Library of Gold (15 page)

“You’re blackmailing me.”

She gave a wry smile. “It appears I’ve learned something from you.”

He found himself smiling, too. “All right, it’s a deal.” Then he stared at her sternly. “But if I do, you’ve got to do exactly what I say—when I say it. I’m serious about this, Eva.”

“You’re the pro. Whatever you say, as long as you’re reasonable.”

“No. This isn’t negotiable. Look at it this way—if you come along, you’ll be putting me in danger, too. There may not be time to ask questions or argue.”

She sighed. “All right. So this is what I think . . . In 2008, Charles and I celebrated our anniversary by flying to Rome. We visited an old friend of his, Yitzhak
Law
. He’s a professor, well-known in the field. He and Charles often talked late into the night. They had a shared passion: finding the Library of Gold. Maybe the reason Charles left the tattoo was to say Yitzhak knows where the library is.”

He inhaled deeply. “Then we go to Rome.”

PART TWO

THE RACE

Hannibal’s troops were closing in on Rome when one of his spies reported the city was filled with rumors its dictator, Fabius, was in his pay. With that news, the great military chief went on a rampage across the countryside, destroying and burning everything in his path—except Fabius’s properties. As soon as the news reached Rome, Fabius issued proclamations he was no traitor. But his people did not believe him, and Hannibal gained valuable time and psychological advantage.

—translated from
The Book of Spies

Spying is a pursuit as old as civilization and a craft long practiced by the most skilled and treacherous of strategists.

—U.S. News & World Report
January 19, 2003

21

In pain, Doug Preston jerked awake. The alley. He was still in the alley, lying on the pavement near Charles Sherback’s corpse. With effort he turned his head and saw the two policemen’s bodies. Then he looked on the other side of him, past the police car and to his Renault. The alley was still deserted.

He stared at Charles’s bald skull, gray as an old bone in the light. What in hell did the tattoo mean?

Suddenly the loud noise of police sirens penetrated his brain. That was what had awakened him. He struggled to his feet. His head throbbed. He rubbed the bump on the back of it—the size of an eagle’s egg. The right side of his chest hurt like boiling fire. He was badly bruised but not wounded, because he was wearing one of the new Kevlar tactical body-armor vests, thin and light, under his jacket and shirt, and the rounds had not penetrated.

Feeling weak, he bent over and propped his hands on his thighs, willing the pain away. At last he picked up Sherback’s corpse and maneuvered it over his shoulder and staggered toward his car. When he reached the mouth of the alley, he checked the narrow street, then opened the Renault’s rear door and heaved Charles inside.

As he got behind the steering wheel and turned on the ignition, he knew from the noise of the sirens he was within seconds of being discovered. Gunning the motor, he laid rubber, fishtailed around the corner, then cut back on his speed. He entered the traffic smoothly.

With a shaky hand he wiped sweat from his forehead and swore loudly. Who in hell had the shooter been? Probably whoever had killed Charles.

He thought about the man he had spotted peering down over the top of the building, gun in hand. But by then he was already injured, and the man had shot twice more before he could return fire. At no time had the man been more than a black silhouette. If a shooter that good was helping Eva Blake, she was going to be more difficult to catch.

Another unpleasant thought occurred to him. He had convinced the bobbies to let him see the corpse not just because he had described Charles and told them his old friend was drunk and lost, but because the bobbies had found nothing in Charles’s pockets and had no way to identify him. That meant the shooter probably had Charles’s things, including his cell phone. It would contain Robin’s and his numbers, and if the shooter were connected, he could track the numbers through the location chips embedded in their phones.

Preston grabbed his cell, rolled down the window, and tossed it into the next lane of traffic. Watching his side-view mirror, he saw the tires of a pickup truck roll over it. Satisfied, he took a new disposable cell from his glove compartment and dialed Robin Miller.

“Are you in the jet?” he asked.

“Yes. We’re waiting for you and Charles.” She sounded sleepy.

