by Gayle Lynds
As the waitress passed, he ordered real coffee. “What’s worrying us about Dad’s clippings is the focus on Pakistan and Afghanistan, where the Taliban is strong. The two countries share a border through the mountains, but it’s an artificial one the Brits created in the nineteenth century. The people on both sides—mostly Pashtuns—have never accepted it. For them the entire region has always been theirs. As for Pakistan, it’s in crisis and has pulled its troops from the North-West Frontier Province. If the province falls to the jihadists, the whole country could crash. At the same time, Afghanistan has taken on its own defenses, so the U.S. and NATO have only a limited presence. Warlords rule the borderlands, and there’s concern whether they have the country’s best interests at heart, since many have jihadist connections.”
Eva sighed worriedly. “And somewhere in there may be where your father thought something awful was being planned.”
They worked two more hours without finding Robin Miller. Eva had another frappe, and he ordered another traditional Greek coffee. The sun was below the horizon, sending a violet cloak across the street’s paving stones.
“It’s discouraging.” She put down her cell, leaned back in her chair, and stretched. “Where is that woman?”
“God knows.” He leaned back, too. Just when he picked up his mobile again to phone another hotel, it rang. Quickly he touched the On button.
It was the NSA tracker. “One of the disposable cells was turned on briefly. But it’s off now. I’ll let you know if it’s activated again.” He relayed an address. Judd jotted it down and turned the paper so Eva could see it.
“It’s near,” she said excitedly. “South of us but still in Plaka.”
53
WHEN THE book club meeting concluded, Chapman opened the door. Mahaira was sitting in the foyer, hands folded neatly in her lap. As the members of the club trooped past to prepare for an evening on the town, she rose, smiling.
“She’s taking a bath,” she whispered.
Eagerly he headed across the carpet, removing the long-ago photo of beautiful blond Gemma from his pocket, burning her image into his mind.
Flushed with excitement, he hid it again and opened the bathroom door onto the opulent sanctuary of the bath, with its spacious glass shower, ornate full-length mirror, and marble-clad floor, walls, and ceiling. The air was infused with the fragrance of camellia-scented bath oil. Beneath the softly glowing crystal chandelier was the massive soaking tub set on a pedestal in the center of the enormous room. Bubbles rose above it, and above them was his gorgeous wife.
Her hair was piled on her head, a mass of golden curls, her smooth shoulders fragile and sweet. She turned to look at him, the vibrancy of youth in her violet-colored eyes, aquiline nose, and good chin.
“You’re here at last, Martin. How wonderful to see you.” Her voice was musical. “Bring me a towel, will you?”
“Later.” Stripping off his clothes, he stalked toward her.
Her laughter sang. She balled up a washcloth and threw it, sopping, at him.
He sidestepped and climbed the pedestal naked. He slid into the tub’s warm water.
She glided through the water toward him, bubbles cascading away. “I’ve missed you. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” He pulled her to him, running his hands hungrily over her breasts, her thighs.
“Umm,” she purred. “Umm, umm.”
He arched her backward and nipped her shoulders. Kissed the hollow of her throat. She laughed happily, the vibrations sending shudders through him. He felt her hands on his cock, stroking, twisting, pulling.
Fever inflaming his brain, he slid his hands under her bottom and lifted, his fingers digging into muscle. She licked his ears, the tip of his nose, and locked onto his mouth. The taste of her sent a titanic wave through him. Her legs straddling him, he lowered her slowly, then, in a heated rush, pulled her down and made love to her. To Gemma.
THEY DRESSED in the master suite, Beethoven playing from the tall armoire. The long rays of the setting sun spread across the carpet and touched their naked feet.
Wearing a long white skirt with a tight waist and a red silk strapless top, she sat on a brocaded chair, slipped on high heels studded with diamonds, and buckled the tiny straps around her slim ankles.
“Well, that was a waste.” Chuckling, she sat up and gestured at the smoothly made bed. “I’d planned to be lying here undressed for you.”
“How’s Gemma?” he asked casually as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. He watched her reflection in it. She had put on her makeup, and her lips were like rubies. She looked and sounded so much like Gemma his heart ached.
“Mother’s fine. She’s in Monte Carlo with her new boyfriend. I do wish she’d settle down. She’s costing you a fortune.”
Gemma had been married five times, but never to him. The summer they graduated from college, her family had given her a choice—either end the relationship or be disinherited. To spare her the pain of choosing, he left California and hitchhiked across the country to New York City, where he dove into the pirana-infested sea of finance, determined to earn the wealth that would make him acceptable. By the time he had, she had married her second husband, who drank, gambled, and went through all her money. That husband was Shelly’s father.
“She looked beautiful at the San Moritz party,” Shelly said. “But she never mentioned the family necklace and earrings. Or the new tiara you bought me. I wore all of them, you know.”
“Mahaira told me. I’m glad you enjoy them so much.”
“Mother loves diamonds, too. She must miss having them a lot. I offered to give the necklace and earrings back to her, but she wouldn’t take them. As long as I can remember, I think she’s hated you. Why is that? She won’t tell me.”
