The Book of Spies

by Gayle Lynds

  Tucker wandered the old brick building, chatting with their people, comforting them, and by doing so comforting himself. Cathy had been a good boss, tough and fair, and they had liked her. He urged them to get back to work. Their operators abroad were counting on them. Besides, it was what Cathy would have wanted, and they knew it.

  By the afternoon, the pace had quickened, voices talked business, telephones rang, computer keys clicked. He returned to his office and tried to concentrate. Finally the habits of a lifetime returned, and he bent over his work.

  “Hello, Tucker.” Hudson Canon stood in the doorway, looking concerned. He was an assistant director in the Clandestine Service, a longtime field officer who had been brought home to Langley to oversee a slew of people who in turn created and managed missions. Short, dignified, and heavily muscled, he gave the impression of a high-class American Kennel Club bulldog, with his pug nose and round black eyes and thick cheeks. “How are you doing?” Canon asked.

  “It’s terrible news, of course. Cathy will be greatly missed.”

  “Gloria says everyone is working hard, but I must say the place feels a bit like a mausoleum. Damn. I liked Cathy a lot. A fine woman.”

  “Have a chair.” Tucker motioned to one. “What can I do for you?”

  Canon gave a quick smile and sat in front of the desk. “Matt Kelley sent me over to take Cathy’s place until a new chief is named. You interested in the job?”

  “That’s fast.”

  “Don’t I know it. Are you interested?”

  Tucker’s soul felt heavy. “Let me think about it.” The position had been offered to him before Cathy was appointed, but he had turned it down.

  “I haven’t been to Cathy’s office yet,” Canon went on. “I told Gloria to pack up all of her private things before I moved in. Meanwhile, I’d like you to bring me up-to-date. Start with the hottest missions.”

  Canon crossed his legs, and they talked. Tucker filled him in on Berlin, Bratislava, Kiev, Tehran, and others. Canon knew the basics about all from Cathy’s weekly reports.

  “I hear you might’ve had a breach in your e-mail or Internet system.”

  “Debi is honchoing it,” Tucker told him. “Someone did get in and was able to access Cathy’s e-mail for about three minutes.”

  Canon grimaced. “Long enough to steal more than any of us would want.”

  “Agreed. Still, we’re not sure what they took. Maybe they got nothing. In any case, that pathway is now a dead end, and Debi’s team is on high alert, looking for even the smallest signs of attempt to trespass. There’s been no other successful cybersleuthing since. The problem was, the breach occurred during the night shift, when we had fewer bodies. They missed the invader—he was damn good at it obviously.”

  “I see. What else do you have for me?”

  Tucker launched into a description of the Library of Gold operation.

  When he had finished, Canon sat back, thinking. “Is this a wise use of Catapult’s resources? You still have no evidence of involvement in terrorism. Who in hell cares about the Library of Gold? So what if it’s some marvelous old relic. That’s the bailiwick of historians and anthropologists. This is a waste of time better spent on more critical missions.”

  Tucker stiffened. “I understand your point, but we’re deep into it now. I’ve got a contract employee and a civilian on the run, being hunted. And a dead man who turned up alive who said he was the chief librarian. He’s dead now, too, and it’s real this time. There are other corpses—people like Jonathan Ryder and the Charboniers.”

  “Have you learned anything about the library’s location through Ryder or the Charboniers?”

  “Nothing yet. Jonathan’s life is far easier to probe. We have his travel records, but he was an international businessman and flew around the globe. A lot of cities and towns. As for the Charboniers, we have to work with the French to get information, and that’s difficult. You know how secretive they can be.”

  “It’ll be another dead end.”

  “Maybe. But my two people in Istanbul have a good lead. We need to follow up on that.”

  “A good lead? What is it?”

  “The man’s name is Okan Biçer. He sells calligraphy in the Grand Bazaar.” Tucker checked his watch. “He’s supposed to know where an old acquaintance of Eva Blake’s husband is, an antiquities merchant named Andrew Yakimovich. They’re hoping Yakimovich may be holding something for Blake that’ll tell them where the library is.”

