by Gayle Lynds
Chapman entered his suite, his bodyguard a respectful six feet behind. “You’re new.” He turned to study the man, who had a tanned face. It was one Chapman did not recognize.
“Yes, sir. You’re Martin Chapman. I read about you in an article in Vanity Fair, the one about your big equity deal to buy Sheffield-Riggs. The financing was a thing of beauty. My name is Harold Kardasian. Preston brought me in this morning from Majorca with two others.”
Majorca was known as a home for wealthy independent mercenaries. The guard was sturdy, obviously athletic from the way he moved, with thick brown hair that had streaks of gray at the temples. A pistol was on his hip. He was in his early fifties, Chapman judged, and had a touch of class—refined features, erect posture, deferential without being obsequious. Chapman liked that.
“You’re a short-timer?” he asked.
“Just here for the two days you’ll be here. I’d heard about Preston for years, so of course I signed up so I could work with him. Didn’t know I’d have the privilege of working for you, too, Mr. Chapman.”
Preston appeared in the doorway. “I’ll take those.” As Kardasian left, he laid the suitcase on the butler’s stand and the briefcase on the desk.
Chapman went to the window. He looked out, drinking in the panorama of the sky, the wind-carved island, and the impossibly blue sea. When Preston handed him the menu, he ran his gaze down the seven-course feast.
“Excellent,” he said. “You’ve made arrangements to blow up the buildings as soon as we’ve moved out?”
“Yes. I estimate tomorrow afternoon. By the time we’re finished, all evidence the library or we were ever here will be scrubbed.”
Chapman nodded. “Any problems on the island?”
“None. The chefs and food are here. They’ve been in the kitchen all day. A few loud arguments but no serious fights so far—maybe I’ll get off easy this year. The silver is polished. The crystal is shined. The wine is standing up. The library never looked better. I’ve ordered more than the usual extra security men. A total of fifty in all. Everyone’s oriented and knows their assignments.”
“Good. Send the translators to my office and tell them to wait. I need to talk with them after I finish some phone calls.” He turned to study Preston, noticing a faint red streak down his cheek.“ Any news about Judd Ryder and Eva Blake?”
“I almost caught them in Athens again. A very close call.”
Chapman gestured. “Is that what happened to your face?”
Preston’s hand went to his cheek, and he grimaced. “As I said, it was close. Now I know why we couldn’t find Tucker Andersen—he’s with them. Hudson Cannon learned they’ve been searching for the island, using our coordinates.”
“Christ! Then we have to count on them coming here.” Chapman thought a moment. “On the other hand, one’s a rank amateur, and another is past his prime. You have fifty highly trained men on security. In the end, taking care of them on the island may be our best solution. They’ll simply disappear, and Langley will never know what happened to them, or where.”
65
Langley, Virginia
At nine o’clock in the morning the storied seventh floor in the CIA’s old headquarters building bustled with activity. Behind the closed doors were the offices of the director of Central Intelligence and the other top espionage executives, plus conference rooms and special operations and support centers. Gloria Feit hurried along the corridor, passing staff carrying briefcases, plastic clipboards, and color-coded folders. The air exuded a sense of urgency. Usually she felt a thrill being here, but right now her mind was on failed operations—and their costs.
Hudson Canon had told her to spend the night thinking about Tucker Andersen and the Library of Gold mission, but she would have anyway. She had tossed and turned and stalked the floor until daybreak.
Worried, she stepped into the suite of Matthew Kelley, chief of the Clandestine Service.
His secretary looked up from her desk. “He’s expecting you.”
When Gloria tapped on the door, a strong voice answered, “Come in.”
As she walked into his spacious room of books, family photographs, and framed CIA awards, Matt rose from behind his expansive desk, smiling. A tall man with a warm, lined face, he had looked like the perfect spy in his day, non-descript, dowdy, almost invisible. Now slightly more public, he was able to show his taste. Today he was dressed in a sleek tailored suit and a cuffed white shirt. With his angular face and the hint of predatoriness he once relied upon, he looked as if he had just stepped off the fashion page of a men’s magazine.
