Library of Gold (11 page)

“Is she dead?”

Thick ash-blond hair wreathed Robin’s face and draped in thick bangs down to her green eyes. Her mouth was lush and round, and her skin glowed with a ruddy tan. She was thirty-five years old. On the director’s orders, all staff members had plastic surgery before they could go to work at the library. He had seen photographs of Robin from those days, and she was even more beautiful now.

“There were complications.” He shook his head with disgust. “Eva got away.”

She stared worriedly. “Are you going to tell the director she recognized you?”

He fell into a reading chair and poured a cup of steaming coffee. “It’s safer for me to take care of the problem myself.” He added sugar, then cream until the color turned to that of café au lait. He wished he had some good Irish whiskey to add.

“But what will you do?”

“I have to kill her.” He heard the determination in his voice. He had come this far, and he had no choice. From the moment he had accepted the job of chief librarian at the Library of Gold, his lot was cast. He remembered the sense of destiny fulfilled. He had faced reality, banished any regrets, and thrown himself into his exciting new life.

“Maybe you should ask Preston for help.”

He gave an abrupt shake of his head. “He’ll tell the director.”

They were silent, acknowledging the threat of it. He saw her hands were turning white from gripping the edge of the bed. He went to her and pulled her close. She laid her head on his shoulder. Her warmth flowed into him.

“I’m frightened,” she whispered.

Robin was a strong woman. Until now she had not admitted being afraid. Because she had not told the director instantly, she could be in as much trouble as he.

“This is all Eva’s fault,” he assured her. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if she hadn’t recognized me. I love you. Remember that. I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling.” She wrapped her arms around him. “But you’re not a killer. You don’t know how to do such things. As long as Eva’s alive, she’s dangerous to the library—and to us. You need to tell Preston so he can take care of her. If you don’t want to, I’ll do it.”

Four taps sounded on the door.

“Preston’s here.” She pulled away. “Give me a minute.”

“Hurry.”

She nodded and stood up, smoothing her hair and straightening her white cashmere sweater and brown trousers.

He crossed to the door, reaching it as another four taps began. He peered through the peephole. A distorted Doug Preston loomed in the hallway, a bulging backpack in his left hand. His right hand was hidden inside his black leather jacket, where he kept his pistol holstered. Everything about him, from his slightly bent knees to the sharp vigilance with which he was checking the corridor, seemed to radiate menace.

Charles took a deep breath and opened the door, and Preston strode into the room. Uneasily Charles watched as he scanned the interior. When he paused to peer at Robin, she nodded in greeting, her eyes wary. Charles focused on the backpack. He could postpone deciding whether to tell Preston about Eva because its contents were of immediate concern.

“You have
The Book of Spies
?” he demanded.

“I do.” Preston set the pack on a chair and started to unzip it.

“I’ll take over now.”

Preston stepped back.

As Robin joined them, Charles removed the foam bundle. “Move the coffee, Robin. Leave the napkins.”

She picked up the tray and carried it away. Although the table appeared clean, he used the linen napkins to wipe it. Then he set down the bundle and unpeeled layers of foam and transparent polyethylene sheeting. At last only archival polyester film remained.

He paused, feeling a visceral reaction. His throat full, he gazed at the illuminated manuscript glowing through the clear protective barrier.

“Ready?” He lowered himself into the reading chair and looked up.

Preston nodded.

“Hurry,” Robin said.

He unfastened the polyester and let it fall to the sides.

“Oh, my Lord,” Robin breathed.

“It’s a beauty, all right,” Preston agreed.

Charles stared, drinking in the sight of the fabled
Book of Spies,
compiled on orders of Ivan the Terrible, who had been fascinated by spies and assassins. Covered in gold, the volume was large, probably ten by twelve inches and four inches thick, decorated with fat emeralds, great rubies, and lustrous pearls—a fortune in gems. The emeralds were arranged along the edges of the cover, a rectangular frame of brilliant green. The pearls were gathered into the shape of a glowing dagger in the top two thirds, and beneath the dagger’s point lay the scarlet rubies, shaped like a large drop of blood. The jewels caught the lamplight and sparkled like fire.

