by Gayle Lynds
Judd’s tone was flat, professional, but Tucker sensed conflicted emotion when he spoke about his father and the book club. “Of course. You’re going to Istanbul?”
“Yes. We’re taking a commercial flight. It seems safest under the circumstances. Eva called ahead, but Yakimovich’s phone is disconnected. He’s probably moved again. She was able to reach two of his longtime friends in Istanbul, but they don’t know where he is now. If you can track him down, it’d be a big help. It’ll take us a few hours to get there.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” As soon as Tucker hung up, he dialed a colleague with whom he had worked during the cold war: Faisal Tarig, who was now with Istanbul police.
“I know Andy Yakimovich,” Faisal said. “A sly fellow, that one. But then, he’s half Russian and half Turk. Perhaps I can locate him. You still smoking those manly Marlboros?”
“No, gave them up for bottled water.”
“I hope you have not become boring, old friend. But if you are asking questions like this, perhaps not. I will be in touch.”
“Don’t tell anyone I called, or the intel I need.”
There was silence. “I see.”
After he hung up, Tucker sat a moment, thinking, then he left, heading to Cathy’s office. It was a large one, directly behind the receptionist’s desk. As chief, she got the best one. Fronting the street, it had special glass in the windows so no one could see inside or use a demodulator to listen in on conversations.
The door was open. He peered in. Family photos hung on the wall alongside CIA commendations. More photos stood on her desk. Some kind of green ivy was growing in a pot. Cathy was typing, staring at her computer screen, her short, blond-streaked hair awry.
“I know you’re there, Tucker. What’s on your mind?” She had not looked at him.
He walked inside and closed the door. “Who’s heard about my Library of Gold operation?”
As he sat, she glanced around at him and frowned. “Why do you ask?”
He explained about the leak. “There’s no way the Charboniers should’ve been at Yitzhak Law’s place, waiting for my people.”
She spun around to her desk, facing him. “I’ve told only one person about Yitzhak Law—the assistant director, in my regular report, about fifteen minutes ago. That’s too late for the leak to have come from us.”
“I’ll talk to our IT people. I suppose it’s possible someone’s broken into our system. But if so, it didn’t set off any alarms. I’ll make my reports to you verbally from now on.”
They were silent. Every day thousands of amateur and professional hackers tried to breach U.S. government computers. So far Langley had lost no important data, and like other small specialized units, Catapult used the same highly secure system.
She nodded. “Anything new about the Library of Gold?”
“Ryder and Blake are on their way to Istanbul, following a good lead. As for me, I’ll be glad when I can go home.” At least he was getting a lot of work done on the missions he was overseeing.
She nodded again. Then she gave him an understanding smile. “We all have to sacrifice sometimes.”
He said good-bye and returned to the communications center. Debi was still at her computer console. He told her what he needed.
“No one’s gotten into our system that I know of, suh.” Her brows knitted. “I’ll get right on it.”
Concerned, he returned to his office.
35
Athens, Greece
THE LIBRARY of Gold Learjet circled down slowly, the lights of Greece’s ancient capital gleaming beneath. Nervously making plans, Robin turned away from the panorama and stared back down the length of the cabin to Martin Chapman, his tall figure upright in his seat. He was on his cell phone, his jaw working angrily.
As the jet touched down at Athens International Airport, she studied her cell phone and battery, remembering Preston’s awful call to her while she was waiting on the jet in London for Charles and him to arrive. He had ordered her to take the cell apart, and then he told her Charles was dead. Grief swelled her throat. She forced herself to repress it.
Preston had never told her why she was to not activate it again. It did not matter; she was going to need a phone. Sliding the pieces into her pocket, she stood and walked to the rear of the plane.
Chapman peered up as she slung on the backpack that contained The Book of Spies. She did not like the look in his eyes.
Still, he spoke neutrally. “The helicopter is ready.”
