by Gayle Lynds
Tucker and Judd sat in the deep shadow of a gnarled olive tree above the compound. As they cleaned their faces and hands and brushed their hair, they studied the buildings and the fifteen men patrolling in the illumination of the compound’s security lights. All had M4s and were watching the grounds and hills alertly.
“Wonder how many are in the main house,” Tucker said in a low voice.
“With luck, they won’t notice us with so many new guards. That’ll work to our advantage.”
“I like being the new guy. Fewer expectations for you.” Tucker inspected his Uzi, then his knife and wire garotte. “The rear door looks good.”
“My thought, too. You up for this?”
“Can you still ride a bicycle?”
“Like a son of a bitch,” Judd said.
They slung their Uzis onto their backs and slithered on their bellies down among the tall grasses and bushes of the slope. Small rocks cut into Tucker’s jumpsuit. After pausing several heart-stopping times when guards peered out onto the hillside, they reached the edge of the mesa and hid behind a row of manicured shrubs.
Waiting until the closest sentries were looking elsewhere, they ran behind the pool shed and crouched. Judd pointed to himself. Tucker nodded. He hated not being the one out front, but reality was reality—Judd was younger, stronger, and in better condition to take out the guard who would cross in front of the shed soon.
Listening to the sentry’s feet pad across the marble path, Tucker crab-walked after Judd to the shed’s far side. Judd inched forward, taking out a mirror with an attached bend-able arm. He extended the arm, watched the mirror, then tossed both to Tucker and stood, pulling out his garotte.
From his low position, Tucker saw one leg appear and then a second. Immediately Judd stepped close behind the guard and dropped the garotte around his neck, yanking. The man fell back. Strangled noises came from his throat as Judd pulled him around and into the shed’s shelter. Tucker ripped the sentry’s M4 away and slapped on plastic cuffs. The sentry gasped, seemed to try to yell. Frantically he punched back with elbows and feet, torquing his body.
Tucker used the mirror to check for more guards, then looked back. Judd’s grim face was frozen as he avoided the flailing blows. He lowered the man as he went limp.
They stripped him of his gear and clothes. While Judd put on the corpse’s black khakis and black microfiber turtle-neck, Tucker dressed the dead man in Judd’s jumpsuit and smeared black greasepaint on his face and the backs of his hands. Peering carefully around, Tucker dragged him to the edge of the compound and rolled him deep into grasses.
When he returned, Judd was dressed and outfitted with the guard’s radio, pistol, flashlight, and M4. He hooked on two grenades and checked the tracker to Eva’s ankle bracelet, then slid it into his pants pocket. He pointed toward the house, where another guard would be making rounds. Then he pointed to himself.
Tucker nodded.
Using the mirror, Judd timed his exit, then vanished.
Tucker hurried around the shed. Sitting on his heels, he watched as Judd sauntered up to the next target. Just as the guard frowned, Judd violently bashed his M4 up under his chin, crushing his throat. His head whiplashed, and blood appeared on his lips. As Tucker ran to join them, Judd caught the guard and let his limp body down to the ground silently.
Tucker checked the man’s carotid artery.
“Dead?” Judd whispered.
He nodded.
They surveyed around. No more sentries were in sight yet, and none showed on the other side of the rear door’s window. After they stripped the dead man, Tucker changed into his black turtleneck and pants, at least one size too big, and cinched the waist tight. Judd added the finishing touches to the dead body and dragged it off to conceal near the other corpse.
As he waited for Judd, Tucker checked the M4 and examined the radio—and sensed more than saw someone through the glass of the door. He put a composed look of greeting on his face and turned.
The door opened. “Why aren’t you patrolling?” The sentry was a straight tree trunk of a man, with a brush cut and a heavy jaw. A glimmer of doubt appeared in his eyes. “Who in hell are—”
Tucker slammed the butt of his M4 into the man’s gut. It was always a safer debilitating shot than one to the chin. As the man emptied his lungs and started to double over, Tucker crashed the butt back up into his windpipe. Blood erupted from his mouth and nose. Tucker grabbed him, then hauled him toward the slope behind the shed where the other bodies were.
