Library of Gold

by Gayle Lynds

  “You’re Alex Bosa?” Chapman assumed it was a pseudonym.

  “Some call me that.”

  “The Carnivore.”

  No expression in the voice. “I’m known by that, too.”

  Chapman inhaled. He was in the presence of a legendary independent assassin, a man who had worked for all sides during the cold war. Now he worked only occasionally, but always at astronomical prices. There were no photos of him; no one knew where he lived, what his real name was, or even in which country he was born. He also never failed, and no one ever uncovered who hired him.

  The assassin’s voice was calm. “Do you agree to my terms?”

  Chapman felt his hackles rise. He was the boss, not this shadowy man who had to live hidden behind pseudonyms. “I have a cashier’s check with me.” There were to be two payments—half now, half on completion, for a total of $2 million. Ridding himself of the CIA problem was worth every cent. “Do you want the job or not?”

  Silence. Then: “I work alone when it’s time to do the hit. That means your people must be gone. You must never reveal our association. You must never try to find out what I look like or who I am. If you make any attempts, I will come after you. I’ll do you the favor of making it a clean kill, out of respect for our business relationship and the money you will have paid me. After tonight, you will not try to meet me again. When the job is finished, I’ll be in touch to let you know how I want to receive the last payment. If you don’t pay me, I will come after you for that, too. I do wet work only on people who shouldn’t be breathing anyway. I’m the one who makes that decision—not you. I’ll give you a new phone number through which you can reach me when you have the additional information about the targets’ whereabouts. Do you agree?”

  The menacing power in the quiet voice was breathtaking. Chapman found himself nodding even though there was no way the man could see him in the dark.

  He spoke up, “I agree.” The Carnivore specialized in making hits look like accidents, which was the point—Chapman wanted Langley to have nothing to trace back to him or the Library of Gold.

  “Tell me why Judd Ryder and Eva Blake need to be terminated,” the Carnivore demanded.

  When Chapman had decided to bring in outside talent, he had gone to a source outside the book club, a middleman named only Jack. Through encrypted e-mails, he and Jack had arranged the deal. Now he repeated the story for the Carnivore: “Ryder is former military intelligence and highly skilled. Blake is a criminal—she killed her husband when she was driving drunk. I’m sure you’ve checked both facts. They’ve learned about a new secret business transaction I’m working on, and they want it for themselves. I tried to reason with them, but I got nowhere. If they steal this, it’ll cost me billions. More important, now they’re trying to kill me. They’re on their way to Istanbul. I should have information soon about exactly where.”

  “I understand. I’ll leave now. Put the envelope on the shelf next to you. Open the door and go immediately back to your jet.” He gave Chapman his new cell number.

  There was a movement of air, the door opened and closed quickly, and darkness surrounded Chapman again. He realized he was sweating. He put the envelope with the cashier’s check for $1 million on the shelf next to him and left.

  As he walked down the corridor, he looked everywhere for the cleaning man in the brown uniform and Bedouin headdress. He had vanished.

  37

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Judd stared down from his window on the jet at the twinkling lights of fabled Instanbul. He drank in the sight of what had once been mighty Constantinople, the crown of the Byzantine Empire—and the birthplace of the Library of Gold.

  Eva awoke. “What time is it?” She looked nervous.

  “Midnight.”

  As the jet touched down and taxied toward the terminal of Ataturk International Airport, he checked his mobile.

  “Anything from Tucker about where Yakimovich is?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No e-mail. No phone message.”

  “If Tucker can’t find him, it could take us days.”

  Although there seemed to be no way they could have been followed, they had stopped in Rome on their way to the airport not only to buy supplies but also to disguise themselves. Now as they deplaned, Judd helped Eva into a wheelchair. She curled up low, her head hanging forward as if asleep. A blanket covered her body, and a scarf hid her hair. He put her shoulder satchel and a large new duffel bag containing other purchases on her lap. He was dressed like a private nurse, in white slacks, a white blast jacket, and a white cap. Tucked inside his lower lip was a tight roll of cotton, making the lip protrude and his jaw look smaller.

