by Gayle Lynds
“Christ.” The spymaster sounded frustrated.
“Did you find out anything about Yakimovich?” Judd asked.
“Yes, a good lead from an Istanbul source. There’s a merchant of old calligraphy in the Grand Bazaar who’s supposed to know where Yakimovich is. His name is Okan Biçer, and he shows up for work around three P.M. I’ll e-mail you his photo and give you directions to his shop.”
When they had memorized the directions and examined the photo, Judd ended the connection and tossed the mobile back onto his bed. Then he raised his glass, and Eva raised hers. They touched the rims with a soft clink. Drinking, they avoided the intimacy of each other’s eyes, the pain of their shared past, and the worry about what tomorrow would bring.
38
Fairfax County, Virginia
Cathy Doyle was exhausted. It was nearly one A.M., and the day had been filled with work and the usual pressures to succeed at the various missions on which Catapult was working. As she drove across the Potomac River into Virginia, heading home, she turned on the radio. But it was a report of new terrorist attacks in eastern Afghanistan, and she already had enough facts about it; the last thing she needed was the somber news repeated. She punched off the radio.
Virginia was a land of urban congestion amid broad swathes of woods and farmland. She loved it—it always made her think of Ohio, where she had grown up. She turned off onto a two-lane road washed with moonlight. It ran along the river north of the District. At this hour, traffic was light, the widely spaced houses mostly dark.
She thought longingly of her twin daughters, home from spring break at Columbia, and her husband, a lawyer at the Department of Labor, who had just returned from a conference in Chicago. All would be sleeping, which she would be soon, too.
Humming to herself, she checked the road. There was almost no traffic, and she felt herself relax. She was thinking about home and bed again when she realized there was another car behind her now. She glanced at her speedometer. She was locked in at forty miles an hour, just where she wanted to be, and so was the other guy. Someone else heading home for a good night’s sleep.
To her right, the forest opened up, and she could see the river with its rippling surface painted a silky silver by the moonlight. She liked that, too. Nature in all its beauty. She cracked her window. The air whistled in, the cool night air tasting moist, of the river. She turned on the radio again, this time found a blues station. Ah, yes.
Settling back into her seat, she glanced into her rearview mirror. And stared. The other vehicle’s headlights were closing in, bombarding her car with light. She hit the accelerator, pushing out. As she passed sixty miles an hour, she checked her rearview mirror again. Her follower was even closer. There was still no other traffic as she started up the long, high hill that would eventually dip down into the valley where her house was, only a couple of miles farther.
Again she looked into her rearview mirror. The other car had moved out of their lane and into the oncoming lane. It was a big pickup. He had not signaled, and he had not slowed, either.
She slammed her foot on the accelerator, speeding toward seventy miles an hour. The pickup dropped back behind, in their lane again. But then the headlights loomed abruptly closer. As she floored the accelerator, he swung into the other lane, overtaking her. Her mouth went dry as they raced up the hill together
She braked to drop behind. Too late. The pickup crashed sideways into her car. Furious, she fought to control the steering wheel. The pickup slammed into her again, holding, pushing her toward the cliff over the river. This time the wheel ripped from her grasp.
Terror filling her, she gripped the steering wheel as the car hurtled through the guardrail, shot over the cliff, and crashed down through young pines, smashing against boulders. One collision after another hurled her back and forth. As the sedan flew over a final precipice and dived toward the shadowy river, she felt a moment of blinding impact, and then nothing.
Washington, D.C.
At eight A.M. the headquarters of Catapult was solemn and quiet, although all of the morning staff had arrived. A sense of shocked grief infused the building. The news of Catherine Doyle’s fatal accident had spread. Tucker had heard hours before, awakened by his old friend Matthew Kelley, the director of the Clandestine Service. When she had not returned home, Cathy’s husband had called. Then the Virginia State Police found her car submerged in the river, only a patch of the top visible. The vehicle was badly banged up, which was consistent with the terrain it had crashed down through, and she had apparently drowned. There would be a coroner’s report and the results of forensics in a few days.