They shook hands. “Good to see you, Gloria. It’s been a while. How’s Ted?”
He gestured, and they sat at the coffee table in the distant end of his office. He chose a leather armchair, and she took the sofa.
They exchanged family information for only a minute, then Matt got down to business. “You’ve got a situation. What is it?”
“Did you close down the Library of Gold operation?” she asked.
“Yes. Tucker’s got a burr under his saddle, that’s all.”
“Would Hudson ordinarily have brought you in on the decision?”
“Of course not. But it was a pet project of Cathy’s, and he wanted to make certain I’d be on board.” He frowned. “Your point?”
“What would you say if I told you I’m beginning to think Cathy’s car accident was no accident?”
Matt went rigid. “Fill me in.”
For the next half hour Gloria described the events she knew about or had learned earlier this morning by going through Tucker’s and Cathy’s e-mails and notes. “After Tucker left Catapult, I got a call from him. He’d just captured a janitor at Capitol City market. While I collected the janitor, Tucker left to join Ryder and Blake in Athens.”
“You believe Hudson alerted someone. That’s why the janitor was there to do a wet job on Tucker.”
“Yes.”
Matt thought about it.“It’s flimsy evidence against Hudson at best. Janitors could’ve been taking turns, waiting outside Catapult for days for Tucker to appear.”
“But how did the book club people find Ryder and Blake in Istanbul? Tucker believed the only explanation was someone inside Catapult told them. The one person who knew was Hudson Canon.”
“That damns Hudson—but only if Tucker is right.” Matt changed the subject. “That’s a hell of a thing to do, Gloria. Christ. Sticking the janitor down in the basement on your own authority.”
She lifted her chin. “We’ve got a mole inside Catapult. The operation has to be protected. The guy’s fine. I’ve got his hands and legs cuffed to a heavy chair. He gets three squares a day, better than a lot of people in the world.”
“A desk job hasn’t changed you a damn bit.” He sighed. “All right, I want the janitor.” He picked up the phone on the coffee table, then glanced at her. “I’m going to have to tell Hudson. He could still be innocent.”
Her throat tightened. “‘Flimsy evidence.’ I understand.”
He dialed. “Hello, Hudson. This is Matt. Gloria’s sitting with me in my office. She tells me she’s got a two-legged source secured in Catapult’s cellar.” He moved the phone from his ear, and Gloria heard a stream of loud oaths. Then he continued. “We’ll worry about disciplining her later. The man’s a janitor. Tucker was his target. We need to question him. Have two of your people bring him to Langley. I want him here immediately.”
“Tell him I left the keys to the basement on my desk,” Gloria said.
Matt sighed and said into the phone, “The keys are on her desk. We should talk. I want you to come with them. I’ll be in my office.”
“We need to help Tucker,” Gloria said as soon as he had ended the connection. “I checked with Catapult’s com center and found out Blake, Ryder, and he have been looking into a privately owned Aegean island. My guess is that that’s where the Library of Gold is hidden, which means they’re going to be heading for it soon. Maybe they’re already on t
heir way. Judging by all the deaths so far, it’s going to be a very dangerous insertion. But we’ve got a naval base on Crete. We could send fast-rope teams from there.” She peered at her watch. It was nearly six P.M. in Greece.
But Matt was not going to be hurried. “You could be right. Still, first things first—Hudson and the janitor. If Hudson is the mole, then he’s got a handler. The handler could have the information we need. Look at it this way: Maybe Tucker isn’t planning to go to the island. Maybe it’s the wrong island, or something might’ve happened to change his mind altogether. Do you have a way to reach him?”
She shook her head anxiously. “I’m hoping the janitor or Hudson knows more than I do. If not, unless Tucker decides to risk phoning or e-mailing me, he and the others are hanging in the wind.”
“I’m sorry about that. But there’s no way I’m invading a private island in Greece’s territory unless I’ve got something concrete to go on. The last thing Langley needs is an international incident. We’ll just have to trust Tucker’s good sense—and his luck.”
