Library of Gold

by Gayle Lynds

  Judd and Tucker were waiting at a table in Five Guys Famous Burgers and Fries on the corner of Dumbarton Street. They sat across from each other, the older academic-looking man in his tortoiseshell glasses and the battered athlete in his sports jacket and turtleneck. She smiled as they spotted her.

  Motioning them to stay seated, she kissed each on the cheek. “You have my hamburger. Thanks, Tucker.”

  “You look good, Eva,” Judd said. “Rested.”

  “I feel rested.” She smiled as she sat between them.

  The men were already eating, so she dove into the hamburger and fries they had ordered for her. She had not seen Tucker since her return to the United States, and she had been with Judd only when they were being debriefed. His face still looked troubled occasionally. Not only had his father been killed, but he had discovered his deep involvement in the powerful and immoral book club.

  “How’s your mother, Judd?” Tucker was asking.

  “Much better. Busy again with her philanthropies. She doesn’t know the truth about Dad and the Library of Gold.”

  “No reason she should know,” Eva said quickly.

  Judd nodded. “What’s the latest with the book club, Tucker?”

  Tucker chewed a moment. “I can’t go into specifics, of course, but I can tell you the Justice Department has investigators working in the various countries in which the club members do business. The problem is, the members are effectively out of our control, even if we discover criminal activity—unless it’s in the United States or in a foreign country where the government is willing to cooperate.”

  Judd shook his head in disgust. Then he changed the subject. “Have we made peace with the Greeks?”

  Tucker chuckled. “H. L. Mencken wrote something to the effect that nations get along with one another not by telling the truth but by lying gracefully. We made a deal. In exchange for the Greeks’ forgetting we sent our paratroopers into their territory, we let them take credit for finding the Library of Gold.”

  “That explains the news stories. Charles would’ve been furious.” Eva laughed. Greece’s renowned government historian Nikos Amourgis had received the credit. “What’s going to happen to the library now?”

  Finished eating, Tucker pushed his plate away. “It’s vanished. The word is it will remain private.”

  “You don’t know where it is?” she asked, surprised. “The Greeks don’t?”

  “They ended their investigation on the island last month. The next week our flyovers told us it was gone. There are no buildings on the mesa now. The underground levels have been filled in, and a fruit orchard planted. Even the wharf’s been carted away. The bottom line is the island’s private, and the collection is privately owned, so they can do whatever they want. The library’s hardly a national security issue for us, so we won’t devote manpower to locating it again.”

  They were silent with disappointment.

  “What about the Carnivore?” Eva asked eagerly. “Did you track him down?”

  She knew Gloria had sent out word to all Catapult operatives, asking them or any of their sources who had contact with Tucker or Judd to tell them to phone her for help. That was how the Carnivore must have known to have them call Gloria while they were trapped in the Library of Gold. Then when the Carnivore escaped on the island, Tucker sent paratroopers out to look for him. They reported a small dark speedboat on the west side, taking off into the night. It was possible the Carnivore was on it, but they had needed the helicopters to transport the injured off the island and so had not pursued.

  Tucker shook his head. “No. I had Gloria send out another notice to our people after I got back, this time asking whoever had told the Carnivore about us to let us know. No one owned up to it. Frustrating as hell.”

  “You’ve got someone in Catapult who knows the Carnivore,” Judd said, “or can reach him somehow.”

  “Right. And no one’s talking.”

  “Still, his help was critical,” Eva said. “In fact, I think it’s safe to say he was instrumental in saving our lives.”

  “Yes, and I’m not going to hunt him,” Tucker said. “Bad things happen when one goes after the Carnivore, but that doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see much point to it, at least for now.”

  “Oddly, I’m glad,” Eva said.

  Tucker peered around the lively fast-food joint. Two middle-age men had arrived with their burgers and sat at the next table.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Tucker stood and led Judd and Eva out of the restaurant.

