by Gayle Lynds
But as she slid deep into the green darkness her gaze was attracted to a boulder across from her at the bottom. Then she saw a small movement there, an arm. A man was squatting to make himself small. Fear started to take over her mind. She repressed it and aimed her pistol. Suddenly there was movement to her right. And she swung the gun, a mistake she realized instantly. A foot slashed through the air. Her pistol flew, and two very strong men were on her.
THE JEEP was just a thousand feet away. Judd saw one man in it, driving. For some reason the man stopped the vehicle, engine still running, and leaned across and opened the passenger door.
Eva had deployed safely, so Judd gestured at Tucker. Tucker grimaced and looked as if he were going to argue. Then he leaped up and ran.
Judd leaned out again and shot three bursts. They had managed to take down one man, and the others were lying flat, shooting whenever they thought they had a target and sometimes when they did not.
Before the guards had time to return fire, Judd sprinted, and Tucker vanished down the ravine. Judd did not look, just jumped and let his heels act as inefficient brakes as he slipped and careened down the steep incline into heavy green soup.
Tucker’s head was rotating. “Where is she?”
“Eva,” Judd called in a low voice.
There was no answer, but there was a yell from above.
“They’re coming,” Tucker said. “Let’s move.”
“Not without Eva. Eva!” Judd shouted.
“Dammit, son. They’ve probably got her. She’d be waiting otherwise. Maybe that’s why the Jeep stopped with its door open—to pick up her and whoever captured her. You’re not going to do her any good if you get caught or killed. Move.”
Judd said nothing. Instead he turned to go down the ravine to the Jeep. To Eva.
But Tucker slammed the back of his helmet. “Dammit, Judson. The other direction.”
Judd shook his head to clear it, then ripped off the helmet. They ran southeast, toward the compound. Tucker pulled off his helmet, and both replenished their ammo. The ravine was uneven, filled with rocks slowing their progress.
“This isn’t working,” Judd said, listening to the noise of the feet running along the top of the ravine, overtaking them. “We need to get rid of the bastards. You go. I’ll handle them.”
From a trouser loop, he unhooked a frag grenade and held it in his right hand. Tucker saw it and accelerated, while Judd slid low into the deep shadows on the ravine’s north side.
He waited motionless as the guards approached.
“They’re heading to the house,” a confident bass voice said.
Radio or walkie-talkie, Judd thought.
“Sure,” the man continued. “No problem. We’ll get them.”
They were almost above him. Judd inhaled, exhaled, pulled the safety pin with his left hand, rolled the grenade over the crest, and sprinted, his boots hitting rocks so fast his speed kept him upright. White light flashed. The explosion thundered. As dirt rained down, he caught up with Tucker, who had hiked himself up the side and was peering back.
“No one’s upright,” Tucker reported. “They’ve got to have some serious injuries. That’ll keep them busy.”
They jogged off, but Judd saw Tucker was tiring. Judd slowed them to a fast walk and took out the reader that followed the tracker in Eva’s ankle bracelet.
“She’s in the compound already. Looks as if she’s a couple of levels down under the main house.” He gazed at Tucker. “Did you see any Jeeps anywhere near us?”
“Nary a one.”
“Too bad. I was hoping we could grab one. Okay, Plan B. When we get closer to the compound, I’ve got an idea how to get us inside.”
“It’d better be a damn good one,” Tucker said. “They sure as hell are going to be ready for us.”
67
THE BOOK club was about to start the third course. In their tailored tuxedos, with pistols holstered underneath, the men lounged around the great oval table in the spacious Library of Gold, firm in their knowledge the intruders would be killed if not by the guards, then certainly by them.
As they talked, their gazes kept returning to the magnificent illuminated manuscripts that blanketed the walls from marble floor to cove ceiling. Row after row of gold covers faced out, their hand-hammered faces reverberating with light that echoed from wall to wall and across the table like visual music. From dark, rich colors to soft pastels, the jewels and gems glittered and beckoned. The entire room seemed cast in a magical glow. Being here was always a visceral experience, and Martin Chapman sighed with contentment.