“I suspect that’s more her parents’ attitude than her own.” It was what he always said, because he had never understood why Gemma had been so furious at him for leaving California. It was some foolishness about insisting she had a right to be part of such an important decision. Now he breezed past his wife’s questions by focusing on what she could understand: “I doubt she’s ever really hated me, but now I agree she’s quite unhappy about the difference in age between you and me.” And, he hoped, jealous.
Shelly shook her head, her golden hair floating across her bare shoulders, and studied her four-carat diamond engagement ring and the diamond-encrusted wedding band. “I thought when you bought the family jewels to help her, she’d get over it.”
He said nothing. His tie satisfactory, he turned.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” she asked eagerly.
“I have business,” he said kindly.
A cold look crossed her face. “Okay. I’ll fly to Cabo, then. Friends invited me.”
“Where’s your wrap, darling? We’ll be late for cocktails.” While they were separated, he yearned for her. But when they were together . . . In the end, she was not Gemma.
As they crossed the living room, his cell phone vibrated against his chest.
Looking at her, he took it out. “Sorry, darling.”
She nodded, her face frozen. Alabaster.
He went into the dining room and closed the door.
It was Preston, and he sounded jubilant. “I just got a call from my NSA contact. Robin Miller turned on her cell phone, then turned it off. I’ve flown in men from the library for backup and to bring supplies, and we’re in Plaka—that’s where she was. We’ll find her and The Book of Spies very soon now.”
54
ROBIN MILLER had had a busy two days in Athens, and at last she was beginning to feel prepared as she walked through the twilight and deeper into Plaka. Besides oversize sunglasses, she wore a wig—a simple brown hairdo ending just below her ears. Long bangs brushed her dyed black eyebrows. Brown contact lenses colored her blue eyes, and she wore no eyeliner or mascara, no lipstick.
Her clothes were two sizes too large—baggy cotton pants and a loose button-down cotton shirt
. Only her battered tennis shoes fit—bought at the Monastiraki Flea Market. She carried a shopping bag she had found on top of a trash can. It was stuffed with crumpled newspapers, while her billfold and other items were in her pockets. The first time she caught a reflection of herself in a shop window, she had not recognized the dowdy, overweight woman. She had smiled, pleased.
Now she needed money. As usual, Plaka marketplace was bustling. Vendors called from the doors of small shops, promoting their wares. A herd of black-robed Orthodox monks passed, holding black cell phones to their ears. She entered the little bank she had chosen and went up to a teller. Before disappearing to join the Library of Gold, she had put her life savings into a numbered Swiss account. Just a half hour ago, she had called the phone number she memorized long ago, releasing the funds to this bank.
The teller led her to a desk, where a bank officer had forms waiting. She filled in the account number and other required information and orally gave him her password.
“How do you wish the funds?” he asked.
“Four thousand in euros. A cashier’s check for two thousand more. The rest in a second cashier’s check. Leave the line to whom the checks are to be made out blank.”
“So much money. Would you not like to open an account? It will be safe here.”
“Thank you, no.”
He nodded and left. Turning in her chair, she watched the people coming and going.
When he returned, he ceremoniously handed her a fat white envelope. “If there is anything more I can do to help with your financial matters, madame, please tell me.”
She thanked him again and left. In total, she had about $40,000. It was not enough to ensure her safety from the book club for long. Still, at least she would have immediate cash.
The sun had set, and the shadows were deep across Plaka’s crowded streets. She liked the drama of the approaching night, and it would help to hide her. She slid the envelope inside the waistband of her pants. Her feet felt light, and her heart was hopeful as she wound south through the marketplace. She wanted to be as close as possible to where she had left her rolling suitcase and The Book of Spies.
As she walked, she took out her cell phone and dialed. Sometimes fortune smiled. Trying to negotiate her freedom with Martin Chapman had frightened her, but now she had an alternative.
When the man’s voice answered, she asked, “Is this Judd Ryder?”
“I am. Are you Robin Miller?” He had a strong voice. She liked that.
“Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”
“I’m with the U.S. government. Do you know the location of the Library of Gold?”
So that was what he wanted. She ignored the question. “How did you hear about me?”
“I’ve been hunting for the library. I had a clue that took me to Istanbul, but Preston found me there and tried to eliminate me. There was a note in his pocket with your name, ‘Athens,’ and ‘The Book of Spies’ written on it. Earlier, in London, I’d gotten two phone numbers off Charles Sherback’s cell, but I didn’t know for sure to whom they belonged. I phoned both with the same message in hopes one of them was yours.”
She bit her lip. “You know who killed Charles?”
“We’ll talk about that when we meet.”
She had been trying to put Charles out of her mind. Whenever she thought about him, a bottomless ache filled her. The loss was so great, so raw, her world so destroyed, she had a hard time thinking. After several deep breaths, she considered her situation. Ryder had escaped Preston, which went a long way toward indicating he might really be able to protect her. And she understood his hunger to find the library.
“I’m sure Preston is searching for me,” she told him. “You’re lucky to have gotten away.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. Explain why I should be doing business with you.” The voice had grown harder.