She nodded. “Good.” But she knew it was not good. Once she was in the helicopter, she would be on her way to the hidden Library of Gold, where security was so intense no one could escape—but people occasionally disappeared. People like her. “Will you be going with us, Mr. Chapman?” she asked, although he had made no move to rise.
“I have other business. Magus will take care of you.”
From the front, Magus nodded knowing agreement. “Yes, sir, Mr. Chapman.”
She followed Magus out of the Learjet and into the black hours of night. The cool air made her shaved head feel even more exposed. She forced herself to stay calm. The airport extended around them, a wide sweep of tarmac with jets coming and going from the long arms of the terminal. It seemed far away, an impossible distance.
A small luggage truck had pulled up to the tail of the jet, and the driver was unloading bags and other items. He was a small man and elderly, with stringy arms showing beneath the short sleeves of his airport shirt. She felt a moment of hope; she might be able to handle him. As he humped Charles’s canvas-wrapped body into the back of the truck, she turned away.
“Let’s go.” Magus’s face was a mask. “I’ll bet you’re ready to get home and settle in.”
“You’re right,” Robin lied. “It will be good to be home.”
They walked toward the waiting vehicle, which would take them to the helicopter. It was only about seven feet long and narrow, with space in front for just two people—the driver and a passenger. The rear was an open bed, packed with her large roll-aboard slammed against the cab, Charles’s corpse, and several wood boxes Preston had picked up in London.
“I’ll help you in.” Magus stopped at the rear, where, as the junior member, she would ordinarily sit.
She stared at him, allowing a sense of helplessness to sound in her voice. “I’m so tired. And I’m supposed to keep this backpack with me all the time. Mr. Chapman’s orders. Would you mind if I sat in front with the driver?”
They looked at the bed of the truck. There was no gate or upper flap at the end, while the sides had short walls about a foot tall. The floor was hard steel.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not.” But he touched his hip, where she suspected he kept his gun inside his jacket. The gesture might have been automatic, but it felt like a threat.
Robin gave him a bright smile. “Thanks.”
He walked her around to the passenger side. There were no doors on the cab. She took off the backpack and climbed in. Then he walked around to the driver’s side, which was also open. He ordered the elderly man out from behind the steering wheel, and her heart sank. Now it would be Magus sitting next to her, armed, young, and strong.
As soon as the driver crawled into the back, Magus studied the automatic transmission, then put the light truck into gear. They rolled away.
She held the backpack on her lap, cradling it in her arms, realizing she had one lucky break—he was an unsure driver, glancing at the steering wheel, the small rearview mirror, the gear shift. That might help—that, and if she surprised him.
She turned around and watched the Learjet taxi away. Returning to face the front, she asked innocently, “Wouldn’t you like to see what’s in the backpack, Magus?”
“No.” He was focused on his driving.
But she started to unzip it, the sound jagged and sharp.
He glanced at her. “Close that up.” He reached a hand toward it.
She bit the hand and tasted blood. Swearing, he jerked
his hand back, and she slammed the heavy backpack against the side of his head. Reeling, he lashed out with an arm, connecting only with the pack. With the sharp toe of her boot, she kicked the calf of the leg that had a foot on the accelerator and immediately crashed the backpack against his head again.
His foot bounced off the accelerator, the small truck careened, and there was a shout from the back as the driver slid out.
Magus hit the brakes and reached inside his jacket for his gun. In a flurry of motion, Robin slammed her foot down on the accelerator and bit his ear. The truck shot ahead. As his gun appeared in his hand, she slashed her fingernails down his face and eyes, ripping skin.
He yelled and lashed the gun toward her. But he was off-balance now, and the truck was lurching forward, alternating between braking and accelerating. His gun was aimed at her.
In a fury, she smashed the backpack into his face again and rotated her hips toward him. Bracing one hand on the back of her seat and gripping the handhold on the dashboard with the other, she rammed her boots into his hip, inching him across the vinyl seat.
His gun went off, the shot deafening as the bullet exploded through the cab’s roof. Blood dripped into his eyes as he tried to see. He shot wildly again, and she shoved him out the door and floored the gas feed. The truck hurtled forward.