Washington, D.C.
Hudson Canon could hardly breathe. He turned away from his desk, leaned over, and pounded a fist into his palm. Gritting his teeth, he threw his head back and kept pounding. Eventually the fear eased. Sitting upright, he took long, deep breaths.
Then he phoned Reinhardt Gruen. “We’ve got a problem.” He described the phone call from Matt Kelley at Langley. “What does your janitor know?” Then, demanding: “Does he know about me?”
There was a long pause. With relief he heard a soothing calmness in Gruen’s voice: “It is not the end of the world, my friend,” the German told him. “The assassin was hired anonymously. He has no way to track either us or you. Do as your chief says. Go with the janitor and your people to Langley and act like the great spy chief you are. You are safe.”
Isle of Pericles
Furious about the botched handling of the situation in Washington, Reinhardt Gruen snapped out a hand with his cell phone. The Isle of Pericles attendant instantly took it and replaced it with a thick towel. Drying himself, Gruen stalked away from the swimming pool.
“Giving up so soon?” Brian Collum challenged from behind. “One more race. What do you say, Reinhardt? Come on, man. Come on!”
Damn Americans, Gruen muttered under his breath.“Hold onto your trunks. I will return.”
He found Martin Chapman sitting behind his desk in his office, surrounded by pedestals on which stood classic marble statues he had collected in Greece. Lined up before him were the library’s four translators, two men and two women, dressed in tuxedos to help serve at the banquet. All scholars, they were graying and had the hunched shoulders of those who spent long hours poring over books. Their expertise was critical to the book club’s ability to use and enjoy the library, and as such, each was treated with a certain amount of deference. That was even more true of the librarians—unless their loyalty was in question.
Gruen put a smile on his face. “I see you are plotting with our great translators, Martin. Are you by any chance finished? I would like to have a word with you.”
Chapman laid two sheets of paper on his desk, then placed a hand possessively on them. “Yes, they’ve just finished a job for me, and they’ve given me a good report. The library’s records are already on the boat. As soon as the banquet is over, they’ll pack their personal things. They’ll be ready to go at daybreak.”
“Good, good.” Gruen stepped aside to let the translators leave. When the door closed, he scowled. “I just received a call from Hudson Canon in Washington.” He fell into a leather chair. “The janitor Preston sent is locked up at Catapult and will soon be on his way to Langley. Canon has been ordered to go with them. I told him he had no exposure and calmed him down. What is the truth?”
Chapman grimaced. “The janitor knows Preston hired him. Goddammit all to hell. When will this end!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “We’ll handle Andersen, Ryder, and Blake if they manage to reach the island. But we can’t let either the janitor or Canon get to Langley.” He snatched the phone from his desk and punched in numbers. “Preston, I need you. Now!”
Washington, D.C.
The morning traffic was thick as Michael Hawthorne drove Catapult’s only armored van out of the city and onto the bridge across the Potomac. Hudson Canon sat beside him, arms crossed, fighting nerves as he planned what he would say to Matt. In the rear seat was the shackled janitor, while next to him Brandon Ohr kept guard with an assault rifle. The two young covert officers had been happy to get away from their desks at Catapult even for such a small assignment.
“I heard Debi has a new boyfriend,” Michael was saying.
“She ever level that killer gaze on you?” Brandon said. “My God, that woman has balls.”
“Agreed. What a turn-on—” He stopped. “Do you see what I see?” He stared into his rearview mirror.
“I’ve been watching it. A black Volvo, heavy as a tank. It’s just closed in. Pull out.” Ohr spoke in the usual neutral tones of the professional spy when facing potential trouble.
Canon’s head spun around and he peered through the back window. The Volvo was right behind, its front bumper only ten feet distant. On one side of them was speeding traffic, while on the other the guardrail rushed past—and far below was the fast-moving Potomac River.
Without activating his turn signal, Hawthorne gave a sharp yank to the steering wheel, driving the van away and into the safety of the inner lane.
