Library of Gold (18 page)

“Yes.” She turned back to the first page of Charles’s notebook.

Ryder examined the Swiss Army knife. There was nothing to indicate it was Charles’s or anyone else’s. Opening the billfold, he took out the driver’s license and cash and spread them onto the tray table.

“I may have found something.” Eva patted the notebook. “As I told you, everything’s dated in here. I’ve been looking for patterns. With one exception, Charles would write something occasionally, once a week at most. But then there’s a three-month period before we went to Rome in which he made a lot of entries, sometimes several a day. That’s when he was on sabbatical, supposedly visiting some of the world’s great libraries. I never got a real itinerary out of him, and he didn’t talk much about the trip when he returned.”

“Does he mention which libraries?”

“No, but what he wrote is almost entirely about libraries.”

“What do you think the change in pattern means?”

“First, he had enough time he could write his thoughts more frequently and the value of libraries was on his mind. But, second, he wouldn’t have wanted me or anyone at the library to know he’d tattooed something onto his scalp. So this is the sequence I see: He tattooed himself, spent three months hiding out, and came home to me with hair long and thick enough for it to look normal. Then we celebrated our anniversary with Yitzhak in Rome. Two weeks later we were back in L.A., and then two weeks after that was the car crash.”

“Makes sense.”

They drank their coffee and continued to work. He found nothing written on any of Charles’s cash. He put the driver’s license and money back into the billfold and returned everything to his peacoat’s pockets. Next he checked the clip to Charles’s Glock. The gun was clean and in pristine condition. No rounds were missing.

Eva handed him the notebook. “I can’t see anything else that’s useful in here. Your turn.”

He took it.“You look tired. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“I think I will.” She set her coffee cup on his table and stored her table inside her armrest. Then she reached down and pulled up her pants leg. “I’m going to take off this ankle device.”

“No. If something happens to separate us again, I can always find you with my reader.”

She thought about it and nodded. Reclining her seat, she closed her eyes.

He e-mailed Tucker, asking him to trace the two phone numbers on Sherback’s cell and to investigate whether Sherback and perhaps a woman had stayed at the Méridien hotel, adding the false name on Sherback’s driver’s license, the woman’s description, and that
The Book of Spies
might have been in her backpack. When he had phoned Tucker to arrange the jet, he had filled him in on the events of the night and given him Professor Yitzhak Law’s address in Rome and asked him to check with the London police about Preston and Charles Sherback’s body.

He studied the notebook, finding nothing new. Then he looked at Eva a long time. Finally he rested his head back, hoping he would not dream about the past. At last he fell into an uneasy sleep.

26

London, England

Doug Preston sat in his rental car in a public parking lot near the River Thames, arms crossed, head resting back, drifting in and out of sleep. He had delivered Charles’s body to the Library of Gold jet, and it was safely gone. He had also phoned his NSA contact, who had gotten back to him with the bad news that Eva Blake’s cell phone was turned off, which meant it could not be tracked yet. Then he had handled a new assignment for Martin Chapman, hiring a specialist in Washington to break into Ed Casey’s house.

Now he was waiting for a call from NSA that Blake’s cell phone was activated and her location pinpointed, or from the director that he had learned through Ed Casey’s intel where Blake was going. Either would do.

Restless, he adjusted his aching body behind the steering wheel. Springtime shadows dappled the parking lot. Somewhere on the river a boat’s horn sounded. He checked his watch. It was a little past one
P.M.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He was starting to sink back into sleep when his cell finally rang.

Martin Chapman’s tone was full of outrage: “Tucker Andersen is CIA.”

“So State was his cover. Tell me everything.” Preston shook off the chilling news.

“Judd Ryder e-mailed Tucker Andersen. The reason we know is because Andersen sent a copy of the e-mail to Catherine Doyle, also CIA. They’re part of some kind of black program. Doyle is chief.” The director’s voice was tense. “Ryder is a private contractor for CIA now.”

“Jonathan Ryder’s son?”

“Yes. He’s the gunman, and he’s been helping Eva Blake. Everything in the British Museum
was
a setup. The CIA’s the one that planted the bug on the book and got Blake’s sentence commuted. They intend to find the Library of Gold. We’re going up against your old employer, Preston. You were loyal.” The voice had grown harder, the question unspoken.