  Hudson Canon seemed to think about it. At last he nodded. “I’d already expressed my reservations to Cathy about whether this operation was worth it, but she convinced me to give it some time. Your argument for more time is good, too. However, I’ve also taken it to my boss. Especially now that Cathy’s gone and we’ll need to rethink Catapult, we’re going to have to pull in our horns. You have thirty-six hours to find the library. If you don’t know where it is by then, the boss says to pull the plug and end the operation.”

  39

  Peshawar, Pakistan

  THICK STORM clouds rolled black and angry overhead, and the temperature dropped five degrees as Martin Chapman rode into the polluted and paranoid city of Peshawar. He was dressed in a traditional shalwar kameez—the long shirt and baggy trousers worn by most Pakistani and Afghani men—so he could pass for an Uzbek, Chechen, or light-skinned Pashtun.

  A hotbed of Taliban and al-Qaeda, the city was where he was to meet the warlord who had promised him safe passage. Still, Chapman did not believe in relying on promises. His pistol was on his belt, the holster latch unfastened, and his hand on the weapon’s grip. Beside him lay the truck driver’s fully loaded AK-47.

  Peshawar was an armed garrison. Men and boys as young as five years old wore, cradled, or shouldered an array of weapons. But then, it was the capital of the politically unstable North-West Frontier Province and just six miles from the lawless Federally Administered Tribal Areas. Jihadists poured into the city to regroup, to fight, to buy and trade weapons and supplies, and to partake of civilization. It had always been a smugglers’ haven and a center for indigenous arms manufacture, but now more so than ever. Private homes were functioning gun factories. Using the crudest of tools, entire families fabricated quality copies of major small and medium arms.

  As the truck drove through the city, Chapman was taken aback by the poverty and destruction. Empty shells of buildings, some towering precariously several stories high, dotted streets, the result of suicide bombings, personal disputes, police assaults, and the occasional drone attack from across the mountains in Afghanistan.

  Despite it all, people strove for normalcy. Women draped in ghostly burkas drifted like shadows among the stores, carrying string shopping bags. Men in tribal headdresses or pakul hats—traditional flat round wool caps—sat for portraits in front of old box cameras screwed into rickety wood tripods.

  “We there soon,” the driver told Chapman. An Afghan Pashtun, he worked directly for the warlord. Thankfully he understood English far better than he spoke it.

  The driver turned the big truck onto Lahore Road. Bouncing over potholes, he turned again and slammed on the brakes. Dust spewed a choking cloud around them. They had stopped in front of a gun shop.

  “This is it?” Chapman asked.

  The driver nodded enthusiastically.

  “Wait here,” Chapman ordered.

  Nodding again, the man turned off the ignition and peered up through the windshield, eying the stormy twilight sky. He shook his head in despair, then climbed out and lit a brown cigarette.

  Chapman got out, too, silently cursing Syed Ullah for insisting they meet in Peshawar. But that was Ullah for you. He was one of a long line of Pashtun tribal chiefs from the border province of Khost in Afghanistan. The warlord was his own man, regarding Kabul’s commands with indifference.

  As Chapman walked toward the store, Ullah appeared in the doorway, filling it. Gigantic, powerfully built, he had hands that looked as if they could palm bowling balls. His chee
kbones were high, the coldly intelligent brown eyes widely spaced, the thick mustache above his wide mouth neatly trimmed. He wore a brown wool sweater, a shalwar kameez, and sturdy black boots. Twin pearl-handled pistols were holstered on his hips.

  He looked comfortable and pleased with himself. “You are here, Chapman. Come in. Pe kher ragle.” Welcome.

  Chapman walked inside and stopped, keeping his manner casual. Weapons ranging from small two-shot pistols to juiced-up rocket launchers were for sale, stacked four and five deep against the walls, lying on shelves up to the ceiling, and bunched and leaning together like haystacks in the corners. The place smelled like cheap grease. In the back of the store, silently blocking a door, stood six of Ullah’s soldiers. They carried rifles, while flowers were tucked into their belts in the Pashtun style. Two bandoliers crossed each of their chests, displaying not only bullets but dangling grenades.

