by Gayle Lynds
“What would you say if I told you I’m beginning to think Cathy’s car accident was no accident?”
Matt went rigid. “Fill me in.”
For the next half hour Gloria described the events she knew about or had learned earlier this morning by going through Tucker’s and Cathy’s e-mails and notes. “After Tucker left Catapult, I got a call from him. He’d just captured a janitor at Capitol City market. While I collected the janitor, Tucker left to join Ryder and Blake in Athens.”
“You believe Hudson alerted someone. That’s why the janitor was there to do a wet job on Tucker.”
“Yes.”
Matt thought about it. “It’s flimsy evidence against Hudson at best. Janitors could’ve been taking turns, waiting outside Catapult for days for Tucker to appear.”
“But how did the book club people find Ryder and Blake in Istanbul? Tucker believed the only explanation was someone inside Catapult told them. The one person who knew was Hudson Canon.”
“That damns Hudson—but only if Tucker is right.” Matt changed the subject. “That’s a hell of a thing to do, Gloria. Christ. Sticking the janitor down in the basement on your own authority.”
She lifted her chin. “We’ve got a mole inside Catapult. The operation has to be protected. The guy’s fine. I’ve got his hands and legs cuffed to a heavy chair. He gets three squares a day, better than a lot of people in the world.”
“A desk job hasn’t changed you a damn bit.” He sighed. “All right, I want the janitor.” He picked up the phone on the coffee table, then glanced at her. “I’m going to have to tell Hudson. He could still be innocent.”
Her throat tightened. “ ‘Flimsy evidence.’ I understand.”
He dialed. “Hello, Hudson. This is Matt. Gloria’s sitting with me in my office. She tells me she’s got a two-legged source secured in Catapult’s cellar.” He moved the phone from his ear, and Gloria heard a stream of loud oaths. Then he continued. “We’ll worry about disciplining her later. The man’s a janitor. Tucker was his target. We need to question him. Have two of your people bring him to Langley. I want him here immediately.”
“Tell him I left the keys to the basement on my desk,” Gloria said.
Matt sighed and said into the phone, “The keys are on her desk. We should talk. I want you to come with them. I’ll be in my office.”
“We need to help Tucker,” Gloria said as soon as he had ended the connection. “I checked with Catapult’s com center and found out Blake, Ryder, and he have been looking into a privately owned Aegean island. My guess is that that’s where the Library of Gold is hidden, which means they’re going to be heading for it soon. Maybe they’re already on their way. Judging by all the deaths so far, it’s going to be a very dangerous insertion. But we’ve got a naval base on Crete. We could send fast-rope teams from there.” She peered at her watch. It was nearly six P.M. in Greece.
But Matt was not going to be hurried. “You could be right. Still, first things first—Hudson and the janitor. If Hudson is the mole, then he’s got a handler. The handler could have the information we need. Look at it this way: Maybe Tucker isn’t planning to go to the island. Maybe it’s the wrong island, or something might’ve happened to change his mind altogether. Do you have a way to reach him?”
She shook her head anxiously. “I’m hoping the janitor or Hudson knows more than I do. If not, unless Tucker decides to risk phoning or e-mailing me, he and the others are hanging in the wind.”
“I’m sorry about that. But there’s no way I’m invading a private island in Greece’s territory unless I’ve got something concrete to go on. The last thing Langley needs is an international incident. We’ll just have to trust Tucker’s good sense—and his luck.”
Washington, D.C.
HUDSON CANON could hardly breathe. He turned away from his desk, leaned over, and pounded a fist into his palm. Gritting his teeth, he threw his head back and kept pounding. Eventually the fear eased. Sitting upright, he took long, deep breaths.
Then he phoned Reinhardt Gruen. “We’ve got a problem.” He described the phone call from Matt Kelley at Langley. “What does your janitor know?” Then, demanding: “Does he know about me?”
There was a long pause. With relief he heard a soothing calmness in Gruen’s voice: “It is not the end of the world, my friend,” the German told him. “The assassin was hired anonymously. He has no way to track either us or you. Do as your chief says. Go with the janitor and your people to Langley and act like the great spy chief you are. You are safe.”