“That was a long time ago. Another life. I was glad to walk away. Even gladder you wanted me.” Then he said the words he knew the director needed to hear, and he meant them: “My loyalty is only to you, the book club, and the Library of Gold.”

There was a pause. “The e-mail said Ryder and Blake were heading to Rome to see Yitzhak Law. You can’t get there in time. How do you suggest this be handled?”

Preston stared out the car’s window, considering. A plan formed in his mind, and he laid it out for the director.

“Good. I like it,” the director said. “Since we’re dealing with a black unit, it’s contained. That’s the only advantage we have. I have an idea to take care of Tucker Andersen and Catherine Doyle. I’ll get back to you when I need you.”

27

Rome, Italy

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, the sun bright, almost overwhelming after the cold gray rain of London, when Eva walked through the centuries-old Monti section of Rome. Just south of Via Nazionale, Monti was an oasis of artists, writers, and the monied, and was seldom listed in tourist guides. Tall ivy-covered houses lined the street, interrupted only by cobblestone alleyways not much wider than a Roman chariot. Pedestrians strolled along the streets.

Clasping her shoulder satchel to her side, Eva risked a glance back. As expected, Judd was still several houses behind, looking Mediterranean in his sunglasses, swarthy face, and arched nose. They had stopped to buy new clothes so they would fit in with the warmer weather and locals’ tastes. He wore a loose brown sports jacket, an open-necked blue shirt, and Italian jeans. She wore Italian jeans, too, with a green shirt and jacket.

As Fiats and scooters rushed by, she passed a leafy piazza filled with preschool children romping under the doting gazes of nannies. At last she crossed onto the busy street where Yitzhak Law lived.

As he followed Eva, Judd covertly scrutinized the bustling area, picking out the three-person team Tucker Andersen had sent to watch over Professor Law’s home.

Across the street was one: a man with a cloth shopping sack, dressed in a worn business suit and sitting on a bench. A quarter block away was another—what appeared to be an elderly woman, sunk into a beach chair beneath a pepper tree outside a trattoria while she read the Italian daily
La Repubblica
. The third was a youthful skateboarder in sunglasses and a backpack. He slalomed lazily past, wearing earphones as his hips gyrated to music.

Judd used his mobile to call the skateboarder—the team leader. “Anything new, Bash?”

The unit had been in place an hour, not as long as he would have liked, but they’d had to be assembled from Catapult’s undercover officers already on operations in and near Rome.

“Everything’s cool, man. No one’s gone in or left,” Bash Badawi reported. He sailed his skateboard off the curb.

“Let me know if the situation changes.”

Judd watched Eva moving ahead, her stride long and confident, her red hair blazing in the shimmering sunlight. He picked up his pace.

As he passed her, he said without moving his lips, “It’s safe. Go in.”

Yitzhak Law’s house was a three-story building of aged yellow stone with large windows and white shutters. Eva ran up the worn steps and touched the bell. Chimes rang inside.

When the door opened, she smiled widely. “
Buon giorno,
Roberto.” Roberto Cavaletti was Yitzhak’s longtime partner.

“Do not just stand there, Eva. Come in, come in. I am delighted.” He kissed her on both cheeks, his close-cropped brown beard prickling. Short and lean, he gave the appearance of a sleek fox, with a long, intelligent face and bright brown eyes.

“I’ve brought a friend,” she warned.

She turned and nodded in Judd’s direction. Glancing around, Judd was soon at her side, and they stepped into an entryway of antiques and paintings. The fragrant scents of a spicy tomato sauce lingered in the air. In Rome, lunch was traditionally the largest meal of the day and eaten between noon and three o’clock at home, which was why she had high hopes of finding Yitzhak here.

She introduced Judd as her traveling friend from America.

“
Benvenuto,
Judd. Welcome.” Roberto shook his hand enthusiastically. “You are not jet-lagged? You do not look jet-lagged.” It was an ongoing concern of Roberto’s, who never traveled beyond the borders of Rome’s time zone, despite Yitzhak’s frequent invitations to accompany him.

“Not a speck of jet lag,” Judd assured him.

