Library of Gold

by Gayle Lynds

  “Goddammit.” Another stared at his gun hand. It was shaking uncontrollably.

  Two more struggled to stay upright, and then all three collapsed.

  “The brandy—it must’ve been poisoned,” the youngest said to Chapman.

  He and Chapman were the last standing. They swung their pistols toward the sommelier.

  With the hand that had been gripping his heart, the sommelier whipped out a 9 mm Walther. In one smooth motion, he fired twice. One bullet struck the younger man in the head, and the other shattered Chapman’s gun hand.

  Reeling, Chapman grabbed up the M4 with the other hand.

  At the same time, Preston shoved Eva aside and was running along the wall of books, aiming at the sommelier. Before the sommelier could swing around to fire, Preston squeezed off a shot that sliced across the top of the somme-lier’s shoulder. From across the room Judd released three explosive bursts into Preston’s chest.

  Preston froze. Fury crossed his aristocratic features as he looked down at the blood spreading across his heart. He took two more steps. “You don’t know what you’re doing. The books must be protected—” He pitched over onto his face, arms limp at his sides. His fingers unfurled, and his gun fell with a metallic clunk onto the marble floor.

  Ignoring Chapman, the sommelier ran to Preston and grabbed the pistol. “Nice shot, Judd. Thanks.” As blood dripped down his jacket, he felt for Preston’s carotid artery.

  “Damn you all to hell!” Martin Chapman trained the M4 on Judd, his finger white on the trigger.

  Judd aimed.

  “No!” the sommelier shouted from where he crouched. “We need Chapman alive!”

  No one moved. Chapman scowled, his weapon pointed at Judd, Judd’s pointed at him. The room seemed to reverberate with tension.

  Then Chapman’s face smoothed. A twinkle appeared in his eyes, and warmth infused his voice. “You should know, Judd, that your father had always hoped you’d join our book club.” With his bloody free hand he gestured grandly at the towering expanse of jeweled books. “These can be yours, too. Think of the history, of the trust your father and I inherited. It’s sacred. With Brian dead, we’re shy three members now. Join us. It would’ve pleased Jonathan a great deal.”

  Behind Chapman, Eva had been watching. Judd kept his eyes apparently locked on Chapman, while noting she was taking off her shoes.

  “Sacred?” he retorted. “What you have here isn’t a trust. It’s God-awful selfishness.”

  Eva sprinted in stocking feet across the marble floor, her black hair flying, her eyes narrowed. She threw herself forward onto her belly and slid silently under the banquet table.

  Chapman gave Judd a wry smile, “As John Dryden said, ‘Secrets are edged tools and must be kept from children and fools.’ You were raised to appreciate the priceless value of this remarkable library. No one can take care of it—cherish it—better than we can. You have a responsibility to help us—”

  Hunching up, Eva threw her shoulders into the backs of his knees. He reeled, then crashed forward with a grunt, landing hard. His M4 spun away. He swore loudly and scrambled toward it.

  But Eva scooped it up and rolled, and Judd, Tucker, and the sommelier converged. The four stood over Chapman, pointing their weapons.

  Face flushed, he clasped his good hand over his bloody hand against his ruffled white shirt and peered around at his downed companions then back over his shoulder at the dead Preston. Finally he glared up, deep fury and a strange hurt in his eyes.

  “Who are you?” he demanded from the sommelier.

  “Call me Domino,” the sommelier said in a husky voice. He had a wide face and a stocky figure. “The Carnivore sends his regards. My orders are to remind you that you were warned about his rules. Then I’m supposed to scrub you.”

  “I’m not dead yet, you asshole. What did you do to them?”

  “Gamma hydroxy butyrate, GHB. Tasteless, odorless, and colorless. A date-rape drug. In the brandy, of course, poured from the ‘new’ bottle. They’ll wake up in a few hours with very bad headaches. I heard you talking. Tell us what’s going to happen in Khost, Afghanistan.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Judd had no idea what Domino meant, but he came from the Carnivore, and that was enough reason for him. All four weapons moved slightly, training on Chapman’s head.

  “Tell us!” Judd said.

  Chapman stared around at the guns. “And if I do?”