Isle of Pericles
FURIOUS ABOUT the botched handling of the situation in Washington, Reinhardt Gruen snapped out a hand with his cell phone. The Isle of Pericles attendant instantly took it and replaced it with a thick towel. Drying himself, Gruen stalked away from the swimming pool.
“Giving up so soon?” Brian Collum challenged from behind. “One more race. What do you say, Reinhardt? Come on, man. Come on!”
Damn Americans, Gruen muttered under his breath. “Hold onto your trunks. I will return.”
He found Martin Chapman sitting behind his desk in his office, surrounded by pedestals on which stood classic marble statues he had collected in Greece. Lined up before him were the library’s four translators, two men and two women, dressed in tuxedos to help serve at the banquet. All scholars, they were graying and had the hunched shoulders of those who spent long hours poring over books. Their expertise was critical to the book club’s ability to use and enjoy the library, and as such, each was treated with a certain amount of deference. That was even more true of the librarians—unless their loyalty was in question.
Gruen put a smile on his face. “I see you are plotting with our great translators, Martin. Are you by any chance finished? I would like to have a word with you.”
Chapman laid two sheets of paper on his desk, then placed a hand possessively on them. “Yes, they’ve just finished a job for me, and they’ve given me a good report. The library’s records are already on the boat. As soon as the banquet is over, they’ll pack their personal things. They’ll be ready to go at daybreak.”
“Good, good.” Gruen stepped aside to let the translators leave. When the door closed, he scowled. “I just received a call from Hudson Canon in Washington.” He fell into a leather chair. “The janitor Preston sent is locked up at Catapult and will soon be on his way to Langley. Canon has been ordered to go with them. I told him he had no exposure and calmed him down. What is the truth?”
Chapman grimaced. “The janitor knows Preston hired him. Goddammit all to hell. When will this end!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “We’ll handle Andersen, Ryder, and Blake if they manage to reach the island. But we can’t let either the janitor or Canon get to Langley.” He snatched the phone from his desk and punched in numbers. “Preston, I need you. Now!”
Washington, D.C.
THE MORNING traffic was thick as Michael Hawthorne drove Catapult’s only armored van out of the city and onto the bridge across the Potomac. Hudson Canon sat beside him, arms crossed, fighting nerves as he planned what he would say to Matt. In the rear seat was the shackled janitor, while next to him Brandon Ohr kept guard with an assault rifle. The two young covert officers had been happy to get away from their desks at Catapult even for such a small assignment.
“I heard Debi has a new boyfriend,” Michael was saying.
“She ever level that killer gaze on you?” Brandon said. “My God, that woman has balls.”
“Agreed. What a turn-on—” He stopped. “Do you see what I see?” He stared into his rearview mirror.
“I’ve been watching it. A black Volvo, heavy as a tank. It’s just closed in. Pull out.” Ohr spoke in the usual neutral tones of the professional spy when facing potential trouble.
Canon’s head spun around and he peered through the back window. The Volvo was right behind, its front bumper only ten feet distant. On one side of them was speeding traffic, while on the other the guardrail rushed past—and far
below was the fast-moving Potomac River.
Without activating his turn signal, Hawthorne gave a sharp yank to the steering wheel, driving the van away and into the safety of the inner lane.
But suddenly a loud horn gave a long blast. A behemoth truck was rushing up on them, preparing to pass, its big cab high above. Instantly, Hawthorne accelerated, pushing their van into the open space ahead, catching up with the red pickup that had preceded them onto the bridge. Canon saw if they could get clear, Hawthorne could move the van into the inner lane and outrun the big truck.
But almost instantly red taillights flashed and held. The pickup was slowing. And the truck was keeping pace, while the Volvo was locked on their tail.
As Ohr lowered his window and raised his assault rifle, Canon snapped to Hawthorne: “They’ve got us trapped. I don’t care what you do, but get us out of here!”