Her heart pounded like a kettledrum as she slid behind the wheel and began to steer. More bullets sliced through the cab, barely missing The Book of Spies on the seat beside her. Driving, she crouched low, eyes just above the dash, thankful for the vast open space of the tarmac. A shot flew over her head, a lethal whisper. And then there was no more gunfire.
She rose up and peered into the rearview mirror. Magus was running after her, more and more distant, a hand angrily wiping his face of blood. Behind him lay a trail of capsized wood crates and Charles’s corpse. For a long moment she was furious with Charles, furious he had put her in this position, and then the emotion vanished. She was on her own now, as she had been in years past. You know how to do this, she told herself.
Determined, she spun the steering wheel, heading toward a chain-link fence. At last she saw a gate beside a dark airport outbuilding. It was quite a bit away, which was good. More distance between her and Magus. The night air cooled her face as she kept the gas feed pressed to the floor.
At the wire gate, she screeched the truck to a stop and jumped out. Putting on the backpack, she looked back. Magus was very far away and had slowed to a jog. His hand was at his ear, no doubt calling for help. But as long as she had The Book of Spies, she had a bargaining chip. Martin Chapman would stop at nothing to get her back, hunt her to the far reaches of the planet if he had to, but with the illuminated manuscript she could perhaps negotiate permanent freedom.
She wrestled her roll-aboard out of the truck’s bed. It had been crammed against the cab and had missed the fate of the rest of the luggage. Pulling it, she hurried through the gate and into a big parking lot.
She moved quickly among the cars, vans, and SUVs, peering inside. At last she found an old Peugeot, battered and rusted, with a key in the ignition. Scanning around, she took her purse from the roll-aboard. She still had pounds from England; she would exchange them for euros. Last, she found the straw hat she had bought in London. She slammed it down on her bald head and tied the ribbon under her chin.
She loaded the roll-aboard and the backpack into the car. Fighting fear, she drove off through the moonlight toward the exit, her gaze constantly going to her rearview mirror.
36
The Sultanate of Oman
MUSCAT INTERNATIONAL Airport lay on flat sands above the Gulf of Oman. In the distance, clusters of oil rigs stood glittering with lights, their toothpick legs sunk deep into the gulf’s black waters. The night smelled of the desert as Martin Chapman descended from his Learjet. He was breathing hard with anger: Robin Miller had stolen The Book of Spies and escaped. Magus and a team were searching for her in Athens, but it was one more problem, and right now he did not need it.
The danger that worried him most was Judd Ryder, who was CIA, and in that one word lay all the worry in the world: Langley had the resources, the knowledge, the expertise, the guts, to accomplish far more than the public would ever know. One did not cross the Agency lightly, but once done, one had no choice but to end it quickly, which was why Chapman was in Oman now.
The Oman Air section of the ultramodern passenger terminal was quietly busy. He passed tiles, potted palms, and Old Arabia wall decorations without a glance. Turning down a wide arrival and departure corridor, he followed memorized instructions toward a duty-free shop. Near the bathroom door an airport employee in a desert-tan janitorial uniform and a checkered Bedouin headdress was bent over, swabbing the floor.
As Chapman passed, he heard a voice float up toward him: “There’s a supply room four doors to your left. Wait inside. Don’t turn on the light.”
Chapman almost broke his stride. Quickly he regrouped and went to the supply room door. Inside, he flicked on the light. The little room was lined with shelves of cleaning products, paper towels, and toilet paper. He turned off the light and stood in the dark against the rear, a small penlight in one hand, the other hand inside his jacket on the hilt of his pistol.
The door opened and closed like a whisper.
“Jack said you needed help.” The voice was low. The man seemed to be standing just inside the door. “I’m expensive, and I have rules. You know about both. Jack says you’ve agreed to my terms. Before we go further, I need to hear that from you.”
“You’re Alex Bosa?” Chapman assumed it was a pseudonym.