“Listen carefully, and follow my directions exactly. As soon as I hang up, open up your cell and take out the battery. Under no circumstances put the battery back in. I don’t care where you are or what you think you need it for, do
not
make your cell operable again. Do you understand?”

“Of course. When will you get here?” She sounded testy, insulted he had asked whether she understood. She did not like her intelligence questioned.

“Soon,” he said. “Tell me what the jet’s satellite phone number is.”

There were the sounds of the phone being removed from its plastic case. She read him the number. Then he gave her his new cell number.

“When you saw Charles last, was his head shaved?” he asked.

“No. Why would he do that?”

“I thought you’d know.”

Her voice was suspicious. “Is Charles with you?”

“Yes, but he’s dead,” he said bluntly.

He heard a loud gasp.

Before she could erupt into tears, he added, “He was shot, and probably Eva Blake was involved. The last time I talked with him, he’d caught her. I’m sending his body back with you to the library. Take out that cell phone battery. Tell the pilot to warm up the jet.” He hung up.

By telling Robin now about Charles’s death he hoped he would find her under control when he arrived. The director encouraged romances among the small Library of Gold staff, since the members were more easily managed if they had some sort of home life. It caused occasional problems when affairs erupted or couples broke apart, but even that kept the staff involved in the community.

As he laid his new cell on the seat beside him, a river of pain swept through him. His eyelids felt heavy. After the first adrenaline rush of making arrangements with Robin, his mind was turning to mush. He could go three days without sleep and still remain alert, but now he was injured, which was dumping his stamina into the toilet.

Opening the glove compartment, he grabbed a large bottle of water and a small bottle of aspirin. He poured a half-dozen tablets into his mouth and gulped water. Blinking, he turned the car west toward Heathrow and continued to drink.

At last he sighed. He was feeling stronger. As he drove, he laid the water bottle beside him and pictured the place to which he went at times when he needed to heal and find himself again. He saw the golden light, the rows of gleaming books, the polished antique tables and chairs. He could hear the soft rhythmic sounds of the air-purification system.

In his imagination he locked the door, chose an illuminated manuscript, and carried it to his favorite reading chair. He sat with the book on his lap and savored the hammered gold and glistening gems. Then he opened it and turned pages, absorbing the brilliantly colored drawings and exquisite lettering. He could read none of the foreign languages in the library, but he did not need to. Just seeing the books, being able to touch them, recalling the sacrifices and care throughout the library’s history helped to banish his ugly childhood, the hardscrabble life, the missing father, the angry mother. The sense of loss he felt as he had witnessed Langley spiraling downward in a wash of political bullshit.

The Library of Gold was proof the future could be as cherished and glorious as the past. That the work he did was crucial. That he was crucial.

After a while he could feel his heartbeat slow. The sweat dried on his skin. The pain eased. A sense of certainty infused him.

Girding himself, he picked up his cell and dialed again. When the director answered, he told him, “There have been some developments, sir. You need to know what’s going on. First, someone planted a bug on
The Book of Spies
. It was inside a fake jewel on the cover. It’s been flushed down a toilet.”

“Jesus Christ. Who would’ve had the connections to duplicate one of the gems and put a bug inside it?”

“I keep going back to the chief librarian before Charles. We thought he’d stolen the book and sold it to a collector so he’d have cash to try to leave. But if the collector were the anonymous donor to the Rosenwald collection and the one who planted the bug, then the National Library would’ve found it before it got to the British Museum.”

“Unless the donor had real clout. Someone with the money and resources to locate a person in the National Library who could be bought to cover for the bug.”

Preston nodded to himself. “I made some calls and found out Asa Baghurst, California’s governor, signed a special order releasing Eva Blake from prison—just three days ago. I successfully eliminated Peggy Doty, then Charles called to say he’d found Eva Blake. I was on my way to pick them up and scrub her, too, but they weren’t at the rendezvous.” He described spotting the police car that had led him to finding Charles shot dead in the alley.