  As they walked down Wisconsin Avenue, Tucker, between them, glanced at one, then the other. “I know the Library of Gold operation was rough on you. You uncovered very unpleasant facts about people you loved. On the other hand, I’ve always believed illusions are overrated. Consider a great ballet. From the audience you see extraordinary dancers seemingly light as air, leaping, pirouetting, and generally moving like sylphs in ways most of us can only dream. But if you go backstage you find sweat, torn muscles, and mangled feet. Which is better?” Before they could respond, he went on: “My take is backstage. That’s where you learn what it takes to create something extraordinary. It shows the human spirit at its most indomitable. And the next time you sit in the audience the illusion is gone and you start to see that with effort all of us can achieve a sort of glory in our lives.”

  “Are you talking about Judd’s father and Charles?” Eva asked.

  “Yes. Both did despicable things, but they did good things as well. Remembering that will help you to live with the facts.”

  They were silent.

  At last Tucker said, “Judd, there’s work for you with me whenever you want. I know you’re reluctant now, but remember, I can use you. Ivan the Terrible was onto something when he commissioned The Book of Spies. Spies have a long if checkered past, and we’re still badly needed.”

  Judd shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Eva cleared her throat. “What about me?”

  The men stared at her.

  “What do you mean?” Judd asked sharply.

  “Both of you seemed to think I did a good job,” she said calmly. “I want to go through the CIA training program. If I get weeded out, so be it.”

  “But you loved your work as a curator,” Judd objected.

  “Yes, but I never felt the same commitment, the same sense of doing something that could make a difference. You must’ve sensed I was heading in this direction, Judd. Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered to teach me so much.”

  Tucker chuckled. “You’re right, Eva. You’ve got the talent and the brains. I’ll make some calls tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll be leaving you here. I’m going to meet my wife at the Kennedy for opera. Her idea. I hate opera, but right now she gets whatever she wants.” He pounded Judd on the back and kissed Eva on the cheek. “I know I can trust both of you never to say a word about the operation.” He turned and left.

  “Is he in charge of Catapult now?” Eva asked as she looked back over her shoulder, watching his energetic gait.

  “Hell, no.” Judd’s gray eyes danced. “My bet is he’ll never take the job. Gloria’s irritated, but she’s living with it.” Then he said solemnly, “I warned you not to like the work too much.”

  She smiled. “Are you going to hold it against me?”

  “No. You’ll be a damn good addition to Langley.”

  He reached into his pocket and held out his hand. As he uncurled his fingers, she saw her wedding ring and the necklace Charles had given her.

  “You kept them?” She felt a strange emotion.

  “Now that life is settling down a bit, I thought you might know more what you wanted to do with them. They’re yours, after all.”

  “The pendant is a Roman coin. The goddess Diana. It was Charles’s first gift to me.”

  “She’s the huntress,” he remembered.

  “Yes, somehow I reminded Charles of her.”

  “He wasn’t wrong about that.”


  She took the jewelry and the responsibility. “I’ll donate them.” She slid them into her pocket.

  They walked on silently. She was mulling what Tucker had said about illusions.

  “Strange how neither of us saw the truth about your father and Charles,” she said at last. “Instead what we saw was love. Ut ameris, amabilis esto. That’s from Ovid and it means that if you want to be loved, be lovable. In their own ways they were lovable. We can’t ever forget what they did—but it’d be healthy for us to work on forgiving them.”

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  “Yes, we’ll talk more.”

  She smiled at him, and he smiled back, gazing deep into her eyes. A warm intimacy passed between them.

  “I’m glad to have met you, Eva Blake.” He took her hand. His grip was firm.

  She held up their hands and gazed at his. His hand no longer looked to her like the hand of a killer. But then, Michelangelo had been working in marble, and this was the warm flesh of a man. A very good man.

  Rome, Italy

  The month of July was the height of Estate Romana, the Rome summer festival. A six-week auditory and visual feast, the festival was a flood of mostly outdoor shows, many set in grassy parks and amid ruins to take advantage of the splendor of ancient Rome. The Carnivore always tried to be in the city for at least a few days to enjoy as much as he could. Tonight was a good night for it, warm but not hot, the stars shining brightly.

