Library of Gold

by Gayle Lynds

As they put on goggles, Tucker crawled into the rear cargo area. “I’ll open the door.”

  He was moving agilely, his expression focused. As Judd and Eva hung onto the ceiling straps, he unlocked the door, swung the handle, and pushed. Cold air blasted in.

  Turning on the visual altimeter that was secured inside his helmet, the reader in easy peripheral view, Judd positioned Eva so they were facing the cockpit. Their right sides were inches from the black void.

  “Go!” the pilot shouted.

  “Try to enjoy it, Eva,” Judd whispered.

  Before she could speak, he rolled them out of the plane. Abruptly they were in free fall, soaring at speeds in excess of a hundred sixty miles an hour, their arms and legs extended together like wings. The silky air enveloped him, and there was no sense of falling—air resistance gave a feeling of weight and direction. Checking their orientation over the island, he reveled in the exhilaration of complete freedom.

  “This is one of those rare moments when you know what it’s like to be a bird in flight,” he told her. “We can do anything a bird can do—except go back up.”

  As Tucker jumped out of the plane, Judd repositioned Eva until they were sitting in a ball in the air. He somersaulted her, then straightened her out again, rolling them onto their sides, their backs, and around again, spinning freely. He felt her tense more, and then she gave a joyful laugh.

  Returning them to a normal descent, he reached behind and threw out the drogue parachute, lines and small canopy black against the stars. All was well so far. The drogue slowed their free-fall speed from two people to that of a single skydiver. He saw Tucker was nodding, indicating his equipment was working properly, too.

  At twenty-five hundred feet, Judd pulled a toggle, and the deployment bag fell out and released the main canopy—a black ram-air parachute. It caught the wind and spread out into the shape of a large cupped wedge. There were a few seconds of intense deceleration, and then they were skydiving at about twelve miles an hour. He studied the area beneath them. Noted the forest of citrus trees, the open space of weeds and boulders awash in shades of green through his infrared goggles, and the long ravine to the south. A Jeep was just passing the trees, so they had about a half hour until the next one arrived. Their biggest immediate risk was broken ankles, assuming they missed the trees and boulders.

  As they continued to soar horizontally, lower and lower, he tugged on the lines, directing their flight. So far no more headlights showed near the drop zone.

  At one hundred feet, he felt a huge downdraft, and it seemed as if they were heading into a black-green hole. Again Eva tensed. He drew on the lines, controlling their direction and silently gliding, gliding. Satisfied, he used his body to push Eva upright and his knees to angle her knees into a crouch. They swept between tall boulders and landed hard, stumbling to a stop just before they reached the road that skirted the trees. He could feel her heaving for air.

  “You did it.” He unsnapped the straps that joined them. “Good job. Now let’s get the hell out of the way.”

  He released the drogue and ram-air chutes, and they hurried off. As they gathered the canopies, Tucker slid in low. He yanked his lines, barely missing a shoulder-high boulder. Knees bent, he landed and staggered, finally catching his balance.

  Standing stationary, he lifted his head. “Screw you, Haris. This old rooster still has a hell of a lot of life left in him.” Then he smiled and collected his chutes.

  “Everything went right,” Eva said excitedly. “The parachutes opened. No one broke a leg. I could get used to this.”

  Then a bird called from the trees. There was rustling in the grove—fast movement.

  “Shit.” Judd pulled out his Beretta. “They were waiting for us. Run!”

  Weapons in hands, they tore south across the hard earth toward the ravine. Judd glanced behind and saw six men dressed in black swarming out of the trees, aiming M4 assault rifles. They had night-vision goggles. Shooting as they ran, the men poured out fusillades of rounds. The bullets whined and bit into earth and rocks. Tucker grunted. A round clipped Judd’s ear. All three fell flat. Judd pointed, and Eva scuttled into the shelter of a tall rock formation. Judd and Tucker followed.

  From the southwest, a Jeep’s headlights came to life, and the vehicle rushed along the road toward them. The air reverberated with the noise of feet pounding and the engine’s growl.

