Library of Gold

by Gayle Lynds

  As he got behind the steering wheel and turned on the ignition, he knew from the noise of the sirens he was within seconds of being discovered. Gunning the motor, he laid rubber, fishtailed around the corner, then cut back on his speed. He entered the traffic smoothly.

  With a shaky hand he wiped sweat from his forehead and swore loudly. Who in hell had the shooter been? Probably whoever had killed Charles.

  He thought about the man he had spotted peering down over the top of the building, gun in hand. But by then he was already injured, and the man had shot twice more before he could return fire. At no time had the man been more than a black silhouette. If a shooter that good was helping Eva Blake, she was going to be more difficult to catch.

  Another unpleasant thought occurred to him. He had convinced the bobbies to let him see the corpse not just because he had described Charles and told them his old friend was drunk and lost, but because the bobbies had found nothing in Charles’s pockets and had no way to identify him. That meant the shooter probably had Charles’s things, including his cell phone. It would contain Robin’s and his numbers, and if the shooter were connected, he could track the numbers through the location chips embedded in their phones.

  Preston grabbed his cell, rolled down the window, and tossed it into the next lane of traffic. Watching his side-view mirror, he saw the tires of a pickup truck roll over it. Satisfied, he took a new disposable cell from his glove compartment and dialed Robin Miller.

  “Are you in the jet?” he asked.

  “Yes. We’re waiting for you and Charles.” She sounded sleepy.

  “Listen carefully, and follow my directions exactly. As soon as I hang up, open up your cell and take out the battery. Under no circumstances put the battery back in. I don’t care where you are or what you think you need it for, do not make your cell operable again. Do you understand?”

  “Of course. When will you get here?” She sounded testy, insulted he had asked whether she understood. She did not like her intelligence questioned.

  “Soon,” he said. “Tell me what the jet’s satellite phone number is.”

  There were the sounds of the phone being removed from its plastic case. She read him the number. Then he gave her his new cell number.

  “When you saw Charles last, was his head shaved?” he asked.

  “No. Why would he do that?”

  “I thought you’d know.”

  Her voice was suspicious. “Is Charles with you?”

  “Yes, but he’s dead,” he said bluntly.

  He heard a loud gasp.

  Before she could erupt into tears, he added, “He was shot, and probably Eva Blake was involved. The last time I talked with him, he’d caught her. I’m sending his body back with you to the library. Take out that cell phone battery. Tell the pilot to warm up the jet.” He hung up.

  By telling Robin now about Charles’s death he hoped he would find her under control when he arrived. The director encouraged romances among the small Library of Gold staff, since the members were more easily managed if they had some sort of home life. It caused occasional problems when affairs erupted or couples broke apart, but even that kept the staff involved in the community.

  As he laid his new cell on the seat beside him, a river of pain swept through him. His eyelids felt heavy. After the first adrenaline rush of making arrangements with Robin, his mind was turning to mush. He could go three days without sleep and still remain alert, but now he was injured, which was dumping his stamina into the toilet.

  Opening the glove compartment, he grabbed a large bottle of water and a small bottle of aspirin. He poured a half-dozen tablets into his mouth and gulped water. Blinking, he turned the car west toward Heathrow and continued to drink.

  At last he sighed. He was feeling stronger. As he drove, he laid the water bottle beside him and pictured the place to which he went at times when he needed to heal and find himself again. He saw the golden light, the rows of gleaming books, the polished antique tables and chairs. He could hear the soft rhythmic sounds of the air-purification system.

  In his imagination he locked the door, chose an illuminated manuscript, and carried it to his favorite reading chair. He sat with the book on his lap and savored the hammered gold and glistening gems. Then he opened it and turned pages, absorbing the brilliantly colored drawings and exquisite lettering. He could read none of the foreign languages in the library, but he did not need to. Just seeing the books, being able to touch them, recalling the sacrifices and care throughout the library’s history helped to banish his ugly childhood, the hardscrabble life, the missing father, the angry mother. The sense of loss he felt as he had witnessed Langley spiraling downward in a wash of political bullshit.

  The Library of Gold was proof the future could be as cherished and glorious as the past. That the work he did was crucial. That he was crucial.

  After a while he could feel his heartbeat slow. The sweat dried on his skin. The pain eased. A sense of certainty infused him.

  Girding himself, he picked up his cell and dialed again. When the director answered, he told him, “There have been some developments, sir. You need to know what’s going on. First, someone planted a bug on The Book of Spies. It was inside a fake jewel on the cover. It’s been flushed down a toilet.”

  “Jesus Christ. Who would’ve had the connections to duplicate one of the gems and put a bug inside it?”

  “I keep going back to the chief librarian before Charles. We thought he’d stolen the book and sold it to a collector so he’d have cash to try to leave. But if the collector were the anonymous donor to the Rosenwald collection and the one who planted the bug, then the National Library would’ve found it before it got to the British Museum.”

  “Unless the donor had real clout. Someone with the money and resources to locate a person in the National Library who could be bought to cover for the bug.”