Tucker wandered the old brick building, chatting with their people, comforting them, and by doing so comforting himself. Cathy had been a good boss, tough and fair, and they had liked her. He urged them to get back to work. Their operators abroad were counting on them. Besides, it was what Cathy would have wanted, and they knew it.
By the afternoon, the pace had quickened, voices talked business, telephones rang, computer keys clicked. He returned to his office and tried to concentrate. Finally the habits of a lifetime returned, and he bent over his work.
“Hello, Tucker.” Hudson Canon stood in the doorway, looking concerned. He was an assistant director in the Clandestine Service, a longtime field officer who had been brought home to Langley to oversee a slew of people who in turn created and managed missions. Short, dignified, and heavily muscled, he gave the impression of a high-class American Kennel Club bulldog, with his pug nose and round black eyes and thick cheeks. “How are you doing?” Canon asked.
“It’s terrible news, of course. Cathy will be greatly missed.”
“Gloria says everyone is working hard, but I must say the place feels a bit like a mausoleum. Damn. I liked Cathy a lot. A fine woman.”
“Have a chair.” Tucker motioned to one. “What can I do for you?”
Canon gave a quick smile and sat in front of the desk. “Matt Kelley sent me over to take Cathy’s place until a new chief is named. You interested in the job?”
“That’s fast.”
“Don’t I know it. Are you interested?”
Tucker’s soul felt heavy. “Let me think about it.” The position had been offered to him before Cathy was appointed, but he had turned it down.
“I haven’t been to Cathy’s office yet,” Canon went on. “I told Gloria to pack up all of her private things before I moved in. Meanwhile, I’d like you to bring me up-to-date. Start with the hottest missions.”
Canon crossed his legs, and they talked. Tucker filled him in on Berlin, Bratislava, Kiev, Tehran, and others. Canon knew the basics about all from Cathy’s weekly reports.
“I hear you might’ve had a breach in your e-mail or Internet system.”
“Debi is honchoing it,” Tucker told him.“Someone did get in and was able to access Cathy’s e-mail for about three minutes.”
Canon grimaced. “Long enough to steal more than any of us would want.”
“Agreed. Still, we’re not sure what they took. Maybe they got nothing. In any case, that pathway is now a dead end, and Debi’s team is on high alert, looking for even the smallest signs of attempt to trespass. There’s been no other successful cybersleuthing since. The problem was, the breach occurred during the night shift, when we had fewer bodies. They missed the invader—he was damn good at it obviously.”
“I see. What else do you have for me?”
Tucker launched into a description of the Library of Gold operation.
When he had finished, Canon sat back, thinking. “Is this a wise use of Catapult’s resources? You still have no evidence of involvement in terrorism. Who in hell cares about the Library of Gold? So what if it’s some marvelous old relic. That’s the bailiwick of historians and anthropologists. This is a waste of time better spent on more critical missions.”
Tucker stiffened. “I understand your point, but we’re deep into it now. I’ve got a contract employee and a civilian on the run,
being hunted. And a dead man who turned up alive who said he was the chief librarian. He’s dead now, too, and it’s real this time. There are other corpses—people like Jonathan Ryder and the Charboniers.”
“Have you learned anything about the library’s location through Ryder or the Charboniers?”
“Nothing yet. Jonathan’s life is far easier to probe. We have his travel records, but he was an international businessman and flew around the globe. A lot of cities and towns. As for the Charboniers, we have to work with the French to get information, and that’s difficult. You know how secretive they can be.”
“It’ll be another dead end.”
“Maybe. But my two people in Istanbul have a good lead. We need to follow up on that.”
“A good lead? What is it?”
“The man’s name is Okan Biçer. He sells calligraphy in the Grand Bazaar.”Tucker checked his watch.“He’s supposed to know where an old acquaintance of Eva Blake’s husband is, an antiquities merchant named Andrew Yakimovich. They’re hoping Yakimovich may be holding something for Blake that’ll tell them where the library is.”