  “Christ,” Tucker grumbled. “I hate being ambushed.”

  “Are you hit?” Judd gazed at Tucker, then checked Eva’s blackened face, saw the tightness of her mouth. She seemed all right.

  Tucker shook his head. “I’m fine. That’s a cute cut on your ear, Judd. Glad they didn’t take your brains. The ravine isn’t far. Eva, we’ll cover you. As soon as we start shooting, stay low and run like hell. Can you do that?”

  “Of course.” She crouched.

  The two men took either side of the rocky mound. Judd peered at Tucker. He nodded. They edged out, firing automatic bursts from their Uzis.

  As the ear-bleeding gunfire continued behind her, Eva reached the ravine and dropped quickly at the edge, legs dangling over. From the NSA photos, they had calculated it averaged ten feet deep. It led around and down toward the compound. The shadows were a thick green. Only the top of her side of the nearly vertical slope was slightly illuminated, showing raw dirt, weeds, and rocks. Gripping her S&W in both hands the way Judd had showed her, in seconds she was plummeting down on her back into the abyss.

  But as she slid deep into the green darkness her gaze was attracted to a boulder across from her at the bottom. Then she saw a small movement there, an arm. A man was squatting to make himself small. Fear started to take over her mind. She repressed it and aimed her pistol. Suddenly there was movement to her right. And she swung the gun, a mistake she realized instantly. A foot slashed through the air. Her pistol flew, and two very strong men were on her.

  The jeep was just a thousand feet away. Judd saw one man in it, driving. For some reason the man stopped the vehicle, engine still running, and leaned across and opened the passenger door.

  Eva had deployed safely, so Judd gestured at Tucker. Tucker grimaced and looked as if he were going to argue. Then he leaped up and ran.

  Judd leaned out again and shot three bursts. They had managed to take down one man, and the others were lying flat, shooting whenever they thought they had a target and sometimes when they did not.

  Before the guards had time to return fire, Judd sprinted, and Tucker vanished down the ravine. Judd did not look, just jumped and let his heels act as inefficient brakes as he slipped and careened down the steep incline into heavy green soup.

  Tucker’s head was rotating. “Where is she?”

  “Eva,” Judd called in a low voice.

  There was no answer, but there was a yell from above.

  “They’re coming,” Tucker said. “Let’s move.”

  “Not without Eva. Eva!” Judd shouted.

  “Dammit, son. They’ve probably got her. She’d be waiting otherwise. Maybe that’s why the Jeep stopped with its door open—to pick up her and whoever captured her. You’re not going to do her any good if you get caught or killed. Move.”

  Judd said nothing. Instead he turned to go down the ravine to the Jeep. To Eva.

  But Tucker slammed the back of his helmet. “Dammit, Judson. The other direction.”

  Judd shook his head to clear it, then ripped off the helmet. They ran southeast, toward the compound. Tucker pulled off his helmet, and both replenished their ammo. The ravine was uneven, filled with rocks slowing their progress.

  “This isn’t working,” Judd said, listening to the noise of the feet running along the top of the ravine, overtaking them. “We need to get rid of the bastards. You go. I’ll handle them.”

  From a trouser loop, he unhooked a frag grenade and held it in his right hand. Tucker saw it and accelerated, while Judd slid low into the deep shadows on the ravine’s north side.

  He waited motionless as the
guards approached.

  “They’re heading to the house,” a confident bass voice said.

  Radio or walkie-talkie, Judd thought.

  “Sure,” the man continued. “No problem. We’ll get them.”

  They were almost above him. Judd inhaled, exhaled, pulled the safety pin with his left hand, rolled the grenade over the crest, and sprinted, his boots hitting rocks so fast his speed kept him upright. White light flashed. The explosion thundered. As dirt rained down, he caught up with Tucker, who had hiked himself up the side and was peering back.

  “No one’s upright,” Tucker reported. “They’ve got to have some serious injuries. That’ll keep them busy.”

  They jogged off, but Judd saw Tucker was tiring. Judd slowed them to a fast walk and took out the reader that followed the tracker in Eva’s ankle bracelet.