Before Hawthorne could respond, the big cab of the truck slammed into the van’s side. The van yawed. Canon was thrown against his seat belt, then deep into the hard seat. Gripping his windowsill with one hand, Ohr let out a long blast from the assault rifle, ripping through the passenger door of the towering truck cab. Immediately Hawthorne floored the gas pedal and rammed the rear of the pickup.
Too late. The cab smashed again into their van and held. Hawthorne fought the steering wheel, trying to push back. But by inches, then by feet, the van was pushed to the side. Canon’s throat went dry as he peered over into the water.
There was the screech of metal against metal as the van crashed along the guardrail. Sparks exploded past his window. The truck nudged the van one last time, and suddenly they smashed through the rail and sailed off into the air. Canon’s heart thundered. He screamed, and the van dove headfirst into the Potomac.
66
The Isle of Pericles
DRENCHED IN moonlight, the Library of Gold’s private island rose suddenly from the dark sea, its high craggy ridges pale, its deep valleys eerily shadowed. Judd was studying it from the window of the Cessna Super Cargomaster piloted by Tucker’s friend Haris Naxos. Night lights off, the craft was circling and would soon climb to jump altitude: ten thousand feet.
Time had run out, and they were going in without backup. All were hyper alert and not talking about the danger.
“There’s the orange grove and the landing spot we picked,” Eva said.
Eva and Judd were sitting together in seats that stretched along the cargo bin’s side walls. Like Tucker, who was in the copilot’s seat, they wore black jumpsuits and helmets. Infrared goggles dangled from their necks, and black grease covered their faces. They had come prepared not only with their pistols, which were holstered to their waists, but Judd and Tucker had grenades and mini Uzis lashed to their legs. Tucker wore a parachute pack on his back, while Judd had a larger one, holding a bigger canopy that would support both his and Eva’s weight. The two men had additional packs containing supplies. Eva carried nothing on her back, since she would be strapped to Judd.
Judd nodded. “Yes, it should work well.” He was loaded with painkillers and feeling only a dull ache in his side.
They had been observing the headlights of Jeeps roaming over the island, looking for patterns. One had driven past the orange grove. Now, a half hour later, another passed.
“How’s the air clarity seem to you, Haris?” Tucker asked as the plane climbed.
“It is no change. Looks good for you to land.” Haris Naxos was gray-haired, angular, and tough-looking; he still did occasional contract work. “You are no spring rooster, Tucker. Night jumping is dangerous. Be careful.”
“I know. There are old jumpers and bold jumpers, but there are no old, bold jumpers.”
Haris laughed, but no one else did. As usual Judd was planning what he would do if the chutes did not deploy, the lines became tangled, all the myriad events that could go wrong.
After a while, Haris asked, “You remember everything I told you, Eva?” He had given her a half hour of instructions and walked her through a video of tandem skydiving, at his hangar in the Athens airport. He owned a parachuting and plane rental business.
“There’s no way I’m going to forget anything.” A fleck of nervousness was in her voice.
“Excellent. Then I make the announcement—we are at jump altitude, and we are approaching the drop zone.”
Judd and Eva stood up in the plane. She turned around, and he snapped their straps together and tightened his, then hers until her back was secure against his chest. Her body was tense. Her rose-water scent filled his mind. Quickly he dismissed it.
“Okay?” he asked curtly.
“Okay.”
As they put on goggles, Tucker crawled into the rear cargo area. “I’ll open the door.”
He was moving agilely, his expression focused. As Judd and Eva hung onto the ceiling straps, he unlocked the door, swung the handle, and pushed. Cold air blasted in.
Turning on the visual altimeter that was secured inside his helmet, the reader in easy peripheral view, Judd positioned Eva so they were facing the cockpit. Their right sides were inches from the black void.
“Go!” the pilot shouted.
“Try to enjoy it, Eva,” Judd whispered.
Before she could speak, he rolled them out of the plane. Abruptly they were in free fall, soaring at speeds in excess of a hundred sixty miles an hour, their arms and legs extended together like wings. The silky air enveloped him, and there was no sense of falling—air resistence gave a feeling of weight and direction. Checking their orientation over the island, he reveled in the exhilaration of complete freedom.