But suddenly a loud horn gave a long blast. A behemoth truck was rushing up on them, preparing to pass, its big cab high above. Instantly, Hawthorne accelerated, pushing their van into the open space ahead, catching up with the red pickup that had preceded them onto the bridge. Canon saw if they could get clear, Hawthorne could move the van into the inner lane and outrun the big truck.
But almost instantly red taillights flashed and held. The pickup was slowing. And the truck was keeping pace, while the Volvo was locked on their tail.
As Ohr lowered his window and raised his assault rifle, Canon snapped to Hawthorne: “They’ve got us trapped. I don’t care what you do, but get us out of here!”
Before Hawthorne could respond, the big cab of the truck slammed into the van’s side. The van yawed. Canon was thrown against his seat belt, then deep into the hard seat. Gripping his windowsill with one hand, Ohr let out a long blast from the assault rifle, ripping through the passenger door of the towering truck cab. Immediately Hawthorne floored the gas pedal and rammed the rear of the pickup.
Too late. The cab smashed again into their van and held. Hawthorne fought the steering wheel, trying to push back. But by inches, then by feet, the van was pushed to the side. Canon’s throat went dry as he peered over into the water.
There was the screech of metal against metal as the van crashed along the guardrail. Sparks exploded past his window. The truck nudged the van one last time, and suddenly they smashed through the rail and sailed off into the air. Canon’s heart thundered. He screamed, and the van dove headfirst into the Potomac.
66
The Isle of Pericles
Drenched in moonlight, the Library of Gold’s private island rose suddenly from the dark sea, its high craggy ridges pale, its deep valleys eerily shadowed. Judd was studying it from the window of the Cessna Super Cargomaster piloted by Tucker’s friend Haris Naxos. Night lights off, the craft was circling and would soon climb to jump altitude: ten thousand feet.
Time had run out, and they were going in without backup. All were hyper alert and not talking about the danger.
“There’s the orange grove and the landing spot we picked,” Eva said.
Eva and Judd were sitting together in seats that stretched along the cargo bin’s side walls. Like Tucker, who was in the copilot’s seat, they wore black jumpsuits and helmets. Infrared goggles dangled from their necks, and black grease covered their faces. They had come prepared not only with their pistols, which were holstered to their waist
s, but Judd and Tucker had grenades and mini Uzis lashed to their legs. Tucker wore a parachute pack on his back, while Judd had a larger one, holding a bigger canopy that would support both his and Eva’s weight. The two men had additional packs containing supplies. Eva carried nothing on her back, since she would be strapped to Judd.
Judd nodded. “Yes, it should work well.” He was loaded with painkillers and feeling only a dull ache in his side.
They had been observing the headlights of Jeeps roaming over the island, looking for patterns. One had driven past the orange grove. Now, a half hour later, another passed.
“How’s the air clarity seem to you, Haris?” Tucker asked as the plane climbed.
“It is no change. Looks good for you to land.” Haris Naxos was gray-haired, angular, and tough-looking; he still did occasional contract work. “You are no spring rooster, Tucker. Night jumping is dangerous. Be careful.”
“I know. There are old jumpers and bold jumpers, but there are no old, bold jumpers.”
Haris laughed, but no one else did. As usual Judd was planning what he would do if the chutes did not deploy, the lines became tangled, all the myriad events that could go wrong.
After a while, Haris asked, “You remember everything I told you, Eva?” He had given her a half hour of instructions and walked her through a video of tandem skydiving, at his hangar in the Athens airport. He owned a parachuting and plane rental business.
“There’s no way I’m going to forget anything.” A fleck of nervousness was in her voice.
“Excellent. Then I make the announcement—we are at jump altitude, and we are approaching the drop zone.”
Judd and Eva stood up in the plane. She turned around, and he snapped their straps together and tightened his, then hers until her back was secure against his chest. Her body was tense. Her rose-water scent filled his mind. Quickly he dismissed it.
“Okay?” he asked curtly.
“Okay.”