  “She’s in the compound already. Looks as if she’s a couple of levels down under the main house.” He gazed at Tucker. “Did you see any Jeeps anywhere near us?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping we could grab one. Okay, Plan B. When we get closer to the compound, I’ve got an idea how to get us inside.”

  “It’d better be a damn good one,” Tucker said. “They sure as hell are going to be ready for us.”

  67

  The book club was about to start the third course. In their tailored tuxedos, with pistols holstered underneath, the men lounged around the great oval table in the spacious Library of Gold, firm in their knowledge the intruders would be killed if not by the guards, then certainly by them.

  As they talked, their gazes kept returning to the magnificent illuminated manuscripts that blanketed the walls from marble floor to cove ceiling. Row after row of gold covers faced out, their hand-hammered faces reverberating with light that echoed from wall to wall and across the table like visual music. From dark, rich colors to soft pastels, the jewels and gems glittered and beckoned. The entire room seemed cast in a magical glow. Being here was always a visceral experience, and Martin Chapman sighed with contentment.

  “Gentlemen, you have before you two exquisite Montrachet dry white wines,” the sommelier explained in a thick French accent. “One is Domaine Leflaive, and the other Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. You will be possessed by their thrill factor—the hallmark of splendor in wine.” A muscular man with the usual snooty expression of a top wine steward, he disappeared back against the books near the door, where his bureau of wine bottles stood.

  Chapman was enjoying himself, absorbing the library’s intoxicating blend of physicality, knowledge, history, and privilege. As the tall candles flickered, he cut into his Maine lobster with grilled portobello mushrooms and fig sauce and chewed slowly, savoring the ambrosial flavors. Taking a mouthful of one of the whites, he held it against his palate. With a rush of pleasure, he swallowed.

  “I disagree,” Thomas Randklev was saying. “Take Freud—he told his doctor collecting old objects, including books, was for him an addiction second in intensity only to nicotine.”

  “There’s another side to it,” Brian Collum said. “We’re the only species capable of contemplating our own deaths, so of course we need something larger than ourselves to make the knowledge tolerable. As Freud would say, it’s the price for our highly developed frontal lobes—and the glue that holds us together.”

  “I’m glad it’s not just about money.” Petr Klok grinned.

  Laughter echoed from around the table.

  The truth was, Chapman thought to himself, all of them had started as great readers, and if life had been otherwise, each would perhaps have taken a different path. For himself, he had accomplished far more than he had ever dreamed as a boy.

  “I have one for you,” Carl Lindström challenged. “‘When you give someone a book, you don’t give him just paper, ink, and glue, you give him the possibility of a whole new life.’ Who wrote that?”

  “Christopher Morley,” Maurice Dresser said instantly.“And John Hill Burton argued that a great library couldn’t be constructed; it was the growth of ages. As the Library of Gold is”—the seventy-five-year-old pointed at himself—“and I am.”

  The group chuckled, and Chapman felt his pager vibrate against his chest. He checked—Preston. Annoyed, he excused himself as the conversation moved on to assessing the two ethereal white burgundies. As he left, the sommelier was called over to join the debate.

  Chapman entered the first of the two elevators. It rose silently, a solid capsule, but then, all of the underground stories were atomic bomb-hardened bunkers. On the highest belowground floor, he stepped out into the porcelain, steel, and granite of the kitchen. A hallway extended beyond it, where doors opened onto offices and storage. Farther was the enormous garage.

  Gazing around, he inhaled the mouthwatering aromas of searing medallions of springbok, gazelle from South Africa. The chefs de cuisine, in their tall white hats, were barking orders in French as they prepared the course. The sous-chefs, chefs de partie, and waiters chosen from the library staff scurried.

  Preston had a harried expression as he turned from the kitchen and met Chapman at the elevator.

  “You need to talk to them, sir,” Preston said.

  “Are they still in my office?”

  “Yes. Three men are watching them.”

  As they rode the elevator down to the third level, he asked, “What’s the latest with Ryder and Andersen?” Chapman knew they had killed two of the guards and badly injured four. Preston had sent out additional men on foot to find them.