  “Maybe you get to live, you lucky SOB,” Judd said. “But if we have to kill you now, that’s all right, too. Your friends will wake up, and one of them will talk.”

  Chapman blinked slowly. Then he sat up and told a tale of a forgotten diamond mine in Afghanistan and the warlord who was going to eliminate Taliban fighters so the army base would be closed and Chapman could buy the land.

  “It’s too late to do anything about it,” Chapman finished. “The action is going on right now. Besides, it ultimately benefits all of us. Actually, the world. You don’t want to stop it.”

  “You goddamned fool!” Tucker exploded. “You think you can trust a warlord to do anything he promises? He’s going to do only what he thinks is in his best interest. There could be a dozen different scenarios, and none of them we’d like. Worse than that, the United States maintains those secret bases because Kabul needs us to. This could bring down the government and start another bloody war.” He looked around the room. “Where’s a satellite phone?”

  As Domino handed one to him, the door thudded. All looked at the only entrance to the library. The guards must have finally broken through to the anteroom and were preparing to blast their way into the library. New worry filled the room.

  “They may have something with more kick than M4s,” Judd said, listening.

  Tucker nodded and punched numbers on the phone’s keypad, while they stood silently, trapped.

  74

  Khost Province, Afghanistan

  The cold chill of the Khost night was getting to Sam Daradar as he stood at the open window of the guard tower with privates Abe Meyer and Diego Castillo. He inspected the headlights of the Humvees approaching, one behind the other, in the far distance. They looked alone and exposed out there in the black night.

  “Any sign of trouble?” Sam asked.

  “No, sir,” Meyer said. “Quiet as usual.”

  “Get them on the horn.”

  Meyer flicked on his radio. “Lieutenant, the captain wants to talk to you.”

  Sam Daradar punched the button on his radio. “Why are you late?”

  There was the sound of coughing from the Humvee. “Sorry, sir. I think I’m getting a cold. We did an extra recon around Smugglers’ Point. I had a hunch, so wanted to check it out, but there wasn’t anyone there or in the valley.” His voice was so thick it was almost unrecognizable.

  Silently Sam swore. The last thing he needed was illness sweeping through the base. “See anything anywhere else?”

  “No, sir. Quiet as a grave.” The man cleared his throat.

  “I want a full report when you get in.” Sam ended the connection. “I’m going out.”

  Climbing down from the tower, he passed sandbags piled against the wall. Nearby were the Sea Huts that housed the mess and the Tactical Operations Center, and farther were the Butler Huts where his soldiers bunked. The gate unlocked and opened enough for him to slide through.

  Hurrying through the light, he reached the darkness and slowed. Letting his eyes adjust, he stared around at the flat-lands that rose into hills and then at the high-peaked mountains. To his left was the town. He could barely make out the rough outlines of it. There were a few lights. Nothing unusual. Moonlight shimmered down on the shrubs and clumps of trees around the base. A wind had risen, sighing. He looked for movement, listened for sound, sniffed for odors. He was getting to be as much sixteenth century as the other inhabitants around here.

  Turning on his heel, he hurried back inside and up into the guard tower. As he took up his post at the wi
ndow again, he noticed movement coming from the direction of town. It was a vehicle of some kind, the moonlight illuminating a silvery surface. Strange that the headlamps were not alight.

  He put infrared binoculars to his eyes and stared. Dammit, it was Syed Ullah’s Toyota Land Cruiser. As he watched, it stopped, and three people climbed out—one was Ullah. They peered at the base and talked. Then one lifted something to his shoulder, aiming it. Sam stared hard. It looked like a movie camera. What in hell was going on?

  When the Humvees were about fifty yards from the base, he ordered the gates opened.

  The radio sounded. He picked it up, expecting the caller to be the lieutenant reporting he had sighted Ullah, too.

  Instead a stranger said, “Captain Daradar, I’m patching you in to Tucker Andersen, CIA. He has important information for you.”

  Instantly a strong voice announced, “This is Andersen. I’ve got a story to tell you. I’ll make it quick.”

  Sam listened with growing concern.