  Keeping his cheeks soft and his gaze lazy, he adjusted his internal monitor until he was comfortably projecting a not-too-bright attendant to the nice lady in the wheelchair. Watching surreptitiously around, he pushed her into the international terminal and showed his fake passport and her real one at the visa window. They acquired visa stamps and passed through customs. Although the terminal was less congested than at high-traffic hours, there were still plenty of people. Beyond the security kiosk waited even more, many holding up signs with passengers’ names.

  Rolling the wheelchair down the long corridor toward the exit doors, Judd stayed on high alert. Which was when he spotted the one person he did not want to see—Preston. How in hell had he known to come to Istanbul? His chest tight, Judd studied him from the corners of his eyes. Tall and square-shouldered, the killer was leaning against the exterior wall of a news store, apparently reading the International Herald Tribune. He was dressed as he had been in London, in jeans, a black leather jacket, and probably a pistol.

  Because he did not have ID to carry a weapon onto a commercial flight, Judd had left his Beretta in Rome. He considered. It seemed unlikely Preston had been able to see his face in London from the floor of the alley. On the other hand, it was possible the killer had somehow figured out who he was and had acquired a photo.

  “Preston.” The worried whisper floated up from Eva.

  “I see him,” Judd said quietly. “You’re asleep, remember?”

  She returned to silence as he continued to push the wheelchair at a sedate pace.

  Above the newspaper, Preston was studying the throngs. His eyes moved while his body gave the appearance of disinterested relaxation. He paused at the faces of not only women but men the right age, the right hair color, the right height—which told Judd that Preston had somehow learned what he looked like. Watching couples and singles, Preston missed no one, took no one for granted. He pulled a radio from his belt, listening and speaking into it. That meant he had a least one janitor nearby.

  As Preston hooked the radio back on to his belt, he noticed Judd and Eva. And focused.

  His gaze felt like a burning poker. Judd did not look at him, and he did not speed the wheelchair. Either action would make Preston even more curious. Then he saw a tall woman sweeping along, pulling a small suitcase. Despite the late hour, she wore large diva sunglasses—and her hair was long and red, like Eva’s.

  Seeing an opportunity, Judd moved the wheelchair alongside her and slumped his shoulders to make himself appear even more boring in his attendant’s uniform. Preston’s eyes moved, attracted to the woman. He stepped away from the news store, following as the woman hurried in front of Judd and Eva to a car rental stand.

  Judd exhaled. He pushed Eva out the glass doors and to the line of waiting taxis.

  As soon as the yellow cab left the terminal, Judd closed the privacy window between the front and rear seats. It was an old vehicle, the upholstery threadbare, but the glass was thick, and the driver would not be able to hear their conversation.

  “How could Preston have found us?” Eva asked again. “The Charboniers knew about Yakimovich and Istanbul, but they died before they could tell anyone.”

  “It’s hard to believe Tucker has another leak. IT will be covering headquarters like a mushroom cloud. Maybe it’s us. Coul
d Charles have planted a bug on you in London?” As they talked, he watched the rear for any sign of Preston.

  “If he did, those clothes are gone. But why would he bother? He thought he had me. Did you see anyone following us at any time?”

  He shook his head. They were silent.

  “Okay, let’s take it from the top,” he finally said. “It’s not a bug, and it’s not a cyberbreach at Catapult.”

  “If Charles were alive,” she decided, “he would know we’d be heading to Andy Yakimovich.”

  “Peggy Doty’s the only loose end I can think of. But she didn’t know about Yakimovich or Istanbul, so there’s no way Preston could’ve gotten the information from her.”

  Eva suddenly swore. “Of course—Peggy’s cell phone. Whoever killed Peggy could’ve found my number on it.” She pulled her cell from her satchel. “The only time I dialed out was in the Athens airport, when I called around looking for Andy. I was calling Istanbul.”