  Preston nodded to himself. “I made some calls and found out Asa Baghurst, California’s governor, signed a special order releasing Eva Blake from prison—just three days ago. I successfully eliminated Peggy Doty, then Charles called to say he’d found Eva Blake. I was on my way to pick them up and scrub her, too, but they weren’t at the rendezvous.” He described spotting the police car that had led him to finding Charles shot dead in the alley.

  “So we lost Charles in the end. It’s just as well. The way he was screwing up, we were going to have to erase him anyway.” The director sighed. “Did his wife kill him?”

  “There was a man there. He could’ve done it. He took some shots at me, but I never saw his face. The accuracy of his aim and the way he positioned himself said a lot. He’s trained. It looks like a total setup—the bug, Eva Blake, and a shooter. Someone wanted to follow The Book of Spies.”

  “Is there any way Blake could’ve found out Charles was our chief librarian before the opening at the British Museum?”

  “I don’t see how. This was the first time Charles was away from the library. And of course after his predecessor smuggled out The Book of Spies, we doubled security, so Charles had no outside contact at all. Still, he was up to something. When I found his body, his head was shaved, and there was a tattoo on it—LAW 031308.”

  “What in hell is that all about?”

  “I don’t know, sir. You said yourself Charles was a romantic. But he was ambitious, too. He thought a lot of himself.”

  “Did Charles shave his head, or did someone else?”

  “I’d say someone else. Maybe Blake and the shooter. I’ll have my staff do a thorough search of Charles’s cottage and office. There could be something there that’ll tell us what the tattoo means.”

  “What about the rest of the operation?”

  “On track. Robin and The Book of Spies are on the jet. I’ll stow Charles’s corpse on board, then they’ll fly home, but without me. I’m going to stay in London to keep looking for Blake. I have a way to find her—I got her cell number off Peggy Doty’s phone. I have a NSA source I can use to track her
through the cell’s location, assuming the phone’s turned on.”

  “Good,” the director said with relief. “Do it.”

  22

  Brentwood, California

  Attorney Brian Collum was sound asleep in his large Tudor home when his telephone rang. His eyes snapped open. The master suite was cool and bathed in shadows. He checked the glowing digital numbers on his bedside clock—two A.M.—and snatched the phone.

  His wife rolled over to gaze anxiously at him. The days of panicked clients calling at all hours were long past, so something must have happened to one of their children. They had three, all studying at various universities.

  “Yes?” he said into the telephone.

  “Hello, Brian.” The voice was familiar. “Sorry to disturb you. This is Steve Gandy. I’ve got an unusual situation here. It involves one of your clients, Eva Blake. I need a favor.”

  Steve Gandy was the longtime coroner for the County of Los Angeles, a straight shooter who could be relied on for a no-holds-barred game of racquetball. Brian made it a practice to cultivate people in government, and since this concerned Eva, he was even more willing to listen.

  “Hold on.” He turned to his wife. “This isn’t about the children. Go back to sleep. I’ll take it in my office.”

  As she nodded, he carried the phone out of the bedroom. “Is Eva all right?”

  “I assume so, but I don’t have any way to get in touch with her. She’s been released from prison. No one seems to know where she went. Do you still have authorization to sign documents for her?”

  “I do.” He was shocked. Eva was out of prison? “Tell me what’s going on.” He sat behind his desk in a patch of pale moonlight. Not only had he represented Eva at her trial, he now handled her legal affairs.

  Steve’s voice was tense. “I need signed permission to exhume her husband’s body.”

  “Why?” Brian’s lungs tightened.“Who wants it exhumed?”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “The CIA. The term national security came up in the conversation several times. They’re telling us nothing except it’s critical we make damn sure we identify accurately who’s buried in Sherback’s grave and how he died, and we’re to contain who knows about the exhumation. But there’s hell to pay these days when anyone gets caught up in a CIA publicity disaster. Maybe this is legitimate, but I sure don’t have that kind of crystal ball. And I damn well don’t want my office to face repercussions. The problem is, they want us to exhume the body without a signed order. That’s why I’m bringing you in.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Precisely.”

  “This is insane. You know Charles Sherback is in that grave. Your office matched the dental records.”

  “That’s not conclusive enough for them. They want another autopsy—and for us to check the DNA.”

  He swore silently. “Do you have a name at the CIA?”

  “Gloria Feit made the call. She’s with the Clandestine Service.”

  “Her bona fides are good?”

  “Yes. I don’t want a duel with the CIA, but at the same time I’ve got to protect myself and my people,” Steve said. “I want you to sign the order, Brian. I’ll drive over there now. That way we can start digging at daylight, and I can get the CIA off my back with some answers.”

  Brian thought quickly. “Here’s another idea. I’ve got a key to Eva’s storage locker. I’m sure she must still have some of Charles’s things. I’ll swing by there early in the morning and see what I can find to give you a head start on the DNA. Then I’ll drive to your office and sign the order.”

  Steve sounded relieved. “That’s not perfect, but you’re right. A DNA sample will speed the process. Be here by eight A.M. And thanks.”