  When Andersen finished, Sam said, “There’ve been no attacks in town or at any of the huts in sight of here. I’ve got a patrol coming in now. I spoke to the lieutenant a while ago, and he said it was quiet in the boonies, too. But Ullah is in the dust bowl near here with two other people, and it looks as if they filmed the base. Maybe they’re the Pakistani news crew your informant told you about.”

  “You know Syed Ullah personally?”

  “As well as any outsider can.”

  “What’s he capable of?”

  There was no hesitation. “Anything.” Sam signed off and snapped to Private Meyer, “Sound the alarm. I want all troops at their stations, and the rest here. Close the gates as soon as the Humvees get inside.”

  As the alarm blared and orders were relayed over loudspeakers, Sam grabbed his assault rifle and ran down from the guard tower. He waited well behind it, out of view of the gate. The Humvees would stop on the hard-packed dirt in a well-lit area in front of him. Within seconds a lieutenant and a corporal were beside him.

  “What’s going on, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Don’t know yet.” Sam had a feeling he had the answer, but he did not like it. “Any of the men got viruses or colds?”

  The lieutenant and corporal shook their heads.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so. I could be wrong about this, but we can’t take any chances. I think Ullah’s men may be in those Humvees.” He told the lieutenant what he wanted him to do.

  As more soldiers arrived, the lieutenant directed half to stay with Sam and ran with the rest to the other side of the gate, where they would be out of sight, too.

  With a rumble, the Humvees rolled into the base. Sam peered around the edge of the guard tower to check on them. The gunners in the cupolas wore U.S. Army uniforms and helmets. They were dozing over their machine guns. He could not see their faces, and whoever was inside was unseeable, too, through darkened glass. But there were fresh bullet holes in the vehicles. The gates closed behind the Humvees with a clang.

  Sam signaled. And four hundred fully equipped, armored, and armed soldiers swarmed out so quickly, the gunners had time only to lift their heads before they were pulled from their turrets and their weapons torn away. It was an overpowering show of force, rows of assault rifles pointed at the Humvees from every possible angle.

  For a moment there was no movement. Then the doors opened, and more men in army uniforms stepped out, hands high above their heads, holding army-issue M4s. All were Afghans. U.S. soldiers ripped away the weapons and took the pistols from their belts.

  Sam looked up at the guard tower and shouted, “Is Ullah still out there?”

  Private Castillo leaned out. “Yes, sir. They filmed the Humvees entering the base, but the light on the camera’s off again now.”

  Sam pushed through his men to reach Ulla’s son Jasim, whose tall frame was spread-eagled against the first vehicle. His face was sullen. Sam reached up and grabbed a fistful of Jasim’s jacket and tightened it against his throat.

  “You want your father to die?” Sam threatened. Then he lied: “I’ve got a sharpshooter in the tower, and all I have to do is give the order and Syed Ullah is a donkey turd. Tell me what in hell is going on.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. Still he said nothing.

  Sam reminded him harshly he was Pashtun. “Your first duty is to protect your family.”

  In a halting voice Jasim relayed the details of the plan to invade the base and kill all of the soldiers.

  Sam hunched his shoulders in fury. He shook Jasim hard once and released him. He barked out an order to his men: “Find out where they left the bodies of our people, then lock him up. Let’s move out.”

  Sam roared out of the base in a Humvee. In other Humvees and running on foot, his soldiers spread in an arc over the flatlands. Ullah’s men rose from behind bushes, from holes in the ground, and from behind trees and hotfooted away across the austere landscape. Most would be captured, but not all. But Sam sure as hell was going to catch Ullah.

  There was the distant noise of an engine coming to life, and Ullah’s Land Cruiser turned in a big circle.

  Sam’s Humvee and two others lurched over the terrain at a far faster speed than the Land Cruiser, cutting it off as it turned onto the road that led into the hills and to Ullah’s villa.

  With a bullhorn, Sam blared out his open window, “Get out. Everyone get out! Now!”

  M4 in hand, he jumped out of his Humvee and met Ullah and the two others on the dirt road. He was joined instantly by his men, weapons raised.