“Gentlemen, you have before you two exquisite Montrachet dry white wines,” the sommelier explained in a thick French accent. “One is Domaine Leflaive, and the other Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. You will be possessed by their thrill factor—the hallmark of splendor in wine.” A muscular man with the usual snooty expression of a top wine steward, he disappeared back against the books near the door, where his bureau of wine bottles stood.
Chapman was enjoying himself, absorbing the library’s intoxicating blend of physicality, knowledge, history, and privilege. As the tall candles flickered, he cut into his Maine lobster with grilled portobello mushrooms and fig sauce and chewed slowly, savoring the ambrosial flavors. Taking a mouthful of one of the whites, he held it against his palate. With a rush of pleasure, he swallowed.
“I disagree,” Thomas Randklev was saying. “Take Freud—he told his doctor collecting old objects, including books, was for him an addiction second in intensity only to nicotine.”
“There’s another side to it,” Brian Collum said. “We’re the only species capable of contemplating our own deaths, so of course we need something larger than ourselves to make the knowledge tolerable. As Freud would say, it’s the price for our highly developed frontal lobes—and the glue that holds us together.”
“I’m glad it’s not just about money.” Petr Klok grinned.
Laughter echoed from around the table.
The truth was, Chapman thought to himself, all of them had started as great readers, and if life had been otherwise, each would perhaps have taken a different path. For himself, he had accomplished far more than he had ever dreamed as a boy.
“I have one for you,” Carl Lindström challenged. “ ‘When you give someone a book, you don’t give him just paper, ink, and glue, you give him the possibility of a whole new life.’ Who wrote that?”
“Christopher Morley,” Maurice Dresser said instantly. “And John Hill Burton argued that a great library couldn’t be constructed; it was the growth of ages. As the Library of Gold is”—the seventy-five-year-old pointed at himself—“and I am.”
The group chuckled, and Chapman felt his pager vibrate against his chest. He checked—Preston. Annoyed, he excused himself as the conversation moved on to assessing the two ethereal white burgundies. As he left, the sommelier was called over to join the debate.
Chapman entered the first of the two elevators. It rose silently, a solid capsule, but then, all of the underground stories were atomic bomb-hardened bunkers. On the highest belowground floor, he stepped out into the porcelain, steel, and granite of the kitchen. A hallway extended beyond it, where doors opened onto offices and storage. Farther was the enormous garage.
Gazing around, he inhaled the mouthwatering aromas of searing medallions of springbok, gazelle from South Africa. The chefs de cuisine, in their tall white hats, were barking orders in French as they prepared the course. The sous-chefs, chefs de partie, and waiters chosen from the library staff scurried.
Preston had a harried expression as he turned from the kitchen and met Chapman at the elevator.
“You need to talk to them, sir,” Preston said.
“Are they still in my office?”
“Yes. Three men are watching them.”
As they rode the elevator down to the third level, he asked, “What’s the latest with Ryder and Andersen?” Chapman knew they had killed two of the guards and badly inju
red four. Preston had sent out additional men on foot to find them.
“I’ve increased the security around the compound. Everyone’s on high alert.”
“They’d damn well better be.”
The elevator door opened, and they walked out into the sitting area where the staff gathered for informal meetings. As expected it was deserted, since everyone was working. The doors along the hall were for offices, while the last one enclosed a gym with the latest cardio and Pilates equipment.
Preston pushed open the door to Chapman’s office and stepped back.
Chapman marched past toward a frozen tableau of defiance. Motionless and angry, Eva Blake and Yitzhak Law were roped to chairs, their hands tied behind them. Blake was still in her skydiving jumpsuit, her face blackened. Neither seemed to recognize him, but then, it was doubtful they would know his world.
