by Gayle Lynds
She lowered her head.
“He was hit by a semi and killed,” Tucker continued. “Everyone beat feet getting out of there. You were gone, too. But for some reason you changed your mind and went back and talked to the police. They arrested you, of course. Then they asked you to help them bust the gang, which you did. Why?”
“We were all so young . . . it just seemed right to try to stop it while maybe we had time to grow up into better people.”
“And later you used the skill to work your way through UCLA.”
“But legally. At a security company. Who are you?”
He ignored the question. “You’re probably going to be released on probation next year, so you’ve been sending out résumés. Any nibbles?”
She looked away. “No museum or library wants to hire a curator or conservator who’s a felon, at least not me. Too much baggage because of . . . my husband’s death. Because he was so well-known and respected in the field.” She fingered a gold chain around her neck. Whatever was hanging from it was hidden beneath her shirt. He noted she was still wearing her wedding band, a simple gold ring.
“I see,” he said neutrally.
She lifted her chin. “I’ll find something. Some other kind of work.”
He knew she was out of money. Because she had been convicted of her husband’s manslaughter, she could not collect his life insurance. She’d had to sell her house to pay her legal bills. He felt a moment of pity, then banished it.
He observed, “You’ve become very good at masking your emotions.”
“It’s just what you have to do to make it in here.”
“Tell me about the Library of Gold.”
That seemed to take her aback. “Why?”
“Indulge me.”
“You said you had a proposition for me. One I’d like.”
“I said I might have a proposition for you. Let’s see how much you remember.”
“I remember a lot, but Charles, my husband—Dr. Charles Sherback—was a real authority. He’d spent his life researching the library and knew every available detail.” Her voice was proud.
“Start at the beginning.”
She recounted the story from the library’s growth in the days of the Byzantine Empire to its disappearance at Ivan the Terrible’s death.
He listened patiently. Then: “What happened to it?”
“No one knows for sure. After Peter the Great died, a note was found in his papers that said Ivan had hidden the books under the Kremlin. Napoléon, Stalin, Putin, and ordinary people have hunted for centuries, but there are at least twelve levels of tunnels down there, and the vast majority are unmapped. Its location is one of the world’s great mysteries.”
“Do you know what’s in the library?”
“It’s supposed to contain poetry and novels. Books about science, alchemy, religion, war, politics, even sex manuals. It dates all the way back to the ancient Greeks and Romans, so there are probably works by Aristophanes, Virgil, Pindar, Cicero, and Sun Tzu. There are Bibles and Torahs and Korans, too. All sorts of languages—Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, Greek.”
Tucker was quiet a moment, considering. After a rocky start as a teenager, she had righted herself to go on to a high-level career, which showed talent, brains, and responsibility. She had muted herself to fit into prison, and that indicated adaptability. Pickpocketing him because he was an aberration told him she still had nerve. He was operating in a vacuum with this mission. None of the targeting analysts had found anything useful, and the collection of Jonathan Ryder’s clippings had turned out to be little help.
He studied the face beneath the prison cap, the sculpted lines, the expression that had settled back into chilly neutrality. “What would you say if I told you I have evidence the Library of Gold is very much in existence?”
“I’d say tell me more.”
“The Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection has loaned some of its illuminated manuscripts to the British Museum for a special show. The highlight is The Book of Spies. Do you know the work?”
“Never heard of it.”
“The book arrived at the reference door to the Library of Congress wrapped in foam inside a cardboard box. There was an unsigned note saying it had been in the Library of Gold and was a donation to the Rosenwald Special Collection. They tested the paper and ink and so forth. The book’s authentic. No one’s been able to trace the donor or donors.”
“That’s all the evidence you have it’s from the Library of Gold?”
He nodded. “For now it’s enough.”
“Does this mean you want to find the library?” When he nodded, she said, “What can I do to help?”
“Opening night of the British Museum exhibit is next week. Your job would be to do what you used to do when you traveled with your husband. Talk to the librarians, historians, and afficionados who’ve been trying to find the library for years. Eavesdrop on conversations among them and others. We hope if The Book of Spies really did come from the collection it’ll attract someone who knows the library’s location.”
She had been leaning forward. She sat back. Emotions played across her face. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you do a good job, you’ll return to prison of course. But then in just four months, you’ll be released on parole—assuming you continue your good record. That’s eight months early.”
“What’s the downside?”
“No downside except you’ll have to wear a GPS ankle bracelet. It’s tamper-resistant and has a built-in GSM/GPRS transmitter that’ll automatically report your location. You can remove it at night, to make sleeping more comfortable, if you wish. I’ll give you a cell phone, too. You’ll report to me, and you must tell no one, not even the warden, what you’ll be doing or what you learn.”
She was silent. “You opened my juvenile record. You can get me out of prison. And you can reduce my sentence. Before I agree, I want to know who you really are.”
He started to shake his head.
She warned, “The first price of my help is the truth.”
He remembered what the warden had said about not lying to the inmates. “I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“That’s not in your billfold.”
He reached down and un-Velcroed a pocket inside his calf-high sock. He handed her the ID. “You must tell no one. Agreed?”
