Library of Gold

by Gayle Lynds

  Relief washed over her. With sudden clarity she realized she had been dwelling on her own personal fears. “Charles and the book club conspired in something that should’ve been good but turned it into evil and a loss to civilization so large it’s incalculable. The Library of Gold belongs to the world. I have the knowledge to help you find it and the awful people behind it. With luck it’ll be soon enough to stop from happening whatever your father was so worried about.” She took a deep breath. “I want to make my own commitment. Make the mission mine, too, and try to be braver than I ever was able during the years with Charles and in the penitentiary. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see this through.”

  He sat on his bed, facing her. “You’re sure?” He studied her, his gray eyes grave.

  “Absolutely.” And she meant it.

  “Then I’m glad. I have a feeling you’ve always been brave. But do me a favor—don’t like the work too much.”

  “Fat chance.” Setting aside the scytale, she turned to him, sitting cross-legged. She had an idea. “We’ve got to find another way to go about this. I’ll start with Charles’s tattoo. It had to have sent shudders through the book club. Even a hint someone might reveal the library’s location would be a threat to them. That’s my first point. The second is, when I saw Charles and Robin together there was something intimate about them. I don’t know whether they were close friends, close colleagues, or maybe lovers. But if I’m right, she’s connected to Charles, which means his tattoo may have thrown suspicion on her. I know I’d be suspicious. Read Preston’s note again.”

  He took out the torn notebook page. “‘Robin Miller. Book of Spies. All we know is Athens—so far.’”

  “The beginning part of the note is like a list. ‘Robin Miller. Book of Spies.’ One. Two. Then we get to the heart of the matter: ‘All we know is Athens—so far.’ The tone makes me think they don’t know where The Book of Spies—or Robin Miller—is, except they’re in Athens, and they must be found.”

  “You think she not only has the book but she’s on the run with it,” he said.

  “It’s a good possibility.”

  He grabbed his mobile. “I’ll call her.” He tapped in one of the numbers from Charles Sherback’s cell. “I’m getting a recording,” he told her. Then: “Ms. Miller, my name is Judd Ryder. I’m in Athens, and I’ve got the resources to protect you from Preston. I’d like to buy The Book of Spies. Call as soon as you can. I’ll leave my mobile on.” Then he dialed the other number and left the same message.

  “Fingers crossed,” she said.

  He went into the bathroom and emerged with water glasses. He opened the bottle of wine to let it breathe. “I’m going to take a shower. Then we eat.”

  He grabbed a clean T-shirt and shorts from the duffel and went into the bathroom. She listened to the music of the running shower and walked around the room, arms crossed, holding herself, feeling relieved she had decided to stay and hoping Robin would call soon. Then she emptied the side pocket of her satchel and laid out everything to dry.

  Judd emerged with droplets shining on his short bleached hair, his face wet and relaxed. The T-shirt was damp, clinging to his tapered waist. His stomach muscles were amazing, like rebar, and he had good long legs beneath his shorts, straight, the hair golden brown and curly, lovely. She turned away, busying herself by taking out her shirt and shorts. Then she went into the bathroom without looking at him again.

  “Drink your wine,” she told him over her shoulder. “Behave yourself.”

  “I’ll save half for you.”

  The hot water soothed her. She washed her hair, caught by surprise at the black color as it fell over her face. She had never in her life dyed her hair. Toweling off, she fastened on her ankle device, buttoned her shirt, and stepped into the shorts.

  When she emerged from the bathroom he was sitting at the table, inspecting Charles’s notebook again.

  “Find anything?” She slid into the chair across from him.

  “Nothing.”

  “No call from Robin?”

  He shook his head. “Tell me about your family.”

  “Isn’t that in my dossier?”

  “Just the basics. Mother, father, brother, sister, and you. They moved from Los Angeles to Iowa. You didn’t. I’d really like to know.”