“I worked at the Library of Gold, but I never learned exactly where we were. I can tell you the library is on an island, but I don’t know which island. We’re always flown in with hoods over our heads, usually from Athens. There’s a helipad, a dock, and three buildings that look as if they’re a vacation compound, with a swimming pool and tennis courts. About twenty people are on staff, most of them security. Tomorrow night is the annual banquet, so beginning today Preston has been putting on even more guards.”
He seemed to like her answers. “Are there other islands in sight?”
“There’s one far away. When the day’s particularly clear, you can see the tip of it.”
“Do you have The Book of Spies?”
“I’ve hidden it in Athens, and I’m willing to sell it to you.”
“All right. Let’s meet.”
“I want five million dollars for it,” she said firmly. “Before you object, the Getty paid five-point-eight million for The Northumberland Bestiary just a few years ago.” The Bestiary was a rare thirteenth-century English Gothic illuminated manuscript. “This is the only copy ever made of The Book of Spies and should be worth a lot more, so I’m offering you a bargain.”
“You’re right; it’s a good deal if you look at it from your perspective. On the other hand I’m offering something of even greater value—I’m going to get you safely out of Athens. What’s your life worth?”
She felt a chill. “I’ll settle for three million.”
“Much better. I’ll make the phone call to release the funds, but it’ll take a few hours for it to be deposited into your account. Or you can have it in a cashier’s check or any other financial instrument you like. By tomorrow morning you’ll have your money.”
“A cashier’s check will be fine.”
With a flush of excitement, she looked around. She had left Plaka and had entered the Makrigianni district. She was on the Dionysiou Areopagitou, a wide pedestrian boulevard. To her left stood a line of stylish houses in Art Deco and neoclassical styles, and to her right was the massive Acropolis, the city’s long-ago spiritual center. With a thrill she stared up the slope. She could see only a white crest of the spotlighted ruins high above. Then she noticed people were streaming past her, toward the entrance to the Acropolis park, which lay below and on which were the remains of what had been ancient Athens’s intellectual and cultural center. She could see bright lights in the Theater of Dionysus. There must be a concert or show of some kind, she decided. A crowd could be useful.
She explained where she would wait for him. “What do you look like?”
When he told her, she described her disguise.
“I’ll be there in only a few minutes,” he assured her.
CONTROLLING HIS frustration, Preston stood with his cell phone in his hand as he and two of his men scanned for Robin. They were in an alcove on Adrianou, Plaka’s main street, which was packed with tourist shops. She had phoned from the outdoor café across the way. They had searched the area and seen no sign of her, which told him either she had spotted them and was hiding, or she had moved on.
When his cell rang, he snapped it up. The caller was Irene, his NSA contact.
“Your person of interest has been talking on her cell again.” Irene sounded nervous. “The call ended about fifteen minutes ago. She was heading south. I can’t help you anymore, Preston. Something’s happened here. Everyone’s being watched. I had to get into my car and drive off the premises to phone you. I’m worried they’re going to investigate my NRO queries and searches.” The NRO was the National Reconnaissance Office, which designed, built, and operated U.S. recon satellites—and collected the data from them.
Inwardly he swore. “Give me the exact information. Everything you’ve learned. I’ll take it from here.”
55
THE AIR was warm, the stars bright overhead as Judd and Eva hurried up wide marble paving stones to the entrance of the Acropolis architectural park. Carrying their large duffel, he bought tickets, and they passed through an open gate to where a wide path climbed a gentle slope. Tall cypress and olive trees swayed in a light wind, spectral in t
he night. He could see an ancient amphitheater in an open area, a magnificent sight. Its rows of crumbled white stone benches rose up the hill in a semicircle, and for a moment he imagined what it must have been like two millennia ago, the vast crowds, the excitement in the air.
The theater’s base—the stage—was brightly illuminated by klieg lights. A woman in classical Greek dress stood before the large audience, which sat on blankets and cushions on the remains of the terraced rows. As she spoke into a microphone, a cluster of men and women in white robes and tunics cinched with colored braids waited at the side of the stage. A small camera crew was filming.
“Along here beneath the Acropolis,” she was telling her listeners, “are the ruins of the world’s first complex of buildings dedicated to the performing arts. This noble old theater dates back to before Alexander the Great. On this very stage immortal masterpieces were premiered—and drama and comedy were born.”
“Am I right that we’re looking at the Theater of Dionysus?” Judd asked Eva as they neared.
“Yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? When it was new, the walls, stone seating, and thrones were covered in marble and carved with satyrs and lions’ paws and gods and goddesses.”
Without being asked, she clasped her satchel to her side and slipped into the shadow of a tall marble block across the path from the rear of the open stage, and Judd climbed steps on the west side. The speaker continued, alternating her lecture in Greek and English.
Twenty terraces up, a woman was sitting alone at the edge, a shopping bag at her feet. She looked stiff, stressed. A couple with four children and more people sat in the same row, but close to the center. The stage lights did not reach this far, leaving only the illumination of the moon and stars to show the woman’s brown hair and dumpy figure. If he had not known she was Robin Miller, he would not have recognized her.
She slid over to make room for him. “Judd Ryder?” Her tone was strained.
He sat. “Hello, Robin. Ready to get out of Athens?”