Awed silence filled the room. Robin handed Charles clean white cotton gloves. Putting them on, he opened the book and slowly turned pages, savoring the style, the paint, the ink, the feel of the fine parchment between his cautious fingers. Each page was a showcase of lavish pictures, austere Cyrillic letters, and intricate borders ablaze with color. He felt a thrill at the effort involved not only in gathering the knowledge but in creating such art.

“Six years of painstaking labor went into this master-work,” Charles told them. “Twelve months a year, seven days a week, twelve to fourteen hours a day. The crudest brushes and paints. Only sunlight and oil lamps to work by. No good heating during the brutal Moscow winters. The constant attack of mosquitoes in summer. Imagine the difficulty, the dedication.”

Robin sat on the floor and leaned an elbow on the table to be closer. Preston pulled up a chair and sat, watching the turning pages. The paintings showed secretive spies, rotund diplomats, monarchs in furs, soldiers in colorful uniforms, villains with wily faces. It was a rich compendium of stories about real and mythical assassins, spies, and missions since before biblical times.

“You’re sure it’s authentic?” Robin asked in a low, excited voice.

“The style’s correct, tending toward naturalism,” Charles told her. “The final touches are in liquid gold—not gold leaf.” Naturalism and liquid gold appeared only at the end of the Middle Ages, which matched the year the manuscript was finished in Moscow—1580. “What clinches its authenticity are the tiny letters beneath some of the colors. See? They’re almost invisible. Even the best forgers forget that telling detail.”

He pointed without touching the page. The letters stood for the Latin words for the colors the long-ago artist had been instructed to use to fill in the line drawings, which had been rendered by a previous artist.
R
for
ruber
, meaning red;
V
for
viridis
, meaning green; and
A
for
azure
, meaning blue.

“It was painted by an Italian who was working in Ivan’s court,” Charles explained.

“I remember the book well,” Preston said. “The stories about spies are inspiring. Those who find the secrets and take them to their graves are the real heroes. That’s what we signed on for when we went to work for the Library of Gold. Complete loyalty.”

As Preston talked, Robin stared at Charles. Her eyebrows knitted together with determination, and her lips thinned. The message was clear: If he did not tell Preston, she would.

“We’ve got a problem.” Charles steeled himself as Preston focused on him.

“There’s no reason for the director to know about it, Preston,” Robin urged. “You can handle it.”

Preston did not look at her. “What’s happened, Charles?”

He sighed heavily. “It started in the museum. I’d just finished photographing
The Book of Spies
and was walking away when I noticed Eva. My wife. God knows how she got out of prison, but she was there, and she recognized me.” He rushed on, describing the chase through the museum and her arrest. “I rented a car. When the police released her, I followed and found a quiet street. Then I was almost able to run her down. But she got away. I drove everywhere, looking for her again.”

“Does she know about the Library of Gold?” Preston asked instantly.

“Of course not. I never talked with her.”

“What else?”

“She recorded me on her cell phone,” he admitted. “I don’t know whether it was photos or a video.”

“Please don’t tell the director, Preston,” Robin pleaded.

Preston was silent. Tension filled the room.

Charles rubbed his eyes and sank back in his chair. When he looked again, Preston had not moved, his gaze unreadable.

“Where would she stay in London?” Preston demanded.

“There were two hotels we preferred—the Connaught and the Mayflower. When she came alone, she stayed with a friend, Peggy Doty. At the museum I overheard a conversation that Peggy had moved back to London. I don’t have her address, but my guess is Eva’s with Peggy. They were close.”

Preston tapped a number into his cell. “Eva Blake may be staying at one of these hotels.” He related the information. “I’ll e-mail you her photograph. Terminate her. She has a cell phone. It’s imperative you get it.” He ended the connection, then told Charles, “I’ll handle Peggy Doty myself.”

As Preston walked toward the door, Charles rose to his feet. He was sweating. “Are you going to tell the director?”

Preston said nothing. The door closed.