  Passing the tumbled walls and columns of the Temple of Claudius on his right, he climbed the steep paving stones of Via Claudia and breathed deeply, filling his lungs and expelling air in mighty bursts, savoring his returned vigor, his good health. Escaping from the Isle of Pericles had taken every ounce of strength he’d had. The medic’s painkillers had helped, and of course he had long practiced the rule of the cat—never show you’re injured, vulnerable.

  Jack O’Keefe, Doug Kennedy, and George Russell had been waiting in a high-powered speedboat at the specified location, and within hours they were at the airport on Mykonos and on their way home. The bullet that got him had ripped through large muscles and nicked a rib, so he had taken time to convalesce, then resumed his regime of cardio and weights.

  At the wrought-iron gate he bought a ticket and walked onto the grounds of the magnificent Villa Celimontana. The park spread across Celio Hill, one of the city’s seven storied hills, south of the Coliseum. Little known, it was an oasis of peace and greenery in chaotic Rome. Across the drive, “Jazz” was projected in colorful letters. The Carnivore strode through the lights, taking in the tall cypresses and centuries-old oaks and pines. The winding pathways were littered with pieces of carved marble and broken classical statues. In five minutes he was at the sixteenth-century villa, a tall two stories and pink in the night’s lights.

  Turning a corner, he passed an outdoor jazz poster gallery, sculptures, artistic installations, and finally a fountain heralding the venue’s entrance. He listened to the jazz sounds of Charles Lloyd’s sweet tenor sax.

  As the rich music filled the night air, he climbed the wood terraces built for the summer season. Rows of tables decorated with little red lanterns filled the top three levels of the semicircular amphitheater, while concert seating was on the patio below, the chairs facing the stage, where Lloyd was soloing in front of a small jazz band.

  He found his table, sat, and reached for the beer that was awaiting him—a chilled blond beer from Birra Menabrea, perfect for the warm night.

  “Good to see you, Uncle Hal.” Bash Badawi was out of his usual shorts and T-shirt, dressed for the occasion in worn jeans and an open-necked purple shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Both were cellophane tight against his muscular body. Despite the late hour, wraparound sunglasses sat on his straight jet-black hair, and his dark eyes were smiling in his golden face. He looked completely modern Roman.

  “How’s your mother?” The Carnivore drank. Bash was not really his nephew, but his first cousin once removed—his mother’s sister’s grandchild. It was complicated, but then they came from a large Italian family.

  “Mom’s good. Making pasta as if we were all still living at home. I told her she should start selling online, but she got all bent out of shape. The pasta wouldn’t be fresh—but I was for suggesting it. That woman can still swing a killer wood spoon. You know what I mean, with the long handle and the hot spaghetti sauce dripping from the bowl. Painful.” Grinning, Bash assessed him. “You look pretty good for a guy who had his entrails toyed with.”

  “Just muscle.” The Carnivore drank again, enjoying the young man who reminded him of who he might have been. Then he asked the question that had drawn him here: “Anyone looking for me?”

  “Just the usual rogues, wannabes, and historians. Seriously, I think you’re safe. I can’t give you the details about how I know—national security and all that—but the fellow you met on the island, Tucker Andersen, has called off the hunt.”

  The Carnivore only nodded, but he was relieved. He had liked Andersen and Blake, and now he owed Judd Ryder.

  “You going to be in trouble over this?” he asked.

  “Hey, no prob. You did us a favor, and I’m keeping my mouth shut. Secrecy’s what they trained me for.” Bash raised a muscular hand, two fingers displayed, signaling for more beers. “So are you on downtime now? Got any exciting jobs?” he asked casually.

  The Carnivore gazed over the parapet at the vistas of Rome. The city’s lights sparkled around the massive ruins of the Baths of Caracalla. Today it was a shell of bricks, but at one time it had sprawled across twenty-seven acres and accommodated sixteen hundred bathers at a time. He remembered that Emperor Caracalla, who had built the baths in the third century A.D., had been a cruel, ruthless ruler. Traveling from Edessa to begin a war with Parthia, he had stopped to urinate on the roadside and was assassinated by one of his own—a frustrated and ambitious officer in the Imperial Guard.