  She hesitated.“There’s not much to say, really. Dad worked construction. Mom cleaned houses. Dad drank—a lot. He’d have tirades and slap Mom around when she tried to convince him to quit. Eventually she started drinking, too. They got along a lot better, but it still was miserable. We could never bring our friends home because we never knew what we’d find.”

  “You were the oldest, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, and probably the luckiest. In Al-Anon you learn about the family mediator, the peacemaker—that was me. It kept me from falling into the bottle, too, because I was always trying to smooth things over to protect my little brother and sister. Then Dad started losing one job after the other, and his uncle offered him work at a lumber company he owned in Council Bluffs. I’d had my brush with the law by then. They were good about that and stood by me. But when everyone left, I stayed on in L.A., to go to college.” Her shoulders were tense. She raised her arms above her head and stretched.

  “You didn’t want to end up like them.”

  “No, I didn’t, but it didn’t stop me from loving them. They came to visit me in prison several times. I don’t know how they scraped the money together to do it, but they did.” She bit her lip. “Love is a crazy emotion, isn’t it?”

  He was watching her, kindness glowing in his eyes. “Let’s eat.”

  He poured wine as she got out the food. The moussaka was warm and spicy, the zucchini and wild rice crunchy. It was a simple but fine meal, and for the moment the lamplit hotel room felt cozy and safe.

  “What about you and your family?” she asked as she ate.

  “You know part of it. Dad was ambitious, but the higher he rose, the more pressure he was under, and the more traveling he had to do. When I started school, Mom went back to work, teaching kindergarten. Then, after a couple of years, she quit so she’d be free when he was home. It was great for me. The door was always open for my friends. She’d make chocolate pudding and oatmeal cookies and let us play outside and get dirty.” He studied his wine. “What was rough for both of us was not having him around. But when he was, he filled the house with his personality, and he spent every moment with us. Now that I look back, it’s obvious he was trying to make it up to us.”

  “I’ll bet he enjoyed you, too.”

  “I hope so.” He lowered his head. “You should know Dad started telling me stories about the Library of Gold when I was young. He must’ve known about it then. And that makes me think he was in the book club when the decision was made to bring Charles on board. Knowing how managerial Dad was, I have to believe even if he didn’t make the final decisions, he must’ve at least known about the arrangements.”

  She felt her breath catch in her throat. Then she shook off her anger. “You’re not him. You’ve made your own choices, and it seems to me they’re one hundred eighty degrees different from his. I think you’ve inherited his best traits.”

  He poured the last of the garnet-colored wine into their glasses, then he held up his.

  “To our partnership.” He grinned.

  She touched her rim to his and smiled into his eyes. “To finding the Library of Gold.”

  49

  The afternoon was bright, sunlight bouncing off the windshields of cars as Martin Chapman’s plush limousine rolled up to the Hotel Grande Bretagne on Constitution Square. One of the globe’s top establishments, the hotel looked like a palace and had a long history as a seat of power, which Chapman appreciated: The Nazis had made it their headquarters when they occupied Greece during World War II, and later the British Expeditionary Force took it over. Wars had been planned here, and treaties signed. From kings to corporate heads, jet-setters to diplomats, it was the place to stay,
the only hotel Chapman ever used when in Athens.

  The chauffeur rushed around the limo to open the door. Chapman got out, his mane of wavy white hair gleaming, blue eyes twinkling, tan face composed, carriage erect. Valets scurried. The hotel’s massive doors opened, and he marched inside.

  The manager waited beside a tall Ionic column in the lobby, perfectly positioned for effect, surrounded by the hotel’s nineteenth-century art and antiques. He bowed and, after appropriate welcoming remarks, led Chapman across the mosaic marble floor to the private elevator, bypassing the registration desk.

  They rose silently to the fifth-floor Royal Suite. Opening the door, the manager bowed again, and Chapman strode into a rich world of damasks and silks and antique furnishings from Sotheby’s, eager to see his wife. But there was no sign of her. Instead, standing in the middle of the grand triple living room was Doug Preston, holding a wood box. He inclined his head slightly, indicating the box contained what Chapman wanted. Dressed in a three-piece suit tailored to show no sign of his holstered pistol, the security chief’s expression was serious.