He ignored the guards and pulled up a chair in front of Blake and Law. “I’ll make this easy. I’ve had the translators draw up a list of potential sources for the questions the book club will be asking during our tournament tonight. Since we have texts in the library that have been lost for centuries, there’s no way you’d know their contents. Others you’ll know already of course. Your job is to try to figure out the correct book for each question. You’ll be given a chart showing where all of the illuminated manuscripts are shelved, and a few descriptive sentences about each. If you get all of the book club’s questions correct, I’ll let you live. That’s called incentive.”
They glanced at each other, then returned stony gazes to him.
Chapman looked back at Preston. “Bring in Cavaletti.” He sank back in his chair, furious about the dinner he was missing.
In seconds Roberto Cavaletti was shoved into the room. “Yitzhak, Eva,” he said. The small man was disheveled, his bearded face drawn.
Before anyone could say more, Chapman ordered, “Hit him, Preston.”
As Law and Blake shouted and pulled against their ropes, Cavaletti cringed, and Preston rabbit-punched his cheek, connecting with a solid thump.
Cavaletti grabbed his face with a trembling hand, staggered, and fell to his knees.
“You bastard!” Blake yelled.
The professor’s face paled. “You’re monsters.”
“Rethink this,” Chapman snapped. “There are two of you. Together you have a much better chance of winning tonight than one of you would alone. If you won’t do it for yourselves, do it for your friend Roberto here.”
A large welt was rising on Cavaletti’s left cheek.
Yitzhak Law stared. “All right, but only on condition you leave Roberto alone. No more injuries.”
“No, Yitzhak,” Roberto said. “No, no. Whatever they want, you will not stop the inevitable.”
Blake glared at Chapman. “Very well. I agree, too. Do we have your guarantee you’ll let all of us go if we win?”
“Of course,” Chapman said easily. “Kardasian, see both are cleaned up and presentable.” He stood and walked out.
Preston caught up with him in the sitting room. “I’ll keep you apprised of the situation with Ryder and Andersen.”
Chapman nodded, his mind already back at the dinner. Just then they heard one of the elevator doors close. They hurried and saw it had stopped at the lowest level, number four—the Library of Gold. Immediately they stepped into the other elevator, and Preston punched the button.
“Who in hell could it be?” Preston’s expression was grim.
The elevator door opened onto an elegant anteroom. Straight ahead was an arched portal that led to offices along the windowed exterior corridor. Instead they sprinted left, and Preston opened a carved wood door onto the library and tonight’s banquet.
The sommelier was walking toward his bureau, his broad tuxedoed back to them. At the sound of the door, he turned. They saw he was carrying two bottles of red wine—unopened.
Preston made a curt gesture, and the sommelier approached. Although as arrogant appearing as before, the man’s eyes hinted at guilt. He held up the bottles as if they were a shield.
“What were you doing on the third floor?” Preston demanded.
“I am very sorry, sir. I found I must go to the kitchen for more wine. You gentlemen are more appreciative than I had expected. I was rushing to return and touched the wrong button in the elevator. Of course, I did not leave the elevator until here.”
Chapman felt Preston relax.
“Resume your duties,” Chapman said.
The sommelier bowed low and left. Chapman hurried to his dinner.
68
TUCKER AND Judd sat in the deep shadow of a gnarled olive tree above the compound. As they cleaned their faces and hands and brushed their hair, they studied the buildings and the fifteen men patrolling in the illumination of the compound’s security lights. All had M4s and were watching the grounds and hills alertly.
“Wonder how many are in the main house,” Tucker said in a low voice.
“With luck, they won’t notice us with so many new guards. That’ll work to our advantage.”
“I like being the new guy. Fewer expectations for you.” Tucker inspected his Uzi, then his knife and wire garotte. “The rear door looks good.”
“My thought, too. You up for this?”
“Can you still ride a bicycle?”
“Like a son of a bitch,” Judd said.
They slung their Uzis onto their backs and slithered on their bellies down among the tall grasses and bushes of the slope. Small rocks cut into Tucker’s jumpsuit. After pausing several heart-stopping times when guards peered out onto the hillside, they reached the edge of the mesa and hid behind a row of manicured shrubs.