Hudson Canon seemed to think about it. At last he nodded. “I’d already expressed my reservations to Cathy about whether this operation was worth it, but she convinced me to give it some time. Your argument for more time is good, too. However, I’ve also taken it to my boss. Especially now that Cathy’s gone and we’ll need to rethink Catapult, we’re going to have to pull in our horns. You have thirty-six hours to find the library. If you don’t know where it is by then, the boss says to pull the plug and end the operation.”
39
Peshawar, Pakistan
Thick storm clouds rolled black and angry overhead, and the temperature dropped five degrees as Martin Chapman rode into the polluted and paranoid city of Peshawar. He was dressed in a traditional shalwar kameez—the long shirt and baggy trousers worn by most Pakistani and Afghani men—so he could pass for an Uzbek, Chechen, or light-skinned Pashtun.
A hotbed of Taliban and al-Qaeda, the city was where he was to meet the warlord who had promised him safe passage. Still, Chapman did not believe in relying on promises. His pistol was on his belt, the holster latch unfastened, and his hand on the weapon’s grip. Beside him lay the truck driver’s fully loaded AK-47.
Peshawar was an armed garrison. Men and boys as young as five years old wore, cradled, or shouldered an array of weapons. But then, it was the capital of the politically unstable North-West Frontier Province and just six miles from the lawless Federally Administered Tribal Areas. Jihadists poured into the city to regroup, to fight, to buy and trade weapons and supplies, and to partake of civilization. It had always been a smugglers’ haven and a center for indigenous arms manufacture, but now more so than ever. Private homes were functioning gun factories. Using the crudest of tools, entire families fabricated quality copies of major small and medium arms.
As the truck drove through the city, Chapman was taken aback by the poverty and destruction. Empty shells of buildings, some towering precariously several stories high, dotted streets, the result of suicide bombings, personal disputes, police assaults, and the occasional drone attack from across the mountains in Afghanistan.
Despite it all, people strove for normalcy. Women draped in ghostly burkas drifted like shadows among the stores, carrying string shopping bags. Men in tribal headdresses or pakul hats—traditional flat round wool caps—sat for portraits in front of old box cameras screwed into rickety wood tripods.
“We there soon,” the driver told Chapman. An Afghan Pashtun, he worked directly for the warlord. Thankfully he understood English far better than he spoke it.
The driver turned the big truck onto Lahore Road. Bouncing over potholes, he turned again and slammed on the brakes. Dust spewed a choking cloud around them. They had stopped in front of a gun shop.
“This is it?” Chapman asked.
The driver nodded enthusiastically.
“Wait here,” Chapman ordered.
Nodding again, the man turned off the ignition and peered up through the windshield, eying the stormy twilight sky. He shook his head in despair, then climbed out and lit a brown cigarette.
Chapman got out, too, silently cursing Syed Ullah for insisting they meet in Peshawar. But that was Ullah for you. He was one of a long line of Pashtun tribal chiefs from the border province of Khost in Afghanistan. The warlord was his own man, regarding Kabul’s commands with indifference.
As Chapman walked toward the store, Ullah appeared in the doorway, filling it. Gigantic, powerfully built, he had hands that looked as if they could palm bowling balls. His cheekbones were high, the coldly intelligent brown eyes widely spaced, the thick mustache above his wide mouth neatly trimmed. He wore a brown wool sweater, a shalwar kameez, and sturdy black boots. Twin pearl-handled pistols were holstered on his hips.
He looked comfortable and pleased with himself. “You are here, Chapman. Come in. Pe kher ragle.” Welcome.
Chapman walked inside and stopped, keeping his manner casual. Weapons ranging from small two-shot pistols to juiced-up rocket launchers were for sale, stacked four and five deep against the walls, lying on shelves up to the ceiling, and bunched and leaning together like haystacks in the corners. The place smelled like cheap grease. In the back of the store, silently blocking a door, stood six of Ullah’s soldiers. They carried rifles, while flowers were tucked into their belts in the Pashtun style. Two bandoliers crossed each of their chests, displaying not only bullets but dangling grenades.
Smiling proudly, the warlord looked around the store, then peered down at Chapman.