Relieved, Roberto turned to Eva, put his hands on his hips, and scolded, “You have not kept in touch.” With a single short sentence, he had covered the car crash, her guilty plea, and her imprisonment, at the same time letting her know as far as he was concerned they were still friends.

“You’re right, and it’s my fault. I loved the letter from you and Yitzhak.” She had not trusted the compassion in the men’s note, and so she had never answered it. With sudden clarity she saw how she had isolated herself.

“You are completely forgiven. Like the Pope, I am stern but magnanimous. Are you hungry? Would you like
un caffè
? It is dripping even now.” In Rome, coffee was as important as wine.

“Coffee would be great,” she said. “The way you always make it,
molto caldo
.”

He smiled, acknowledging the compliment, and turned to Judd. “And you, Eva’s friend?”

“Absolutely. Let us help you.”

Roberto raised his brows at Eva. “He has good manners. I approve.”Then he whispered in her ear, “And he’s gorgeous.” He pointed in the Italian way with an outstretched hand, palm down, toward the hallway, then he followed them.

As they passed open doors showing a sitting room and a small, elegant dining room, she asked, “Is Yitzhak home? We’d love to see him, too.”

“Of course. And he will want to see you. You will take coffee to him. He is in his
rifugio
.”

They went into the modern kitchen, which gleamed with enameled white walls and a stainless-steel refrigerator and gas stove. The aroma of fresh coffee infused the airy room. Roberto poured coffee into a carafe, then arranged cups, a cream pitcher, a sugar bowl, and spoons on a tray.

He indicated the tray. “It is your responsibility, Judd.”

Judd picked it up. “Lead on.”

Roberto took them out into the hall again and toward the back of the house, where a broad staircase rose two floors. But he opened the door beneath, the stairs showing simple wood steps going down. Cool air drifted up. They ducked their heads and descended into the cellar, which reflected the house’s period in its rough brick walls and uneven brick floor.

In the center of the floor was the area’s dominant feature—a ragged hole with wood steps, built only ten years before, going down into what seemed an abyss. Beside it lay a trapdoor of old bricks built on top of a plywood platform. The trapdoor was the exact dimensions of the hole, and when it was put into place, Eva knew, the bricks fit neatly into one another, hiding the hole.

Judd stared down and deadpanned, “Where are the flames? The screams of suffering souls?”

Roberto laughed. “This is not Dante’s
Inferno,
my new friend. You are about to see a glorious sight few others have. But then, this is Rome, once the
caput mundi,
the capital of the world, teeming with more than a million souls while Paris and London were mere outposts of mud huts. No wonder we Romans are so proud. Here is where I leave you.” He called down, “We have two more visitors,
amore mio
. Prepare yourself for a pleasant surprise.”

“More visitors?” Judd’s expression was curious, revealing nothing. The presence of outsiders would complicate their ability to find out quickly from Yitzhak what Charles’s message meant.

Roberto nodded and said mysteriously, “Eva will be happy about it.” He returned upstairs.

Eva had learned about the steep steps in previous visits. She turned and went down backwards, gripping the rail. Balancing the tray, Judd followed, and they entered the professor’s private preserve.

It was a vast area, illuminated by torchère lamps and encompassing the width of the house. The length stretched from the rear garden to the street, where there appeared to be a small tunnel at the edge of a long pile of rubble. The flooring was glowing purple Phrygian marble. Placed here and there on it were statues of nudes uncovered during the excavation. Pink marble columns partially exposed—they were still mostly embedded in raw brown earth—shone palely. One wall was revealed; it was smooth, flat brickwork displaying the meticulous craftsmanship of builders two thousand years ago. Its centerpiece, which always made Eva’s heart beat a little faster, was a stunning mosaic displaying Jupiter and Juno, king and queen of the Roman gods, reclining on thrones. Few had seen it since it was buried in antiquity.

She sensed Judd’s awe, and then an instant return to acute awareness. His gaze swept the room, where Yitzhak sat with a man and a woman in wood chairs around an unvarnished wood table on which lay his notes and reading glasses. An American, the professor was a world-renowned scholar of medieval Greek and Roman history, with an emphasis on Judaism. He had published a dozen books on the subject.