  Ullah’s broad face showed surprise, interest, concern. “Captain Daradar, it is very late for you to be patrolling.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Ullah. There’s room in my Humvee for all of you. Your son is asking for you.”

  At the mention of Jasim, Ullah’s black eyebrows raised a fraction, then knitted. It was a small gesture, but from the Pashtun it was everything. With his son in custody, he was not only overwhelmed by force but cornered by the Pashtunwali code.

  “Give me your rifle,” Sam ordered.

  With a flourish, Ullah spun his AK-47, smiled winningly, and handed it over ceremoniously, butt first, the vanquished admitting defeat—for the moment.

  What Sam wanted to do was shoot the damn warlord and give the journalists the interview of their lives, but the Kabul government and Uncle Sam would not like that. “Get in. We’ll all go back to the base for some American tea.”

  75

  The Isle of Pericles

  There was a faint explosion, and the Library of Gold door buckled. The guards would be inside in minutes. Despite the high-powered ventilation system, the air in the room seemed to thicken. As Eva rose to her feet, and Tucker spoke to Khost, Judd saw something in Domino’s eyes.

  “What else?”

  Domino nodded and pressed his Walther against Chapman’s ear. “Give me your satellite phone.”

  Slowly Chapman reached inside his tuxedo jacket and removed the phone. “You’ll never leave here alive,” he said.

  Ignoring him, Domino snatched the phone. “I can’t do this, but you can, Judd. There’s a forward deployment on Crete standing by for rapid insertion. A woman named Gloria Feit is waiting for you or Tucker to call. I’m told she had no other way to get in touch with you and she wasn’t certain you’d need or want help.”

  As Tucker’s voice droned on the phone in the background, Eva raised her brows in surprise. “How do you know about Gloria Feit?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.” Domino handed the phone to Judd.

  “Archimedes!” Yitzhak had been walking along the wall. He pulled down a volume and opened it excitedly. “Good Lord, they have his complete collection.”

  Judd was already dialing out.

  Instantly Gloria answered. “Souda Bay’s been alerted,” she said into his ear. “Three Black Hawks with fully loaded fast-rope teams. They’ll take off in five minutes. Figure a half hour to get there. Maybe longer. Can you hold o
ut?”

  “We have to.” Judd ended the connection.

  As he filled them in, Tucker finished his call and listened.

  “Just a half hour is very long to wait,” Roberto said worriedly. “Perhaps your people will require more time to reach the island, and then of course we are down here. Very far underground.”

  Judd’s lungs tightened. Suddenly there was another explosion, this time louder. The door distended into the room, and tendrils of smoke curled toward them.

  “The table,” Tucker said curtly.

  Judd, Domino, and Tucker crashed it over onto its side. Glasses and candlesticks shattered against the floor. They spun the table around through the mess so it faced the door. The top was three inches of marble lying on four inches of wood, a decent shield.

  “Get behind,” Judd ordered. “Not you.” He yanked Chapman to his feet. “Eva, you’re in charge of Roberto and Yitzhak.”

  Roberto grabbed Yitzhak’s arm and pulled him away from the books and behind the table. Eva followed with Chapman’s M4, glancing over her shoulder at Judd. He looked into her eyes and nodded. She gave a tense smile and nodded in return.

  Suddenly Yitzhak rose above the table. “You must not harm the library!”

  “Not now, Yitzhak!” Eva pushed him down and crouched beside him.

  “You take that side of the door.” Domino gestured and ran. “I’ll hold the other.”

  Immediately Tucker sprinted. Like Domino, he positioned himself flat against the wall, weapon ready. Forcing Chapman to join Tucker, Judd unhooked a frag grenade from his belt.

  With a thunderous noise, the door to the library blasted open, landing on the marble and sliding across the room. Gray smoke billowed past them and curled back into the anteroom. As Judd pulled the pin and threw the grenade high into the anteroom’s smoke, gunfire instantly sounded, the bullets streaking blindly past them in fusillades, pounding into chairs, the table, and the books.

  “No!” Chapman bellowed, looking wildly back as golden covers exploded and volumes plummeted to the floor. He crashed an elbow into Judd’s side, trying to break free. “Hold your fire! This is Martin Chapman. I order you to hold your fire!”