“Impressive,” Chapman admitted.
With a nod from Ullah, his men headed for the open front door. “They will bring in the crates. You have what we agreed on in the back of the truck?”
“Everything.”
“Good, good.” Ullah gestured grandly at the two low stools beside a desk.
They sat. A white silk cloth edged with lace had been spread out, and a white porcelain teapot decorated with red poppies waited in the middle of it. The warlord poured tea into two glasses rimmed in gold and set into decorative golden bases with golden handles.
Offering no milk or sugar, he handed a cup to Chapman. “This is a fine black Indian tea, flavored with cardamom and honey. I serve it on only the most important occasions, to my most important guests. According to our Pashtunwali code, it is my duty to host you, treasure you, and protect you.” Ullah lifted his cup in salute.
Chapman lifted his cup, too, and gave a nod of appreciation. They drank, and Chapman said nothing about the code, knowing full well the warlord’s hospitality would evaporate and Chapman’s life would be in danger if he did not fulfill his end of their agreement. Pashtuns were bound by fierce cultural, emotional, and social ties—the Pashtunwali code. At the same time, if they breathed, they fought. An old Pashtun saying was “Me against my brother, me and my brother against our cousins, and we and our cousins against the enemy, any enemy.” In that way they confirmed their honor, and it did not seem to matter whether they ended up successful—or dead.
The first crate came in, one of Ullah’s men rolling it on a dolly, followed by another, and another, all disappearing into the back. From Karachi, the crates had been shipped to Islamabad, then trucked into Madari, where Chapman had jetted in from Oman and met Ullah’s driver.
Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distant hills.
“My boys will hurry now,” Ullah commented, amused.
He barked an order in Pashto to a soldier who had picked up speed and was rushing past with another crate. The man wheeled it around, brought it to Ullah, and ripped off the top with a crowbar.
Ullah and Chapman stood and looked down. Ullah lowered his great height to finger a new U.S. Army camouflage uniform. “Good, good.”
“The other boxes contain more uniforms,” Chapman told him. “Kevlar helmets with night-vision scopes, grenade belts, GPS units, encrypted cell phones, flares, M4 carbine rifles wi
th telescopic sights, and body armor. Everything we agreed upon and more, all regulation army and authentic.”
“I will check each crate before you leave.” The warlord settled back down onto his stool, his dainty teacup disappearing into his big hand as he sipped.
For a moment Ullah was not a ruthless brawler, not the Mike Tyson of the tribal lands, but a gentleman of good taste. Driven into exile in Pakistan by the Taliban in the 1990s, he had returned to Afghanistan after 9/11 to lead anti-Taliban soldiers, moving in and out of alliances, keeping his distance from the national government and coalition forces. Today his home base was a vast area of eastern Khost province that was largely rural and backward. His photograph hung in every office, shop, and school, and he maintained firm control with a personal army of more than five thousand.
What mattered most to Chapman was he owned ten square miles of land that the director needed.
Lightning split through the dark clouds, illuminating the shop in a moment of startling white light. Thunder boomed, and the heavens opened. Rain poured down in a brutal torrent as the last of the crates rushed through.
Ullah peered over his teacup. “About my money. I am eager to have it back.”
“And you will. Soon.”
“Now.”
When Chapman had discovered Ullah owned the land, he had ordered a complete investigation of the man. Through book club member Carl Lindström’s chief of security—an accomplished black-hatter—a hidden overseas account containing some $20 million in profits from drugs and gun-running was uncovered. If Chapman told the Kabul government about it, the minister of finance would confiscate it, and the president would find unpleasant ways to punish Ullah.
Instead, Chapman had led his equity firm in a leveraged buyout of the bank—and frozen the account. With that incentive, Ullah had agreed to meet him at a Caspian Sea resort, where Chapman had offered to release the money and give him a small percentage in a deal the greedy bastard could not refuse. He would earn enormous profits for decades to come in an honest business venture through which he could launder his heroin and opium profits. But it hinged on Chapman’s being able to buy the land, which the warlord could not sell because he was renting it to the United States for a secret forward base.