  “I’ve increased the security around the compound. Everyone’s on high alert.”

  “They’d damn well better be.”

  The elevator door opened, and they walked out into the sitting area where the staff gathered for informal meetings. As expected it was deserted, since everyone was working. The doors along the hall were for offices, while the last one enclosed a gym with the latest cardio and Pilates equipment.

  Preston pushed open the door to Chapman’s office and stepped back.

  Chapman marched past toward a frozen tableau of defiance. Motionless and angry, Eva Blake and Yitzhak Law were roped to chairs, their hands tied behind them. Blake was still in her skydiving jumpsuit, her face blackened. Neither seemed to recognize him, but then, it was doubtful they would know his world.

  He ignored the guards and pulled up a chair in front of Blake and Law. “I’ll make this easy. I’ve had the translators draw up a list of potential sources for the questions the book club will be asking during our tournament tonight. Since we have texts in the library that have been lost for centuries, there’s no way you’d know their contents. Others you’ll know already of course. Your job is to try to figure out the correct book for each question. You’ll be given a chart showing where all of the illuminated manuscripts are shelved, and a few descriptive sentences about each. If you get all of the book club’s questions correct, I’ll let you live. That’s called incentive.”

  They glanced at each other, then returned stony gazes to him.

  Chapman looked back at Preston. “Bring in Cavaletti.” He sank back in his chair, furious about the dinner he was missing.

  In seconds Roberto Cavaletti was shoved into the room. “Yitzhak, Eva,” he said. The small man was disheveled, his bearded face drawn.

  Before anyone could say more, Chapman ordered, “Hit him, Preston.”

  As Law and Blake shouted and pulled against their ropes, Cavaletti cringed, and Preston rabbit-punched his cheek, connecting with a solid thump.

  Cavaletti grabbed his face with a trembling hand, staggered, and fell to his knees.

  “You bastard!” Blake yelled.

  The professor’s face paled. “You’re monsters.”

  “Rethink this,” Chapman snapped. “There are two of you. Together you have a much better chance of winning tonight than one of you would alone. If you won’t do it for yourselves, do it for your friend Roberto here.”

  A large welt was rising on Cavaletti’s l
eft cheek.

  Yitzhak Law stared. “All right, but only on condition you leave Roberto alone. No more injuries.”

  “No, Yitzhak,” Roberto said. “No, no. Whatever they want, you will not stop the inevitable.”

  Blake glared at Chapman. “Very well. I agree, too. Do we have your guarantee you’ll let all of us go if we win?”

  “Of course,” Chapman said easily. “Kardasian, see both are cleaned up and presentable.” He stood and walked out.

  Preston caught up with him in the sitting room. “I’ll keep you apprised of the situation with Ryder and Andersen.”

  Chapman nodded, his mind already back at the dinner. Just then they heard one of the elevator doors close. They hurried and saw it had stopped at the lowest level, number four—the Library of Gold. Immediately they stepped into the other elevator, and Preston punched the button.

  “Who in hell could it be?” Preston’s expression was grim.

  The elevator door opened onto an elegant anteroom. Straight ahead was an arched portal that led to offices along the windowed exterior corridor. Instead they sprinted left, and Preston opened a carved wood door onto the library and tonight’s banquet.

  The sommelier was walking toward his bureau, his broad tuxedoed back to them. At the sound of the door, he turned. They saw he was carrying two bottles of red wine—unopened.

  Preston made a curt gesture, and the sommelier approached. Although as arrogant appearing as before, the man’s eyes hinted at guilt. He held up the bottles as if they were a shield.

  “What were you doing on the third floor?” Preston demanded.

  “I am very sorry, sir. I found I must go to the kitchen for more wine. You gentlemen are more appreciative than I had expected. I was rushing to return and touched the wrong button in the elevator. Of course, I did not leave the elevator until here.”

  Chapman felt Preston relax.

  “Resume your duties,” Chapman said.

  The sommelier bowed low and left. Chapman hurried to his dinner.

  68