  Chapman’s luggage was wheeled in, and the manager bowed himself out the door.

  “Where’s my wife?” Chapman asked.

  “Shopping, sir. Mahaira is with her.”

  Chapman nodded and gestured. They went into the private formal dining room with its elegant table, set for a business meeting of only eight, since Jonathan Ryder and Angelo Charbonier were dead. Over the next year the book club would decide on their replacements. The centerpiece was a lavish display of orchids. Pads of paper and pricey Mont Blanc fountain pens with the hotel’s logo waited at each place.

  Preston closed the door. “The butler will serve drinks. Is there anything else I can order for you?”

  Chapman chose a Partagas cigar from the burled-wood humidor. He rolled it between his fingers next to his ear, hearing the muffled sound of fine tobacco. He clipped off the end and sniffed. Satisfactory. Lighting it with the hotel’s gold lighter, he went to stand by one of the tall windows overlooking the city’s landmarks.

  “How close are you to finding the Carnivore?” Chapman smoked, controlling his fury.

  When after four hours the Carnivore had not given Chapman confirmation of the kill, he had phoned the number the Carnivore had given him. It was disconnected. Then he had sent an e-mail to the contact man, Jack. It had bounced back.

  Preston joined Chapman at the window and said, “It’s a problem. As you said, the Carnivore’s security is very tight. The e-mail address was routed through several countries. So far Jan’s had no luck tracing it back to its origin, but she’s still working on it.” Jan Mardis was Carl Lindström’s chief of computer security.“ As for the disconnected number, there’s nothing we can do about it. I checked in with the man who recommended the Carnivore to you, but he claims he has no other way to reach him and you’ll never find him now. He doesn’t understand what happened, but whatever it was, he figures he’s burned, too. When the Carnivore takes a client’s money, it’s a trust to him. He always delivers. And he never forgets.”

  Chapman felt a chill, remembering the cold litany of the Carnivore’s rules. Then he brushed it off. The bastard owed him the $1 million advance.

  “Find him. I want my money, and then I want him terminated.”

  Preston inclined his head. “Yes, sir. As soon as Jan has anything, it’ll be a pleasure to take him out.”

  “What about Judd Ryder and Eva Blake? According to our Washington asset, they were heading for Thessalonika and had hooked up with Robin Miller.”

  “It has to be Athens. They took a note I’d written to myself, and the Carnivore knew it was legitimate. I’ve posted men at the airport, train stations, and docks to look for them. I don’t see how they could’ve reached Robin, but maybe they have. That could work in our favor.” He paused. “I know how to find her.”

  Chapman stopped, his cigar suspended on its way to his mouth. He studied Preston, who stood calmly beside him, the box still in both hands. He was not rattled, not apologetic. In fact, there was a deadly calm about him. His blue eyes looked like chipped ice. He had been humiliated, and he wanted revenge. Good.

  “Tell me.”

  “I had the pilot check the Learjet,” Preston said. “Robin didn’t leave her cell behind. If she were planning to escape, she’d take it with her because it was the only one she had. She doesn’t know she can be tracked through the cell. My NSA contact is waiting for her to activate it, and as soon as she does, we’ll have her. But there’s another problem: Tucker Andersen got away, and the man I hired in Washington to scrub him has vanished. So has Andersen. I have people looking for both.”

  Chapman swore loudly. “Anything else?”

  “My men in Rome captured Yitzhak Law and Roberto Cavaletti.”

  “They’re dead?” he asked instantly, pleased.

  Preston shook his head. “Not yet. Ryder and Blake have turned out to be far more trouble than any of us envisioned. With Law and Cavaletti, we have something to hold over them if we need it.”

  Chapman thought about it. “Agreed. We can wipe them whenever we wish.”

  “There’s one more thing. I talked to Yakimovich after I got free in the Grand Bazaar. He said Charles left behind a strip of leather with a message—the location of the Library of Gold is hidden in The Book of Spies.”