14

As he drove toward Peggy Doty’s apartment, Preston reveled in having pulled off the complex mission of recovering
The Book of Spies
. It had been like the old days when he was a CIA officer working undercover in hot spots across Europe and the old Soviet Union. But when the cold war had ended, Langley had lost the support of Congress, the White House, and the American people to properly monitor the world. Disgusted and heartbroken, he had resigned. By the time of the 9/11 attacks, when everyone realized intelligence was critical to U.S. security, he had committed himself to something larger, something more enduring. Something far more relevant, almost eternal—the Library of Gold.

Fury washed through him. Charles was self-important, and self-importance was always a liability. He had put the library in danger.

Preston speed-dialed the director.

“Did you get
The Book of Spies
?” Martin Chapman’s voice was forceful, his focus instant, although it was past four
A.M.
in Dubai. The tirelessness of the response was typical, just one of the reasons Preston admired him.

“The book is safe. On the jet soon. And Charles has verified it’s genuine.”

As Preston had hoped, there was delight in the director’s voice: “Congratulations. Fine work. I knew I could count on you. As Seneca wrote, ‘It matters not how many books one has, but how good they are.’ I’m eager to see it again. Everything went smoothly?”

“One small problem, but it’s handleable. Charles’s wife is out of prison and was at the museum opening. She recognized him, made a scene, and got herself arrested. Charles tried to run her down. Of course he failed. I’m driving to the apartment where he thinks she’s staying. I just found out about all of this.”

“The bastard should’ve reported it immediately. Robin was aware?”

“Yes.” The library’s rules were inviolate. Everyone knew that. It was one of the prime reasons the library had remained invincible—and invisible—over the centuries.

The director’s tone was cold, unforgiving: “Kill Eva Blake. I’ll decide later what to do about Charles and Robin.”

Preston parked near St John Street in the hip Clerkenwell neighborhood, around the block from Peggy Doty’s apartment building. As he got out of the Renault, he pulled the brim of his Manchester United football cap low. The rich scent of Vietnamese coffee drifted from a lighted café, infusing the night. The historic area was full of a young, smart crowd involved in themselves and the evening’s entertainment.

Satisfied he was clean, Preston walked quickly back to Peggy Doty’s apartment building and tried the street door. It was locked. Finally a woman emerged. Catching the door before it could close, he slipped inside and climbed the stairs.

Peggy Doty answered his knock instantly, and it was clear why—she was ready to leave. She wore a long wool overcoat, and a suitcase stood on the floor beside her. Her apartment was dark and silent, indicating no one else was there.

He had to decide what to do. When he was much younger, he would have threatened her to find out where Blake was. But there was an intelligent, steely look about her that warned him she might lie, and if he killed her too soon, it would be too late to go back to her for the truth.

He put a warm smile on his face. “You must be Peggy Doty. I’m a friend of Eva’s. My name’s Gary Frank. I’m glad I’m here in time. Eva thought you might like a ride.”

Peggy frowned. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Frank, but I’ve already called a cab.” She was a small woman, with short brown hair and eyeglasses sliding down her nose. Her face was open, the face of someone people automatically liked.

“Please call me Gary.” Since she had not asked how Blake knew she was leaving, it was evident they were in touch. “You live in a great neighborhood. Didn’t Peter Ackroyd and Charles Dickens use Clerkenwell for settings in their novels?” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I’m a used-book dealer.”

Her face brightened. “Yes, they did. Maybe you’re thinking about Ackroyd’s
The Clerkenwell Tales
. That’s a terrific piece of fiction about fourteenth-century London. The clerk at Tellson’s bank in
A Tale of Two Cities
lived here, too. His name was Jarvis Lorry. And Fagin’s lair was also in the Clerkenwell area.”

“
Oliver Twist
is a favorite of mine. Eva says you work at the British Library. I’d like to hear what you do. Please let me drive you.”

She hesitated.

He stepped into the silence. “Did you tell Eva you were calling a cab?”

She sighed. “Nope, I didn’t. All right. This is really great of you.”

He picked up her suitcase, and they left.

With Peggy Doty at his side, Preston drove south, heading for the hotel in Chelsea where she would meet Blake. Blake might already be there, and he wanted this small brunette with him to ensure he got access to the room without drawing attention to himself.