  They hung up, but Brian stayed in his chair, staring at the shadows in his office. The room was full of books, the titles unseeable in the darkness. Still, he was comforted by them and their enduring counsel, handed down through the ages. Smiling wryly to himself, he remembered some earthy advice from Trajan, Rome’s long-ago warrior emperor: “Never stand between a dog and where he’s pissing.”

  Fortunately, he did not have to risk interfering with Steve’s investigation. The man who was buried in Charles’s grave was a salesman from South Dakota, a loner whom Preston had chosen in an L.A. bar and eliminated later with a snap of the neck, which was consistent with an injury received in a car wreck. Then Preston had arranged a late-night break-in at the office of Charles Sherback’s dentist, so records of the dead man’s teeth could be substituted for Charles’s. Brian had kept the dead man’s gloves and a few other things locked away in his office safe.

  Although the DNA match from inside the gloves and the clean autopsy would make the CIA’s curiosity evaporate, Brian was left with a much larger and potentially more dangerous question: Who or what had provoked the intelligence agency’s interest?

  He picked up the phone and dialed the Library of Gold’s director. “Marty, this is Brian Collum. We’ve got a situation.” He described the coroner’s call. “The CIA order for exhumation came from someone named Gloria Feit in the Clandestine Service.”

  Martin Chapman exploded a stream of oaths. “How did you leave it with the coroner?”

  “I’m going to provide him with the corpse’s gloves for a DNA match. That should resolve things. Can you think of a reason they’d want the identity rechecked?”

  “No reason, except now Charles Sherback really is dead.”

  Brian felt a moment of shock. “That’s a blow to the library. He was damn good at the job. What happened?”

  Brian had begun cultivating Charles a dozen years ago, admiring his knowledge about the Library of Gold and appreciating his obsession to find it. When they had needed a new chief librarian, he had recommended Charles, and the book club had authorized him to secretly offer him the position. Now the club would have to find a replacement.

  “He died in London,” the director said. “Shot to death.”

  “Did Preston retrieve The Book of Spies successfully?”

  “Yes. It’s on its way home.”

  “That’s a relief.” He remembered what Steve had said. “The coroner told me Eva’s out of prison. Does she have anything to do with this?”

  “She’s just the beginning of the problem.”

  Astonished, then increasingly concerned, Brian listened as Martin Chapman described Eva’s spotting Charles in the museum, his attempt to kill her, the bug on The Book of Spies, and Preston’s search for Eva, ending with the discovery of Charles’s corpse.

  “Preston thinks a trained man is helping Eva,” the director said. “Obviously someone was intent on trying to track The Book of Spies—maybe back to the library. I’m concerned about who had the ability to plant the bug. Now that the CIA is involved, I’m wondering whether it’s them.”

  “Shit.”

  “Besides that, Charles had a tattoo on his head—LAW 031308. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “It could be a message,” the director said. “But to whom? And why?”

  “Think about Charles’s predecessor. None of us ever guessed he had the balls not only to want to leave, but also to smuggle out The Book of Spies. One of the reasons we chose Charles was because the library was the most important thing in his life. But the downside was his ambition and arrogance. God knows what the message means. Whatever it is, it could be dangerous to us.”

  “If Eva saw the tattoo—and we have no reason to think she didn’t—she may be able to understand it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Preston has a way to track her through her cell phone. You take care of the coroner.” There was a thoughtful pause. When the director spoke again, his voice had its usual brisk, businesslike tone: “I have a way to handle the CIA.”

  23

  Washington, D.C.

  The man parked his car on a dark residential street in the gently rolling hills north of downtown Washington. In t
he distance, the tall dome of the Capitol shone like ivory. He opened the car door, and Frodo, his little terrier, leaped out, wagging his tail.

  With the terrier leading, they walked down the sidewalk, all part of the man’s cover, and turned onto Ed Casey’s block. The man noted another early dog stroller heading toward him through the still shadows. As he always did, he assumed an indulgent dog-owner’s smile and nodded in greeting. Then he pulled Frodo off the curb to give the pair a wide berth.

  As soon as the other walker was out of sight, the man stopped beside a Eugenia bush whose low branches brushed the ground. He slid Frodo’s leash underneath, and Frodo followed, crawling in and circling around. His little black eyes peered out.

  “Stay.” He gave the hand command.

  Frodo immediately settled back into the foliage, invisible to anyone who passed. They had done this many times. Frodo would not move nor make a sound.

  After a careful look around, the man sprinted across the lawn to Ed Casey’s clapboard house and examined the doors and windows on the first floor. All were locked, including French doors overlooking a goldfish pond in the rear yard. He returned to the French doors. No dead bolt. Slide locks had been installed, but no one had bothered to engage them. He loved the way people were lulled into complacency by the passage of uneventful time. His profession depended on it.

  With a small tool, he popped open the French doors and stepped into a shadowy family room. He liked to have house plans, but there had been no time to get them. When he hired him for the job, Doug Preston had been able to pass on only Ed Casey’s address.

  Cautiously he padded across thick carpet into a central hall. A grandfather clock ticked rhythmically. There was no other noise. He listened at the foot of the stairs, then ducked his head into open doorways—a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen. All deserted. He opened the only closed door. Bingo—an office.