  Smiling proudly, the warlord looked around the store, then peered down at Chapman.

  “Impressive,” Chapman admitted.

  With a nod from Ullah, his men headed for the open front door. “They will bring in the crates. You have what we agreed on in the back of the truck?”

  “Everything.”

  “Good, good.” Ullah gestured grandly at the two low stools beside a desk.

  They sat. A white silk cloth edged with lace had been spread out, and a white porcelain teapot decorated with red poppies waited in the middle of it. The warlord poured tea into two glasses rimmed in gold and set into decorative golden bases with golden handles.

  Offering no milk or sugar, he handed a cup to Chapman. “This is a fine black Indian tea, flavored with cardamon and honey. I serve it on only the most important occasions, to my most important guests. According to our Pashtunwali code, it is my duty to host you, treasure you, and protect you.” Ullah lifted his cup in salute.

  Chapman lifted his cup, too, and gave a nod of appreciation. They drank, and Chapman said nothing about the code, knowing full well the warlord’s hospitality would evaporate and Chapman’s life would be in danger if he did not fulfill his end of their agreement. Pashtuns were bound by fierce cultural, emotional, and social ties—the Pashtunwali code. At the same time, if they breathed, they fought. An old Pashtun saying was “Me against my brother, me and my brother against our cousins, and we and our cousins against the enemy, any enemy.” In that way they confirmed their honor, and it did not seem to matter whether they ended up successful—or dead.

  The first crate came in, one of Ullah’s men rolling it on a dolly, followed by another, and another, all disappearing into the back. From Karachi, the crates had been shipped to Islamabad, then trucked into Madari, where Chapman had jetted in from Oman and met Ullah’s driver.

  Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distant hills.

  “My boys will hurry now,” Ullah commented, amused.

  He barked an order in Pashto to a soldier who had picked up speed and was rushing past with another crate. The man wheeled it around, brought it to Ullah, and ripped off the top with a crowbar.

  Ullah and Chapman stood and looked down. Ullah lowered his great height to finger a new U.S. Army camouflage uniform. “Good, good.”

  “The other boxes contain more uniforms,” Chapman told him. “Kevlar helmets with night-vision scopes, grenade belts, GPS units, encrypted cell phones, flares, M4 carbine rifles with telescopic sights, and body armor. Everything we agreed upon and more, all regulation army and authentic.”

  “I will check each crate before you leave.” The warlord settled back down onto his stool, his dainty teacup disappearing into his big hand as he sipped.

  For a moment Ullah was not a ruthless brawler, not the Mike Tyson of the tribal lands, but a gentleman of good taste. Driven into exile in Pakistan by the Taliban in the 1990s, he had returned to Afghanistan after 9/11 to lead anti-Taliban soldiers, moving in and out of alliances, keeping his distance from the national government and coalition forces. Today his home base was a vast area of eastern Khost province that was largely rural and backward. His photograph hung in every office, shop, and school, and he maintained firm control with a personal army of more than five thousand.

  What mattered most to Chapman was he owned ten square miles of land he needed.

  Lightning split through the dark clouds, illuminating the shop in a moment of startling white light. Thunder boomed, and the heavens opened. Rain poured down in a brutal torrent as the last of the crates rushed through.

  Ullah peered over his teacup. “About my money. I am eager to have it back.”

  “And you will. Soon.”

  “Now.”

  When Chapman had discovered Ullah owned the land, he had ordered a complete investigation of the man. Through book club member Carl Lindström’s chief of security—an accomplished black-hatter—a hidden overseas account containing some $20 million in profits from drugs and gun-running was uncovered. If Chapman told the Kabul government about it, the minister of finance would confiscate it, and the president would find unpleasant ways to punish Ullah.