“This is beginning to look like a party with a bad outcome,” Judd said.
Tucker rolled the man into the grass, watching as the tall fronds closed over him. “Let’s go get Eva.”
69
Khost Province, Afghanistan
It was past midnight, and Capt. Sam Daradar was walking alone, his M4 over his arm. He inhaled, smelling the sweet mountain night air. When he had first arrived here, it had stung his nose, but now he could not get enough of it. Sometimes he dreamed about moving to Afghanistan. Life here was intrinsic to the elements and made sense to him in a way no Western city or rural area ever had.
He looked up. Sparkling stars spread across the night sky. For some reason the sky felt too vast tonight. An unnamed uneasiness filled him. He studied the great expanse of slopes and mountains that hid remote villages difficult to reach with large bodies of conventional forces. He and many of his men had spent the day out there and in town, talking with people.
Tonight he had phoned command, reporting his concerns. But he had been able to point only to restless whisperings in the local marketplace and to the fact that Syed Ullah had actually appeared at the mosque for noon prayers—midweek—rather than saying them at home or on the trail as he usually did.
Sam turned back under the great tent of special camouflage netting and walked along the secret base’s eighteen-inch-thick stone walls. The austere base housed only five hundred soldiers, but they were well trained and experienced. He stopped at the gate. Peering up at the guard tower, he nodded and received a nod in return.
Shaking his head at his unnameable uneasiness, he slid inside the gates and walked onto the base. Two Humvees were still out, watching, patrolling. They were due back in an hour. Perhaps they would have something for him, something that might be meaningless to them but he would understand.
On his belly, Syed Ullah peered down the hillside. The two Humvees were speeding along a dirt road above a valley two ridges away from town. The headlights were bright cones against the night, making the vehicles easy to track. In the pines on the eastern slope above the road were his men, hiding and dressed in the American uniforms, with the American equipment. He and his son Jasim were positioned north, in an open area high enough to have an excellent moonlit view.
“I am not as certain as you that this will work.” Twenty-eight years old, Jasim had just returned from Peshawar and was dressed in American gear, too. He had the same large body as his father, and a thick black beard trimmed just enough so that it could bristle. Blessed with his mother’s fine features, his face was finally coarsening with age, soldiering, and the weather. He had been a beautiful child, and now he was a real man.
“What concerns you, my son?”
“There are more than twice our number on the military base.”
“Ah, but our men have what they do not—surprise. They are dressed like them, and they will wear the American helmets. Except for the ones on duty in the base, the Americans are asleep or playing with their video games. The only doubtful part is getting our people inside. And the answer to that we will know soon.” Without moving his gaze from the road, he explained what was about to happen.
As they watched, the armored Humvees entered the attack zone, the sound of their big engines reverberating across the quiet valley. In the turret on top of each sat a gunner in a sling surrounded by steel protective plates, his M240B machine gun stationary in his hands. The guns covered an almost 360-degree swath, but the plates did n
ot fit together. There were four open spaces of several inches at each corner.
Suddenly there were two explosions and fiery conflagrations in recently cut recesses in the trees. One was ahead of the Humvees, the other behind. From the recesses two cars in flames hurtled down toward the road. Smoke billowed out behind them, and sparks flew, igniting dry grasses. The Humvees were between the cars approaching the road, the sturdy pines above, and the cliff beneath.
The monstrous military vehicles slowed. The Americans would initially suspect this to be simple harassment, that the flaming cars would continue across the road and hurtle off the cliff. But Ullah’s men had piled walls of rocks on the road’s edge.
As the cars stopped, blocking the Humvees, machine-gun fire erupted from both gunners, strafing the trees and the road in hot fusillades. Tree trunks exploded; pine needles disintegrated. And finally there was silence. Slowly the Humvees’ doors opened. As the gunners stood watch above, their weapons looking for targets, the infidels jumped out, M4s in hands, heading for the burning vehicle in front of them.