  “Give it to me.” He turned on the phone, then watched the screen to make certain it was connected to the network. Rolling down his window, he tossed it into the open bed of a passing pickup.

  Eva smiled. “That’ll give Preston something to chase.”

  He smiled back. In the small rear seat of the taxi they inadvertently gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. For a long moment warm intimacy passed between them. Judd’s heart rate accelerated.

  Saying nothing, Eva looked away, and he turned to stare out the side window. That was the problem with shared danger. Inevitably it led to bonding of one sort or another, and one of the “sorts” could be sexual. He sensed her discomfort, her sudden aloofness, but he was not going to go there and explain what had just happened. Or that he had liked it.

  Mentally he shook himself. They were on the outskirts of the city. Choosing a busy intersection, he told the driver to stop. There was a chance Preston had gotten their taxi’s plate number.

  After helping Eva into her wheelchair, he paid the driver. The tail lights disappeared into traffic, and he wheeled her around, heading in the opposite direction. He scanned cautiously.

  “There’s an alley ahead,” Eva prompted.

  “I see it.” He pushed her inside.

  She got up and discarded her blanket and scarf, piling them into the wheelchair’s seat. From the duffel bag she took out a midnight-blue jacket. As he removed the cotton from his lower lip, stripped off his attendant’s jacket, and unbuckled his white trousers, she pulled on her jacket and, without looking at him, took her shoulder satchel and hurried off to keep watch.

  He slid into jeans, a brown polo shirt, and a brown sports jacket. Folding the wheelchair and their discarded belongings against the wall, he turned to gaze at her, a slender figure dwarfed by the alley’s tall opening, somehow jaunty and more unafraid than he would have thought.

  Carrying the duffel, he joined her. “See anything?”

  “No sign of Preston. Which way?”

  They walked six blocks, went around a corner, and Judd hailed another cab. Within twenty minutes they were in the Sultanahmet district in the heart of historic Old Town, not far from Topkapi Palace, the Hagia Sophia, and the Hippo -drome. The taxi stopped, and they got out.

  They walked another ten minutes, at last crossing onto a narrow street, at best a lane and a half wide. There were no cars, but trolley tracks ran down the middle. Tall stone buildings from centuries past abutted one another, shops and stores on the ground and second floors. He inhaled. The exotic scents of cumin and apple-flavored tobacco drifted through the night air.

  “This is Istiklal Caddesi,” he told her. “Caddesi means avenue. Our hotel’s four blocks farther.”

  As they continued on, she commented,“You seem to know a lot about Istanbul. Have you been here before?”

  “No. I Googled it.”

  The hotel was a stuccoed structure with a simple wood entry door and two shuttered windows on the right. The street was quiet, businesses closed, with no restaurants, cafés, or bars to attract customers.

  He slowed. “We have a small problem. All you’ve got is your real passport, which means you’ll have to give the hotel your name. So I’m going to go in alone and register myself under one of my covers. Then I’ll come out for you.”

  He gestured, and she stepped up into the recessed entry of a trinket store. Her dark jacket and jeans blended into the shadow.

  She’s learning, he thought to himself as he left her and went into the hotel. The interior was narrow and deep, with old unvarnished woods and faded upholstery. As expected, the clerk handed over a plain cardboard box with the correct cover name printed on it. Mentally Judd thanked Tucker. He placed an order with room service, walked toward the elevator at the rear, and continued on, exiting out the rear door.

  When he appeared in the mouth of the alley, he could not see Eva, so well was she hidden in the doorway.

  She hurried out, a question in her eyes.

  “We’re fine,” he told her as they retraced his path down the alley. “I told them my brother would be joining me in a couple of days.”

  “I thought you had only cousins.”

  He grinned. “I have a brother now.”

  They climbed the rear stairs to the sixth floor. She had agreed with him it was safer for them to stay together. Their room had two small beds and was sparsely furnished with florid furniture in the Old Turkish style.