She studied the laminated official identification. “Agreed. If anyone there knows where the library is, I’ll find out. But when I’m finished, I don’t want to come back to prison.”
Inwardly he smiled, pleased by her toughness. “Done.”
Years seem to fall from her. “When do I leave?”
8
London, England
THE WORLD seemed excitingly new to Eva—no handcuffs, no prison guards, no eyes watching her around the clock. It was 8:30 P.M. and raining heavily as she hurried across the forecourt toward the British Museum. She hardly felt the cold wet on her face. London’s traffic thundered behind her, and her old Burberry trench coat was wrapped around her. She looked up at the looming columns, the sheer stone walls, the Greek Revival carvings and statues. Memories filled her of the good times she and Charles had spent in the majestic old museum.
Dodging a puddle, she ran lightly up the stone steps, closed her umbrella, and entered the Front Hall. It was ablaze with light, the high ceiling fading up into dramatic darkness. She paused at the entrance to the Queen Elizabeth Great Court, two sweeping acres of marble flooring rimmed by white Portland stone walls and columned entryways. She drank in its serene beauty.
At its center stood the circular Reading Room, one of the world’s finest libraries—and coming out its door were Herr Professor and Frau Georg Mendochon.
Smiling, Eva went to greet them. With glances at each other, they hesitated.
“Timma. Georg.” She extended her hand. “It’s been years.”
“How are you, Eva?” Georg’s accent was light. He was a globetrotting academic from Austria.
“It’s wonderful to see you again,” she said sincerely.
“Ja. And we know why it has been so long.” Timma had never been subtle. “What are you doing here?” What she did not say was, You killed your husband, how dare you show up.
Eva glanced down, staring at the gold wedding band on her finger. She had known this was going to be difficult. She had come to accept that she had killed Charles, but the guilt of it still ravaged her.
Looking up, she ignored Timma’s tone. “I was hoping to see old friends. And to view The Book of Spies, of course.”
“It is very exciting, this discovery,” Georg agreed.
“It makes me wonder whether someone has finally found the Library of Gold,” Eva continued. “If anyone has, surely it’s you, Georg”—now that Charles is gone, she thought to herself, missing him even more.
Georg laughed. Timma relented and smiled at the compliment.
“Ach, I wish,” he said.
“There’s no word anyone’s close to its discovery?” Eva pressed.
“I have heard nothing like that, alas,” Georg said. “Come, Timma. We must go to the Chinese exhibit now. We will see you upstairs, Eva, yes?”
“Definitely, yes.”
As they crossed the Great Hall, Eva headed toward the North Wing and climbed the stairs to the top floor. The sounds of a multilingual crowd drifted from a large open doorway where a sign announced:
TRACING THE DEVELOPMENT OF WRITING
SPECIAL EXHIBITION FROM THE LESSING J. ROSENWALD COLLECTION
She found her invitation.
The guard took it. “Enjoy yourself, mum.”
She stepped inside. Excited energy infused the vast hall. People stood in groups and gathered around the glass display cases, many wearing tiny earphones as they listened to the show’s prerecorded tour. Museum guards in dress clothes circulated discreetly. The air smelled the way she remembered, of expensive perfumes and aromatic wines. She inhaled deeply.
“Eva, is that you?”
She turned. It was Guy Fontaine from the Sorbonne. Small and plump, he was standing with a huddle of Charles’s friends. She scanned their faces, saw their conflicted emotions at her arrival.
She said a warm hello and shook hands.
“You’re looking well, Eva,” Dan Ritenburg decided. He was a wealthy amateur Library of Gold hunter from Sydney. “How is it you’re able to be here?”
“Do not be crass, Dan,” Antonia del Toro scolded. From Madrid, she was an acclaimed historian. She turned to Eva. “I am so sorry about Charles. Such a dedicated researcher, although admittedly he could be difficult at times. My condolences.”
Several others murmured their sympathies. Then there was an expectant pause.
Eva spoke into it, answering their unasked question. “I’ve been released from prison.” That was what Tucker had told her to say. “When I saw there was a manuscript from the Library of Gold here, of course I had to come.”
“Of course,” Guy agreed. “The Book of Spies. It is beautiful. Incroyable.”
“Do you think its appearance means someone has found the library?” Eva asked.
The group erupted in talk, voicing their theories that the library was still beneath the Kremlin, that Ivan the Terrible had hidden it in a monastery outside Moscow, that it was simply a glorious myth perpetuated by Ivan himself.
“But if it’s a myth, why is The Book of Spies here?” Eva wanted to know.
“Aha, my point exactly,” said Desmond Warzel, a Swiss academic. “I have always maintained that before he died Ivan sold it off in bits and pieces because his treasury was low. Remember, he lost his last war with Poland—and it was expensive.”
“But if that’s true,” Eva said reasonably, “surely other illuminated manuscripts from the library would’ve appeared by now.”
“She is right, Desmond,” Antonia said. “Just what I have been telling you all these years.”