  “Jesus. The old librarian smuggled out that book. He knew the location was in it?”

  “He’s the one who put it there. Charles must have found some message he left. In any case, it’s not a problem. We’ll retrieve the book. Ryder and Blake will never get close.”

  Chapman dropped his cigar into an ashtray and rubbed his hands. “Give me the box.”

  But as Preston handed it to him, there was a tap on the door. With a nod from Chapman, Preston opened it.

  Mahaira stood there in a beige linen suit, her graying hair perfectly coiffed in a frame around her soft face. “Madame asked me to tell you she is delayed, sir. Friends found her and insisted she have tea with them. She is most regretful.” Stung by the news, Chapman turned his back on her. As he listened to her pad away, his gaze fell on the box. Quickly he opened it. Sighing with pleasure, he plucked from its velvet lining an illuminated manuscript spectacular not only for its physical beauty but also for what it would mean to his wife and the great new fortune he would have.

  50

  The members of the book club had been checking into the Hotel Grande Bretagne throughout the morning. The meeting began promptly at two P.M., and their arrival infused the room with electric energy. All stood at least six feet or taller, and despite the nearly thirty-year range in their ages, each moved with the grace of an athlete, their bodies trim and fit.

  Chosen in their youth, when they were struggling for money and power and displayed great promise, they had been cultivated, mentored, and financed—as Martin Chapman had. Still, very few who received such attention rose to join the fraternity of the secret book club. Those who did were living examples of the ancient Greek ideal of the perfect man.

  Studying them as they stood talking around the table, Chapman felt a sense of pride. He had been director five years. They could be troublesome, but that was understandable. Spirited aggression was necessary to accomplishment, and they were warriors in and out of business—another critical trait of the Greek ideal. But at the same time he was concerned about the unusually high pitch of their energy and the sideways glances in his direction. Something had set them off, and he worried he knew what it was.

  He checked the butler, who was serving drinks. They would wait to start the meeting until they were alone.

  “You’re crazy, Petr,” one was saying, amused.

  “You spend too damn much time in the library,” laughed another.

  Petr Klok chose a martini from the butler’s silver tray and announced, “This is an organized universe based on numbers. The ancients knew that. The markets—their prices and timings—move in harmonic rhythms.”
A bearded man with stylishly clipped hair, he was fifty years old and the first Czech billionaire. Taking advantage of his nation’s privatization reforms, he had begun small, buying an insurance company with vouchers and loans from Library of Gold funds and then growing it into an empire stretching across Europe and America.

  Brian Collum found his glass of barolo on the butler’s tray. “You’re claiming financial ups and downs aren’t random? Clearly you’re nuts.” Graying, with a long handsome face, the Los Angeleno was the junior member, just forty-eight. He was the library’s attorney.

  “Study the geometrical codes hidden in Plato’s Timaeus,” Klok insisted.“Then connect them to the architecture of Hindu temples, Pascal’s arithmetical triangles, the Egyptian alphabet, the movement of the planets, and the consonant patterns in the stained-glass windows of medieval cathedrals. It will give you an edge in the markets.”

  “I, for one, am interested. After all, Petr predicted the worldwide crash of 2008,” Maurice Dresser reminded them. A Canadian, he had turned regional wildcatting into a trillion-dollar oil kingdom. He had thinning white hair and strong features. At seventy-five vigorous years, he was the oldest.

  “Perhaps Petr is ahead of his time. He wouldn’t be the first,” Chapman said, a challenge in his voice. He paused until he had their full attention. Seeing the opportunity, he hoped to lull them with a small tournament. “Let’s see what you know. Here’s the subject—in 350 B.C., Heracleides was so far ahead of his time that he discovered the Earth spun on an axis.”

  Collum instantly held up his cigar, volunteering. “A century later Aristarchus of Samos figured out the Earth orbited the sun. Also far ahead of his time.”

  “But in the same era, Aristotle insisted we were stationary and the center of the heavens.” Dresser shook his head. “Big error, and rare for him.”