“Some call me that.”
“The Carnivore.”
No expression in the voice. “I’m known by that, too.”
Chapman inhaled. He was in the presence of a legendary independent assassin, a man who had worked for all sides during the cold war. Now he worked only occasionally, but always at astronomical prices. There were no photos of him; no one knew where he lived, what his real name was, or even in which country he was born. He also never failed, and no one ever uncovered who hired him.
The assassin’s voice was calm. “Do you agree to my terms?”
Chapman felt his hackles rise. He was the boss, not this shadowy man who had to live hidden behind pseudonyms. “I have a cashier’s check with me.” There were to be two payments—half now, half on completion, for a total of $2 million. Ridding himself of the CIA problem was worth every cent. “Do you want the job or not?”
Silence. Then: “I work alone when it’s time to do the hit. That means your people must be gone. You must never reveal our association. You must never try to find out what I look like or who I am. If you make any attempts, I will come after you. I’ll do you the favor of making it a clean kill, out of respect for our business relationship and the money you will have paid me. After tonight, you will not try to meet me again. When the job is finished, I’ll be in touch to let you know how I want to receive the last payment. If you don’t pay me, I will come after you for that, too. I do wet work only on people who shouldn’t be breathing anyway. I’m the one who makes that decision—not you. I’ll give you a new phone number through which you can reach me when you have the additional information about the targets’ whereabouts. Do you agree?”
The menacing power in the quiet voice was breathtaking. Chapman found himself nodding even though there was no way the man could see him in the dark.
He spoke up, “I agree.” The Carnivore specialized in making hits look like accidents, which was the point—Chapman wanted Langley to have nothing to trace back to him or the Library of Gold.
“Tell me why Judd Ryder and Eva Blake need to be terminated,” the Carnivore demanded.
When Chapman had decided to bring in outside talent, he had gone to a source outside the book club, a middleman named only Jack. Through encrypted e-mails, he and Jack had arranged the deal. Now he repeated the story for the Carnivore: “Ryder is former military intelligence a
nd highly skilled. Blake is a criminal—she killed her husband when she was driving drunk. I’m sure you’ve checked both facts. They’ve learned about a new secret business transaction I’m working on, and they want it for themselves. I tried to reason with them, but I got nowhere. If they steal this, it’ll cost me billions. More important, now they’re trying to kill me. They’re on their way to Istanbul. I should have information soon about exactly where.”
“I understand. I’ll leave now. Put the envelope on the shelf next to you. Open the door and go immediately back to your jet.” He gave Chapman his new cell number.
There was a movement of air, the door opened and closed quickly, and darkness surrounded Chapman again. He realized he was sweating. He put the envelope with the cashier’s check for $1 million on the shelf next to him and left.
As he walked down the corridor, he looked everywhere for the cleaning man in the brown uniform and Bedouin headdress. He had vanished.
37
Istanbul, Turkey
JUDD STARED down from his window on the jet at the twinkling lights of fabled Instanbul. He drank in the sight of what had once been mighty Constantinople, the crown of the Byzantine Empire—and the birthplace of the Library of Gold.
Eva awoke. “What time is it?” She looked nervous.
“Midnight.”
As the jet touched down and taxied toward the terminal of Ataturk International Airport, he checked his mobile.
“Anything from Tucker about where Yakimovich is?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No e-mail. No phone message.”
“If Tucker can’t find him, it could take us days.”
Although there seemed to be no way they could have been followed, they had stopped in Rome on their way to the airport not only to buy supplies but also to disguise themselves. Now as they deplaned, Judd helped Eva into a wheelchair. She curled up low, her head hanging forward as if asleep. A blanket covered her body, and a scarf hid her hair. He put her shoulder satchel and a large new duffel bag containing other purchases on her lap. He was dressed like a private nurse, in white slacks, a white blast jacket, and a white cap. Tucked inside his lower lip was a tight roll of cotton, making the lip protrude and his jaw look smaller.
