
Peggy’s voice was suddenly alert. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw Charles at the show. He’s as alive as you or me.”
“That’s crazy. Charles is dead, dear. Remember, you thought you saw him before. He’s dead. Come home. We’ll talk about it.”
Eva tightened her grip on the cell phone. “Charles tried to kill me. He knows I stay with you. You could be in danger. You’ve got to leave. Go to a hotel, and I’ll meet you. Even if you don’t believe me, just do this for me, Peggy.”
When they decided on the Chelsea Arms, Peggy volunteered, “I’ll make the room reservation for us.”
Suddenly exhausted, Eva agreed and ended the connection.
Ryder drained his glass. “I’ll have Tucker check into the identity of the man in Charles’s grave and give you a status report in the morning.” He related his mobile number and where he was staying.
They stood. As she slung her valise over her shoulder, he dropped his camera equipment into his jacket pockets and shoved his arms into his peacoat. Heading for the door, they skirted the drinkers at the bar and stepped out into the night. Glistening drops of rain floated in the lamplight.
“Will you be all right?” He hailed a taxi for her.
“I’ll be a lot better once we’ve found Charles.”
As a cab stopped at the curb, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Get a good night’s sleep.” Then to the taximan: “The Chelsea Arms.”
She climbed in. As the cab cruised off, she turned in her seat to watch what Ryder would do. He was walking in the opposite direction. Pulling out his electronic reader, he seemed to be studying it. Finally he lifted his head and caught a taxi for himself. Glancing at the bug reader again, he climbed inside.
Suspicion flooded her. She leaned forward. “I’ve changed my mind. Turn around. Take me to the Méridien hotel on Piccadilly.”
13
Charles Sherback knew he had made a terrible mistake. He dropped off the Citroën at the car rental agency and caught a taxi, his mind in tumult. Ovid was right: Res est ingeniosa dare.“Giving requires good sense.” And he had not simply “given”; he had sacrificed for Eva. In fact, he had risked a great deal for her.
As the windshield wiper slashed across the glass, he stared out unseeing at the rainy London night. She was supposed to be in prison. How could she have been at the British Museum show? And now he had failed to eliminate her.
“We’re here, guv’nor.” The taxi driver peered into his rearview mirror. He had white hair, a sagging face, and tired eyes that thankfully remained bored.
Charles paid and stepped out of the cab and into the noisy din of Piccadilly. As cars and trucks rushed past on the boulevard, he dodged pedestrians and strode into the five-star Le Méridien Hotel, hoping Preston was not early.
He peered around. The lobby was spacious, two stories high, topped by an intricate stained-glass dome. The appointments were modern and refined, and the air smelled of fresh flowers. The hotel was elegant, just the way he liked it. It was also busy with people.
At the elevator, he stepped inside and punched the button for the eighth floor. The elevator rose with maddening slowness. As soon as the doors opened he ran along the hall, jammed his electronic key into the lock, and marched into the deluxe room. The window drapes were closed against prying eyes, and a hot pot of coffee was waiting on the low table in front of two upholstered chairs. There was no sign of Preston.
“Hello, darling.” Sitting on the end of the king-size bed, Robin Miller clicked off the television. “I’m glad you’re back. Are you okay?”
A moment of happiness flowed through him. “I’m fine.” He peeled off his wet raincoat.
“Is she dead?”
Thick ash-blond hair wreathed Robin’s face and draped in thick bangs down to her green eyes. Her mouth was lush and round, and her skin glowed with a ruddy tan. She was thirty-five years old. On the director’s orders, all staff members had plastic surgery before they could go to work at the library. He had seen photographs of Robin from those days, and she was even more beautiful now.
“There were complications.” He shook his head with disgust. “Eva got away.”
She stared worriedly. “Are you going to tell the director she recognized you?”
He fell into a reading chair and poured a cup of steaming coffee. “It’s safer for me to take care of the problem myself.” He added sugar, then cream until the color turned to that of café au lait. He wished he had some good Irish whiskey to add.
“But what will you do?”
“I have to kill her.” He heard the determination in his voice. He had come this far, and he had no choice. From the moment he had accepted the job of chief librarian at the Library of Gold, his lot was cast. He remembered the sense of destiny fulfilled. He had faced reality, banished any regrets, and thrown himself into his exciting new life.