They continued to argue, and eventually Eva excused herself. Listening to conversations, looking for more people she knew, she wove through the throngs and then stopped at the bar. She ordered a Perrier.
“Don’t I know you, ma’am?” the bar steward asked.
He was tall and thin, but with the chubby face of a chipmunk. The contrast was startling and endearing. Of course she recalled him.
“I used to come here a few years ago,” she told him.
He grinned and handed her the Perrier. “Welcome home.”
Smiling, she stepped away to check the map showing where in the room each woodcut book, illuminated manuscript, and printed book was displayed. When she found the location of The Book of Spies, she walked toward it, passing the spectacular Giant Bible of Mainz, finished in 1453, and the much smaller and grotesquely illustrated Book of Urizen, from 1818. It was William Blake’s parody of Genesis. A few years ago, on a happy winter day, Charles and she had personally examined each in the Library of Congress.
The crowd surrounding The Book of Spies was so thick, some on the fringes were giving up. Eva frowned, but not at the imposing human wall. What held her was a man leaving the display. There was something familiar about him. She could not see his face, because he was turned away and his hand clasped one ear as he listened to the tour.
What was it about him? She set her drink on a waiter’s tray and followed, sidestepping other visitors. He wore a black trench coat, had glossy black hair, and the back of his neck was tanned. She wanted to get ahead so she could see his face, but the crowd made it hard to move quickly.
Then he stepped into an open space, and for the first time she had a clear view of his entire body, of his physicality. Her heart quickened as she studied him. His gait was athletic, rolling. His muscular shoulders twitched every six or eight steps. He radiated great assurance, as if he owned the hall. He was the right height—a little less than six feet tall. Although his hair should have been light brown, not blue-black, and she still could not see his face, everything else about him was uncannily, thrillingly familiar. He could have been Charles’s double.
He dropped his hand from his ear. Excited, Eva moved quickly onward until she was walking almost parallel to him. He was surveying the crowd, his head slowly moving from right to left. Finally she saw his face. His chin was wider and heavier than Charles’s, and his ears flared slightly where Charles’s had laid flat against his skull. Overall he looked tough, like a man who had been on the losing end of too many fistfights.
But then his gaze froze on her. He stopped moving. He had Charles’s eyes—large and black, with flecks of brown, surrounded by thick lashes. She and Charles had lived together eight intimate years, and she knew every gesture, every nuance of his expressions, and how he reacted. His eyes radiated shock, then narrowed in fear. He tilted back his head—pride. And finally there was the emotionless expression she knew so well when confronted with the unexpected. His lips formed the word Eva.
The room seemed to fade away, and the chattering talk vanished as she tried to breathe, to feel the beat of her heart, to know her feet were planted firmly on the floor. She struggled to think, to understand how Charles could still be alive. Relief washed through her as she realized she had not killed him. But how could he have survived the car crash? Abruptly her grief and guilt turned into stunned rage. She had lost two years because of him. Lost most of her friends. Her reputation. Her career. She had mourned and blamed herself—while he had been alive the entire time.
As he scowled at her, she pulled out her cell phone, touched the keypad, and focused the cell’s video camera on him.
His scowl deepened, and with a jerk of his head, he cupped his left ear and dove into the crowd.
“Charles, wait!” She rushed after him, dodging people, leaving a trail of disgusted remarks.
He brushed past an older couple and slid deeper into the masses. She raised up on her toes and spotted him skirting a display cabinet. She ran. As he elbowed past a circle of women, his shoulder hit a waiter carrying a tray of full wineglasses. The
tray cartwheeled; the glasses sailed. Red wine splashed the women. They yelled and slipped on their high heels.
While guests stared, security guards grabbed radios off their belts, and Charles dashed out the door. Eva tore after him and down the stairs. The guards shouted for them to stop. As she reached the landing, a sentry peeled away from the wall, lowering his radio.
“Stop, miss!” He raced toward her, pendulous belly jiggling.
She put on a burst of speed, and the guard had no time to correct. His hands grabbed at her trench coat and missed. Stumbling forward, he fell across the railing, balancing precariously over the full-story drop.
She stopped to go back to help, but a man in a dark blue peacoat leaped down three steps and pulled the guard back to safety.
Cursing the time she had lost, Eva resumed her pell-mell run down the steps, the feet of guards hammering behind her. When she landed on the first floor, she accelerated past the elevators and into the cavernous Great Court. Thunder cracked loudly overhead, and a burst of rain pelted the high glass dome.
She saw Charles again. With an angry glance back at her across the wide expanse, he hurtled past a hulking statue of the head of the Egyptian pharaoh Amenhotep III.
She chased after, following him into the museum’s Front Hall. Visitors fell back, silent, confused, as he rushed past. Two sentries were standing on either side of the open front door, both holding radios to their ears and looking as if they had just been given orders.
As Charles approached them, she saw his back stiffen.
His words floated back to her, earnestly telling the pair in Charles’s deep voice, “She’s a madwoman. . . . She has a knife.”
Enraged, she ran faster. The guards glanced at each other, and Charles took advantage of their distraction to lunge between them and sprint out into the stormy night.