Waiting until the closest sentries were looking elsewhere, they ran behind the pool shed and crouched. Judd pointed to himself. Tucker nodded. He hated not being the one out front, but reality was reality—Judd was younger, stronger, and in better condition to take out the guard who would cross in front of the shed soon.
Listening to the sentry’s feet pad across the marble path, Tucker crab-walked after Judd to the shed’s far side. Judd inched forward, taking out a mirror with an attached bendable arm. He extended the arm, watched the mirror, then tossed both to Tucker and stood, pulling out his garotte.
From his low position, Tucker saw one leg appear and then a second. Immediately Judd stepped close behind the guard and dropped the garotte around his neck, yanking. The man fell back. Strangled noises came from his throat as Judd pulled him around and into the shed’s shelter. Tucker ripped the sentry’s M4 away and slapped on plastic cuffs. The sentry gasped, seemed to try to yell. Frantically he punched back with elbows and feet, torquing his body.
Tucker used the mirror to check for more guards, then looked back. Judd’s grim face was frozen as he avoided the flailing blows. He lowered the man as he went limp.
They stripped him of his gear and clothes. While Judd put on the corpse’s black khakis and black microfiber turtleneck, Tucker dressed the dead man in Judd’s jumpsuit and smeared black greasepaint on his face and the backs of his hands. Peering carefully around, Tucker dragged him to the edge of the compound and rolled him deep into grasses.
When he returned, Judd was dressed and outfitted with the guard’s radio, pistol, flashlight, and M4. He hooked on two grenades and checked the tracker to Eva’s ankle bracelet, then slid it into his pants pocket. He pointed toward the house, where another guard would be making rounds. Then he pointed to himself.
Tucker nodded.
Using the mirror, Judd timed his exit, then vanished.
Tucker hurried around the shed. Sitting on his heels, he watched as Judd sauntered up to the next target. Just as the guard frowned, Judd violently bashed his M4 up under his chin, crushing his throat. His head whiplashed, and blood appeared on his lips. As Tucker ran to join them, Judd caught the guard and let his limp body down to the ground silently.
Tucker checked the man’s carotid artery.
“Dead?” Judd whispered.
He nodded.
They surveyed around. No more sentries were in sight yet, and none showed on the other side of the rear door’s window. After they stripped the dead man, Tucker changed into his black turtleneck and pants, at least one size too big, and cinched the waist tight. Judd added the finishing touches to the dead body and dragged it off to conceal near the other corpse.
As he waited for Judd, Tucker checked the M4 and examined the radio—and sensed more than saw someone through the glass of the door. He put a composed look of greeting on his face and turned.
The door opened. “Why aren’t you patrolling?” The sentry was a straight tree trunk of a man, with a brush cut and a heavy jaw. A glimmer of doubt appeared in his eyes. “Who in hell are—”
Tucker slammed the butt of his M4 into the man’s gut. It was always a safer debilitating shot than one to the chin. As the man emptied his lungs and started to double over, Tucker crashed the butt back up into his windpipe. Blood erupted from his mouth and nose. Tucker grabbed him, then hauled him toward the slope behind the shed where the other bodies were.
“This is beginning to look like a party with a bad outcome,” Judd said.
Tucker rolled the man into the grass, watching as the tall fronds closed over him. “Let’s go get Eva.”
69
Khost Province, Afghanistan
IT WAS past midnight, and Capt. Sam Daradar was walking alone, his M4 over his arm. He inhaled, smelling the sweet mountain night air. When he had first arrived here, it had stung his nose, but now he could not get enough of it. Sometimes he dreamed about moving to Afghanistan. Life here was intrinsic to the elements and made sense to him in a way no Western city or rural area ever had.
He looked up. Sparkling stars spread across the night sky. For some reason the sky felt too vast tonight. An unnamed uneasiness filled him. He studied the great expanse of slopes and mountains that hid remote villages difficult to reach with large bodies of conventional forces. He and many of his men had spent the day out there and in town, talking with people.