“So we lost Charles in the end. It’s just as well. The way he was screwing up, we were going to have to erase him anyway.” The director sighed. “Did his wife kill him?”

“There was a man there. He could’ve done it. He took some shots at me, but I never saw his face. The accuracy of his aim and the way he positioned himself said a lot. He’s trained. It looks like a total setup—the bug, Eva Blake, and a shooter. Someone wanted to follow
The Book of Spies
.”

“Is there any way Blake could’ve found out Charles was our chief librarian before the opening at the British Museum?”

“I don’t see how. This was the first time Charles was away from the library. And of course after his predecessor smuggled out
The Book of Spies,
we doubled security, so Charles had no outside contact at all. Still, he was up to something. When I found his body, his head was shaved, and there was a tattoo on it—LAW 031308.”

“What in hell is that all about?”

“I don’t know, sir. You said yourself Charles was a romantic. But he was ambitious, too. He thought a lot of himself.”

“Did Charles shave his head, or did someone else?”

“I’d say someone else. Maybe Blake and the shooter. I’ll have my staff do a thorough search of Charles’s cottage and office. There could be something there that’ll tell us what the tattoo means.”

“What about the rest of the operation?”

“On track. Robin and
The Book of Spies
are on the jet. I’ll stow Charles’s corpse on board, then they’ll fly home, but without me. I’m going to stay in London to keep looking for Blake. I have a way to find her—I got her cell number off Peggy Doty’s phone. I have a NSA source I can use to track her through the cell’s location, assuming the phone’s turned on.”

“Good,” the director said with relief. “Do it.”

22

Brentwood, California

Attorney Brian Collum was sound asleep in his large Tudor home when his telephone rang. His eyes snapped open. The master suite was cool and bathed in shadows. He checked the glowing digital numbers on his bedside clock—two
A.M.
—and snatched the phone.

His wife rolled over to gaze anxiously at him. The days of panicked clients calling at all hours were long past, so something must have happened to one of their children. They had three, all studying at various universities.

“Yes?” he said into the telephone.

“Hello, Brian.” The voice was familiar. “Sorry to disturb you. This is Steve Gandy. I’ve got an unusual situation here. It involves one of your clients, Eva Blake. I need a favor.”

Steve Gandy was the longtime coroner for the County of Los Angeles, a straight shooter who could be relied on for a no-holds-barred game of racquetball. Brian made it a practice to cultivate people in government, and since this concerned Eva, he was even more willing to listen.

“Hold on.” He turned to his wife. “This isn’t about the children. Go back to sleep. I’ll take it in my office.”

As she nodded, he carried the phone out of the bedroom. “Is Eva all right?”

“I assume so, but I don’t have any way to get in touch with her. She’s been released from prison. No one seems to know where she went. Do you still have authorization to sign documents for her?”

“I do.” He was shocked. Eva was out of prison? “Tell me what’s going on.” He sat behind his desk in a patch of pale moonlight. Not only had he represented Eva at her trial, he now handled her legal affairs.

Steve’s voice was tense. “I need signed permission to exhume her husband’s body.”

“Why?” Brian’s lungs tightened.“Who wants it exhumed?”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “The CIA. The term
national security
came up in the conversation several times. They’re telling us nothing except it’s critical we make damn sure we identify accurately who’s buried in Sherback’s grave and how he died, and we’re to contain who knows about the exhumation. But there’s hell to pay these days when anyone gets caught up in a CIA publicity disaster. Maybe this is legitimate, but I sure don’t have that kind of crystal ball. And I damn well don’t want my office to face repercussions. The problem is, they want us to exhume the body without a signed order. That’s why I’m bringing you in.”

“Jesus.”

“Precisely.”

“This is insane. You know Charles Sherback is in that grave. Your office matched the dental records.”

“That’s not conclusive enough for them. They want another autopsy—and for us to check the DNA.”

He swore silently. “Do you have a name at the CIA?”

“Gloria Feit made the call. She’s with the Clandestine Service.”

“Her bona fides are good?”