At that moment gunfire from his two hundred Pashtuns erupted from behind the rocky wall and out of holes dug under the pine forest. It was so fast and blistering, the infidels exposed on the road got off only a few shots while the machine gunners in the turrets furiously returned fire. On the road, the infidels fell, yelling, moaning, and six of Ullah’s Pashtuns slid along the dirt, crawled up the sides of the Humvees, and rolled stun grenades through the open spaces into the turrets. Two loud bangs sounded. And then the only noise was of his converging men putting single gunshots into the heads of the infidels.
As they dragged the bodies into the pines, Ullah stood. They had pulled the unconscious machine-gunners from their cupolas and were killing them.
“Come.” He ran.
With a shout of joy, Jasim passed him.
“Praise Allah,” Ullah said as he arrived on the battlefield. He caught his breath. “How many of us have been killed or hurt?”
In his U.S. Army uniform, Hamid Qadeer stood straight to report. “Only fourteen.”
“Good, good.” The warlord walked around the Humvees, studying the vehicles. They were dirty and showed bullet holes, but that was nothing. The guards at the military base would pass them through, which was all he needed.
“I will join our men now.” Jasim stood at his side. His excitement had calmed, and he had the severe look of a true Pashtun warrior.
Pride filled Ullah. “Of course, my son.”
70
The Isle of Pericles
The banquet was finished, a complete success. As the plates were cleared and the sommelier poured brandy, the men stretched back in their chairs, sated, slightly intoxicated. Chapman related the latest report—Preston’s men had not yet found Ryder and Andersen.
“Frankly, I hope those damn people do get into the house and come down here,” Grandon Holmes announced. He patted the side of his chest where his pistol was holstered.
At no time in the history of the annual banquet had the members attended armed, but tonight was an unusual night. Despite the good humor, a thread of menace had grown among them. The island had been violated.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done active target practice.” Brian Collum gave a cold smile.
“On the other hand,” Maurice Dresser grumbled, “why in hell are we paying the guards astronomical sums if they don’t handle the job?”
“Maurice is right,” Petr Klok said. “Ryder and Andersen will never make it to the library.”
“Pity.” Carl Lindström sighed.
“I heard from Syed Ullah,” Chapman said, changing the subject. “His Pashtuns are uniformed, armed, and eager to go. We should have word in an hour or so.”
“Excellent,” Reinhardt Gruen said. “I did some checking about the village near the Khost military base. I was correct—the entire area is a hotbed of jihadist activity. Ullah is one hell of a tough warlord to have been able to control it. My thinking is he will use tonight’s strike to rid himself of local Taliban enemies—which means our enemies, too. Then the land will be ours. I’ve been dreaming about those diamonds. All in all, Marty, you’re looking very good. It will be a fine night. One for the record books.”
Arms crossed tightly over her chest, Eva paced, inspecting again the closet where they were being held. There was no furniture. The hinges to the heavy door had been installed on the outside, and two dead bolts sealed them in. An overhead fluorescent light was lit all the time, too high for them to reach, and the switch was in the corridor. The walls were solid concrete blocks. If there was a way to break out, she had not found it.
“You must accept it, Eva. We are trapped.” Gazing up at her, Roberto huddled in a corner. His eye was swollen shut, and his cheek was distended, a hot red.
“An accurate assessment of our condition,” Yitzhak said from where he sat close beside Roberto. “Still, it’s not the end of the world.”
“Yet.” Roberto sighed.
Yitzhak put heartiness into his voice. “For a man who worries about leaving our time zone, look how well you’re doing, Roberto.”
“I am heroic.” He gave a small smile and shook his head. Still, there had been a flash in his eyes that told Eva he had not given up completely.
“We’ll figure it out, Roberto,” she encouraged. “Do you think we need to go over the list one more time, Yitzhak?” On it were sixteen illuminated manuscripts, twice the number they would need to name. If the circumstances were different, they would have marveled at the many lost books, but their existence only added to their frustration, and the large number to their fears.