  While she went into the bathroom, he dropped the duffel onto the bed nearest the door and opened the box. Inside was another subcompact semi-automatic Beretta pistol just like the one he’d had to leave behind in Rome. He checked it, loaded it from the box of ammo, and tried on the canvas shoulder holster, adjusting it. Satisfied, he went to the window. The lights of the city spread out before him in a glittering vista, beckoning.

  “Come look at this.” He pushed open the two vertical panes and leaned out.

  She emerged from the bathroom, her striking features smoothed at last. She was beginning to feel safe again, he decided. She smelled fresh, of soap and rose water.

  She leaned out the window, too. “What a magnificent view.”

  “Istanbul is the only major city in the world to straddle two continents,” he said. “It’s built on seven hills, just as Rome is. Where we are—the Sultanahmet district—is on top of the first hill, on the south side. It’s the historic core of the city. See that?” A series of fireworks in calico colors sprayed above the dark waters of the Marmara.“That’s from a wedding boat. Look at the lighted mosques. The domes and minarets. The temples and churches. The maze of winding streets.” The night gave a spectacular quality to the ancient city, as if it were secretly reinvigorating itself while its inhabitants slept. “It must’ve looked something like this during the Byzantine period, when the emperors were conquering the world and collecting the best books.”

  “It’s beautiful. Did you learn all of that from Google?”

  “From my father. Visiting ancient Constantinople was something we’d always planned to do together. That’s how I knew Istanbul was called the City of the World’s Desire. He particularly liked this hotel. There’s a lot of history connected to it.” His chest tight, he turned to her. “If my father were a member of the book club when your husband joined the library, he could’ve been responsible in one way or another for the dead man in your husband’s grave and for sending you to prison. I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

  “Charles told me they wanted to have me killed, but he talked them out of it.” She sighed heavily, and he felt a gap open between them. “I know you loved your father. Whatever he did or didn’t do has nothing to do with who you are. It’s not your fault.”

  But he sensed that somehow, in her mind, he was tainted by it. He turned back into the room, remembering. When he was growing up, his father was gone for longer and longer periods of time. He had moved them around Washington from one house to another, always larger, more expensive. His mother’s loneliness. The beautiful gifts brought back from each
trip. Artworks, jewelry, furnishings, books. His father had grown not only richer but leaner and stronger. As his hair grayed, their conversations more often focused on lessons he wanted to pass on: Think for yourself. You can never learn enough. No one can protect you but yourself. Money solves almost every problem.

  “You said you’re a CIA contract employee,” Eva said.“What did you do before?”

  “Military intelligence. The army. I retired about a month before Dad was killed.”

  “You’re a rich kid with every opportunity in the world. I’ll bet your father would’ve loved for you to jump on the fast track to the executive suite at Bucknell.”

  “True.” It was his father’s dream.

  “But you ended up in the army. Why?”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do. And no, it was before 9/11.”

  “So you rebelled by being a stand-up guy. But that’s not all, is it? Who are you really, Judd Ryder?”

  For that he had no answer. He was saved by a knock on the door. Sliding out his weapon, he padded toward it and peered through the peephole. Dinner had arrived.

  They ate at a small table in the corner—lamb meatballs with lemon sauce, tangy roasted eggplant salad, and a spread of ground walnuts and sweet red peppers. They talked quietly, and when they finished, he poured raki, a milky aperitif flavored with anise, a Turkish drink he had enjoyed with his father at home. As he handed her a glass, his encrypted mobile rang.

  She looked across the room to his bed, where the mobile lay. “Tucker with good news, I hope.”

  He was already picking it up. As he punched the Talk button, he confirmed by saying, “Hello, Tucker.”

  Setting down her glass, she listened as he put the mobile on speakerphone.

  “You’ve arrived?” Tucker wanted to know.

  “Yes, we’re at the hotel,” Judd said. “Your package was waiting. Thanks. You should know Preston was at the airport. We got past him. This time it wasn’t a leak; they tracked us through Eva’s cell phone.”