  Instead, Chapman had led his equity firm in a leveraged buyout of the bank—and frozen the account. With that incentive, Ullah had agreed to meet him at a Caspian Sea resort, where Chapman had offered to release the money and give him a small percentage in a deal the greedy bastard could not refuse. He would earn enormous profits for decades to come in an honest business venture through which he could launder his heroin and opium profits. But it hinged on Chapman’s being able to buy the land, which the warlord could not sell because he was renting it to the United States for a secret forward base.

  “When you finish the job, you’ll get your money,” Chapman told him.

  Ullah stared hard.

  “As we agreed,” Chapman reminded him, thinking of the Pashtunwali code.

  There was a pause. Then Ullah chuckled and changed the subject. “Why do you want my land?” He had asked the question several times before.

  “You’ll find out as soon as you sign it over to me.”

  Ullah nodded. “It is good you arrived on schedule. We will be able to truck the crates into Khost by tomorrow.”

  “And then?” Chapman prompted.

  “The next night two hundred fifty of my men will put on your uniforms and use your weapons to take out about a hundred villagers. A lot of gunfire and dead bodies. Much blood. I will have a Pakistani reporter and cameraman there. They will make many videos. It will be a splendid show that all the world will see of ‘American’ soldiers slaughtering innocent civilians.” He laughed loudly, his solid white teeth gleaming.

  Because of the changed—and charged—political atmosphere in Afghanistan, the Kabul national government insisted its complicity in the U.S. forward base be kept secret. But with the harsh light of international outrage shining on the massacre, Kabul would have no choice but to close the base. Of course before then Ullah would have made all of the American uniforms and equipment vanish, and those who knew what actually had happened would be bound to silence by the Pashtunwali code. The result would be the warlord would at last be able to sell the land to Chapman.

  As the rain drummed down, Ullah boasted of his past successes in battle, hair-singeing tales to remind Chapman of his power. But Chapman had something Ullah did not—the knowledge of what lay in the land, and the technical expertise to exploit it. Afghanistan had many natural riches, but the war-torn country was unstable, illiterate, untrained, and in no position to make use of them and would not be for decades to come.

  As soon as they finished their tea, the warlord announced, “We will inspect the crates now.”

  “Go ahead. I need to make a phone call. I’ll join you when I finish.”

  As Ullah left for the back room, Chapman walked to the front of the shop and stood alone at the window. The thunderstorm had stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the sky was clearing. With that good omen, he dialed his wife’s iPhone. It had been days since they last talked, a month since he last saw her. He longed to hear
her voice.

  But it was her assistant, Mahaira. “She is showering. I am so sorry.”

  He kept his voice calm. “Where are you?”

  “In Athens, as you requested.”

  He sighed with relief. He would see his wife in just a few hours. “How was the party in San Moritz?” It was supposed to have been a gala affair—jet-set society in all its ravenous glory.

  “She wore the diamond necklace, earrings, and tiara to the ball,” Mahaira said proudly. “She looked gorgeous. Glowing, like a star.”

  The necklace and earrings had been her mother’s and grandmother’s. He had bought them two decades before, when her family had lost its money. The tiara was new—purchased just last year. He remembered the excitement in her eyes, how she had clapped her hands and danced around the room wearing it, naked, beautiful.

  “Does she miss me?”

  Mahaira answered too quickly. “Of course. Terribly.”

  When he hung up, he took out the photo from his wallet and stared at it, reliving the past, the happiness, the hopes and dreams of youth. It was a copy of the picture that always stood on his desk at his Arabian horse spread in Maryland, his home base. There she was—a glorious young Gemma in her tight long formal gown, the family diamonds sparkling at her ears and around her throat—and he in his rented tuxedo. A long time ago now, when they were in their early twenties and deeply in love.

  His cell phone rang. Putting the photo away, he answered.

  It was Preston, sounding jubilant. “Catherine Doyle is dead, and I have the information about where Ryder and Blake are going in Istanbul.”

  “Give me the details.”

  “The contact is Okan Biçer, a calligraphy seller in the Grand Bazaar. I’ve hired local men, and I’m on my way.”

  “Good. Let me know.”