“I think not.” Yitzhak looked up, his bald head pasty in the overbright fluorescent light. “Together we know nearly half, and we’ll just have to make educated guesses about the rest.”
“I wish they would take me to the library with you,” Roberto said. “But it is obvious they will not.”
He was right—she and Yitzhak wore tuxedos Preston had given them, while Roberto was still in the rumpled shirt and pants he’d had on when captured.
“But there’s hope, Roberto,” she told him. “We’re still breathing.”
“It is a small hope, and I will treasure it.” He sighed.
There was the noise of dead bolts being slid opened, and the guard they had heard called Harold Kardasian appeared, pointing his assault rifle. He was sturdy, with thick brown hair streaked with gray.
“Time to go,” he announced.
Eva looked for some sign of help in his eyes, but saw only neutrality.
Both Roberto and Yitzhak stood up.
“Not you,” Kardasian ordered. “Only the professor and Dr. Blake.”
As Roberto slid back down the wall, they said good-bye to him.
Preston was waiting in the corridor, dressed in his black leather jacket and jeans, tall and looming, his features stony. He carried two thick bath towels.
“What are those for?” Eva asked instantly.
“That’s none of your concern. Move.”
They marched Eva and Yitzhak to the stairs beside the elevators and took them down one floor into an anteroom. For a moment Eva felt a frisson of excitement—they were going to see the Library of Gold. She sensed an electric current from Yitzhak and knew he was thinking the same thing.
One guard opened a massive carved door, and golden light appeared. Yitzhak took Eva’s arm, and they walked inside and stopped. For a few moments, her fear vanished. It was as if they were in a cocoon of timeless knowledge dressed in the earth’s most dazzling elements.
“Bewitching,” Yitzhak whispered.
They drank in the four walls of gold-covered books. The embedded gems sparkled in the pure air. For an instant it seemed to Eva that nothing else on the planet mattered.
“Don’t give me the cold tomb of a museum but the fire-breathing world of words and ideas,” Yitzhak said. “Give me a library. This library.”
The tall man who had ordered Preston t
o hit Roberto walked toward them. “Who said that, Professor?”
Yitzhak looked at him sharply. “I did.”
The man chuckled. “My name is Martin Chapman. Come with me. It’s time you met everyone.”
He motioned to the guards to leave. Preston closed the door and stood in front of it. They followed Chapman to a large oval table around which seven men sat, drinking from brandy glasses.
With a shock, Eva recognized Brian Collum—her attorney, her friend. Watching her, he had laughter on his long, handsome face. She glanced away, smoothed her features, and turned back.
“You look wonderful in a tux,” he told her.
“You bastard.”
“It’s good to see you, too. And in such an appropriate setting.”
She said nothing, fighting the fury that surged through her as she realized he must have been the one who entangled Charles with the Library of Gold. And he had sent her to prison, knowing she was innocent. As Chapman made formal introductions, she forced herself to be calm. Then she assessed the situation: Besides the eight members of the book club, only the sommelier and Preston were in the room. The bath towels still dangled from his hand. Puzzled, she tried to figure out what they meant.
“Does everyone understand the rules?” Chapman asked. When a chorus of yeses answered, he said, “Then the tournament begins. Petr, you’re first this year.”
“Socrates, 469 or 470 to 399 B.C.,” said a bearded man with stylishly clipped hair. “Of course he is credited as one of the founders of Western philosophy. What most people do not know is his utopian republic ruled by philosopher-kings also included glorification of the benefits of a caste system and a powerful argument for the right of armies to conquer and colonize. Hitler must have loved that. Your challenge is to find the illuminated manuscript in which Socrates is shown as a clown teaching his students to hoodwink their way out of debt.”
Eva cleared her throat. “There’s no such thing as a real history from Socrates’ time that dealt with him or Greece.” Hiding her nervousness, she looked at Yitzhak, but he shook his head. He did not know the answer. She had an idea, but it was a long time ago, not since college, that she had read it. “However, we do have plays and other writings. What I remember is ‘The Clouds,’ an old comedy by Aristophanes.”