“This is one of those rare moments when you know what it’s like to be a bird in flight,” he told her. “We can do anything a bird can do—except go back up.”
As Tucker jumped out of the plane, Judd repositioned Eva until they were sitting in a ball in the air. He somersaulted her, then straightened her out again, rolling them onto their sides, their backs, and around again, spinning freely. He felt her tense more, and then she gave a joyful laugh.
Returning them to a normal descent, he reached behind and threw out the drogue parachute, lines and small canopy black against the stars. All was well so far. The drogue slowed their free-fall speed from two people to that of a single skydiver. He saw Tucker was nodding, indicating his equipment was working properly, too.
At twenty-five hundred feet, Judd pulled a toggle, and the deployment bag fell out and released the main canopy—a black ram-air parachute. It caught the wind and spread out into the shape of a large cupped wedge. There were a few seconds of intense deceleration, and then they were skydiving at about twelve miles an hour. He studied the area beneath them. Noted the forest of citrus trees, the open space of weeds and boulders awash in shades of green through his infrared goggles, and the long ravine to the south. A Jeep was just passing the trees, so they had about a half hour until the next one arrived. Their biggest immediate risk was broken ankles, assuming they missed the trees and boulders.
As they continued to soar horizontally, lower and lower, he tugged on the lines, directing their flight. So far no more headlights showed near the drop zone.
At one hundred feet, he felt a huge downdraft, and it seemed as if they were heading into a black-green hole. Again Eva tensed. He drew on the lines, controlling their direction and silently gliding, gliding. Satisfied, he used his body to push Eva upright and his knees to angle her knees into a crouch. They swept between tall boulders and landed hard, stumbling to a stop just before they reached the road that skirted the trees. He could feel her heaving for air.
“You did it.” He unsnapped the straps that joined them. “Good job. Now let’s get the hell out of the way.”
He released the drogue and ram-air chutes, and they hurried off. As they gathered the canopies, Tucker slid in low. He yanked his lines, barely missing a shoulder-high boulder. Knees bent, he landed and staggered, finally catching his balance.
Standing stationary, he lifted his head. “Screw you, Hari
s. This old rooster still has a hell of a lot of life left in him.” Then he smiled and collected his chutes.
“Everything went right,” Eva said excitedly. “The parachutes opened. No one broke a leg. I could get used to this.”
Then a bird called from the trees. There was rustling in the grove—fast movement.
“Shit.” Judd pulled out his Beretta. “They were waiting for us. Run!”
Weapons in hands, they tore south across the hard earth toward the ravine. Judd glanced behind and saw six men dressed in black swarming out of the trees, aiming M4 assault rifles. They had night-vision goggles. Shooting as they ran, the men poured out fusillades of rounds. The bullets whined and bit into earth and rocks. Tucker grunted. A round clipped Judd’s ear. All three fell flat. Judd pointed, and Eva scuttled into the shelter of a tall rock formation. Judd and Tucker followed.
From the southwest, a Jeep’s headlights came to life, and the vehicle rushed along the road toward them. The air reverberated with the noise of feet pounding and the engine’s growl.
“Christ,” Tucker grumbled. “I hate being ambushed.”
“Are you hit?” Judd gazed at Tucker, then checked Eva’s blackened face, saw the tightness of her mouth. She seemed all right.
Tucker shook his head. “I’m fine. That’s a cute cut on your ear, Judd. Glad they didn’t take your brains. The ravine isn’t far. Eva, we’ll cover you. As soon as we start shooting, stay low and run like hell. Can you do that?”
“Of course.” She crouched.
The two men took either side of the rocky mound. Judd peered at Tucker. He nodded. They edged out, firing automatic bursts from their Uzis.
AS THE ear-bleeding gunfire continued behind her, Eva reached the ravine and dropped quickly at the edge, legs dangling over. From the NSA photos, they had calculated it averaged ten feet deep. It led around and down toward the compound. The shadows were a thick green. Only the top of her side of the nearly vertical slope was slightly illuminated, showing raw dirt, weeds, and rocks. Gripping her S&W in both hands the way Judd had showed her, in seconds she was plummeting down on her back into the abyss.