“Maybe you should ask Preston for help.”
He gave an abrupt shake of his head. “He’ll tell the director.”
They were silent, acknowledging the threat of it. He saw her hands were turning white from gripping the edge of the bed. He went to her and pulled her close. She laid her head on his shoulder. Her warmth flowed into him.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered.
Robin was a strong woman. Until now she had not admitted being afraid. Because she had not told the director instantly, she could be in as much trouble as he.
“This is all Eva’s fault,” he assured her. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if she hadn’t recognized me. I love you. Remember that. I love you.”
“I love you, too, darling.” She wrapped her arms around him. “But you’re not a killer. You don’t know how to do such things. As long as Eva’s alive, she’s dangerous to the library—and to us. You need to tell Preston so he can take care of her. If you don’t want to, I’ll do it.”
Four taps sounded on the door.
“Preston’s here.” She pulled away. “Give me a minute.”
“Hurry.”
She nodded and stood up, smoothing her hair and straightening her white cashmere sweater and brown trousers.
He crossed to the door, reaching it as another four taps began. He peered through the peephole. A distorted Doug Preston loomed in the hallway, a bulging backpack in his left hand. His right hand was hidden inside his black leather jacket, where he kept his pistol holstered. Everything about him, from his slightly bent knees to the sharp vigilance with which he was checking the corridor, seemed to radiate menace.
Charles took a deep breath and opened the door, and Preston strode into the room. Uneasily Charles watched as he scanned the interior. When he paused to peer at Robin, she nodded in greeting, her eyes wary. Charles focused on the backpack. He could postpone deciding whether to tell Preston about Eva because its contents were of immediate concern.
“You have The Book of Spies?” he demanded.
“I do.” Preston set the pack on a chair and started to unzip it.
“I’ll take over now.”
Preston stepped back.
As Robin joined them, Charles removed the foam bundle. “Move the coffee, Robin. Leave the napkins.”
She picked up the tray and carried it away. Although the table appeared clean, he used the linen napkins to wipe it. Then he set down the bundle and unpeeled layers of foam and transparent polyethylene sheeting. At last only archival polyester film remained.
“Ready?” He lowered himself into the reading chair and looked up.
Preston nodded.
“Hurry,” Robin said.
He unfastened the polyester and let it fall to the sides.
“Oh, my Lord,” Robin breathed.
“It’s a beauty, all right,” Preston agreed.
Charles stared, drinking in the sight of the fabled Book of Spies, compiled on orders of Ivan the Terrible, who had been fascinated by spies and assassins. Covered in gold, the volume was large, probably ten by twelve inches and four inches thick, decorated with fat emeralds, great rubies, and lustrous pearls—a fortune in gems. The emeralds were arranged along the edges of the cover, a rectangular frame of brilliant green. The pearls were gathered into the shape of a glowing dagger in the top two thirds, and beneath the dagger’s point lay the scarlet rubies, shaped like a large drop of blood. The jewels caught the lamplight and sparkled like fire.
Awed silence filled the room. Robin handed Charles clean white cotton gloves. Putting them on, he opened the book and slowly turned pages, savoring the style, the paint, the ink, the feel of the fine parchment between his cautious fingers. Each page was a showcase of lavish pictures, austere Cyrillic letters, and intricate borders ablaze with color. He felt a thrill at the effort involved not only in gathering the knowledge but in creating such art.
“Six years of painstaking labor went into this master-work,” Charles told them. “Twelve months a year, seven days a week, twelve to fourteen hours a day. The crudest brushes and paints. Only sunlight and oil lamps to work by. No good heating during the brutal Moscow winters. The constant attack of mosquitoes in summer. Imagine the difficulty, the dedication.”
Robin sat on the floor and leaned an elbow on the table to be closer. Preston pulled up a chair and sat, watching the turning pages. The paintings showed secretive spies, rotund diplomats, monarchs in furs, soldiers in colorful uniforms, villains with wily faces. It was a rich compendium of stories about real and mythical assassins, spies, and missions since before biblical times.