  The Carnivore chuckled. “Drink up, boy. The night is young, and for the moment I’ll pretend I am as well. As for my plans, secrecy’s what I was trained for, too.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Mysterious History of the Library of Gold

  The search for Ivan the Terrible’s lost library—occasionally called the Byzantine Libreria—in the labyrinthine tunnels under Moscow has continued for some five centuries, capturing the imaginations of emperors, potentates, and the Vatican. Joseph Stalin stopped the hunt in the 1930s because he feared that searching the tunnels would leave him vulnerable to attack from beneath, while Vladimir Putin, in a gesture signifying Russia’s new openness, allowed the quest to resume in the 1990s.

  Today a host of scholars, scientists, historians, and amateurs pore over old, incomplete maps and request official permission to investigate. Joining the pursuit are vine walkers who claim to use bioenergetic powers to locate metal; psychics who act as security against “dark forces” that might be guarding the hidden tomes since past searchers have been prone to accidents, disease, blindness, or death; and the Diggers of the Underground Planet, a group of urban spelunkers with a cult following, who drop through manholes and pry open forgotten iron doors to reach the unexplored passages.

  My interest in the library dates back more than twenty years. On June 28, 1989, I was reading the Los Angeles Times when “Kremlin Tunnels: The Secret of Moscow’s Underworld,” by Masha Hamilton, caught my attention.

  It was a summer evening in 1933 when the two young men found what they were searching for: the entrance to a centuries-old underground tunnel within sight of the red Kremlin walls. As they crept underground toward Moscow’s seat of power, lighting their way with a lantern, the men believed they might find Ivan the Terrible’s legendary library of gold-covered books. Instead they found five skeletons, a passageway sometimes so narrow that they had to file through singly and, within a few hundred yards of the Kremlin, a rusted steel door they could not open.

  I was enthralled by this “library of gold-covered books,” which immediately becam
e in my mind the Library of Gold. Kremlin officials stopped the young pair’s exploration and swore them to secrecy with the implied threat of death, then Stalin ordered a swimming pool built over the area, putting a conclusive end to anyone’s quest.

  The story of the fabled library is one of geopolitics, an arranged marriage, madness, and the enduring love of books. And it begins more than two thousand years ago in the Greco-Roman world of emperors, scholars, warriors, and the wealthy.

  An intentionally chilling ancient Roman tombstone has this inscription: Sum quod eris, fui quod sis—“I am what you will be; I was what you are.” Public and private libraries were assembled by the ancients to enjoy, to educate, and to display affluence and privilege. But in the largest sense they were created to preserve knowledge. Remarkable international library centers in Alexandria, Pergamum, Antioch, Rome, and Athens thrived for centuries. Tragically all were obliterated, sometimes in war, sometimes with avarice, sometimes purposefully to destroy history and culture.

  The last great repository in that long-ago Western world was the royal library in Constantinople. Founded in about 330 A.D. by Constantine the Great, the city grew up on the site of a Greek town called Byzantium. At the time, it was known as the Roman Empire, though today it is referred to as the Byzantine Empire. By 475, the royal library had 120,000 volumes, probably making it the largest in that era. Over the following centuries the library was burned several times, vaporizing multitudes of priceless works, including, some claimed, a piece by Homer lettered in gold on a twelve-foot-long snakeskin.

  Still the imperial collection constantly rose from the literary ashes. In the 1400s the Spanish traveler Pero Tafur described it thus: “. . . a marble gallery opening on arcades with tiled marble benches all around and with similarly crafted tables placed end to end upon low columns; there are many books there, ancient texts and histories.”

  The final blow came on May 29, 1453, when Mehmed the Conqueror and his Ottoman Turks brutally seized Constantinople. The English historian Edward Gibbon wrote, “One hundred twenty thousand manuscripts are said to have disappeared.”