Library of Gold (24 page)

Tucker took the package, tucked it under his arm, and signed for it. Then he went to Gloria’s desk. She was nowhere in sight, still on coffee break. He dropped the parcel next to her computer and walked down the hall to his office. Sitting behind his desk, he pushed aside the report he had been reading and checked his e-mail.

One had been forwarded by Gloria from the L.A. coroner’s office. It said the body in Charles Sherback’s grave had been exhumed and they were rushing the autopsy and DNA match, but it would take a couple of days. A second e-mail confirmed a room in the Méridien hotel in London had been registered to Christopher Heath, the name on Sherback’s driver’s license. One of the desk clerks remembered him with a blond woman, but there were no details.

Restless, Tucker was just about to leave when a new e-mail arrived from MI-5. He read it quickly: No adult male corpse with a shaved, tattooed head had been found in London the previous night. Consequently, there were no arrests connected with it. He stared at the message, then leaned back in his chair, trying to understand what it meant. Judd had told him he had shot carefully so Preston would survive. Finally he decided Preston had likely awakened before the police arrived and taken Sherback’s body away with him. Tucker sent an encrypted e-mail to Judd, warning him.

Disturbed, he stretched, stood, and headed down the hall to Catapult’s small communications center, which included data research and IT—information technology. At the door he was greeted by a rumble of voices, clicking keyboards, and a sense of urgency. Worktables arranged in neat rows housed a dozen secure computers and phones. High on the walls hung big-screen TVs tuned to CNN, MSNBC, FOX, BBC, and Al Jazeera, but the monitors could also view classified images. The usual cans of soda, crumpled take-out bags, and empty pizza boxes littered the area, impregnating everything with the salt-and-grease odor of fast food.

Tucker paused, surveying the staff, most of whom were bent over their keyboards. All were under the age of thirty. Since 9/11 the number of applicants to Langley had soared, and now half of all personnel were new hires. He worried about the loss of experience and institutional memory, but that was what happened when good longtime operatives and analysts quit or were fired, which had occurred in the 1990s and again in the next decade, during the tenure of a morale-killing D/CIA. Still, this young new group was dedicated and enthusiastic.

Walking through the room, he joined Brandon Ohr and Michael Hawthorne, who were standing with Debi Watson at her worktable. She was the head of IT. The trio looked as if their average age was twenty-five, although they were around thirty. They were eager, talented, and smart.

“Working hard, I see,” Tucker deadpanned. Not original, but it would get the job done.

Michael and Brandon were home after long tours overseas, waiting for reassignment. Technically neither belonged in here, but then Debi was single, a pretty brunette with large brown eyes and a Southern accent. Tucker was interested in their excuses.

“I’m on break,” Brandon said quickly. He had a square, handsome face with a hint of a movie-star beard.

“I had a question I hoped Debi could help me with,” Michael explained. He was tall and rangy, his black face dimpled.

“It’s all true, suh,” Debi assured Tucker, her Southern belle accent in full flower.

He stared soberly at the men and said nothing.“The glare,” as Gloria called it.

Brandon took the hint first. “Guess I’d better get back to the stack of papers on my desk.” He sauntered off, swiping a can of Diet Pepsi from a six-pack near the rear of the room.

“Thanks, Debi,” Michael told her. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow about the Tripoli refugee I’ve got my eye on.” He followed Brandon.

Tucker liked that neither was completely intimidated by him. It showed the sort of inner fortitude necessary for the job.

Debi sat down behind her worktable and tugged on her short skirt. “I was just about to send you an e-mail.”

“You’ve got answers for me?” He had assigned her to track down Charles Sherback’s altered face and the two anonymous phone numbers in his cell.

“It’s not what you want to hear. Nothing in any of the federal databases matches the face of your man. Nothing in the state databases, either. And no positive match with Interpol or any of our foreign friends. Since he’s an American, you’d think he’d have a driver’s license photo at least. It’s almost as if he doesn’t exist.”

“What about the two phone numbers?”

“They’re to disposable cell phones, but you suspected that already. There’s been no activity on them yet. NSA will let me know immediately.”

Disappointed, Tucker returned to his office. As he went inside, the phone on his desk rang. It was Judd Ryder. He fell into his chair and listened.

Judd related what he and Eva had learned at Yitzhak Law’s house and described the attack by the Charboniers. “There’s no way the Charboniers should’ve known we were going there,” he finished worriedly. “You’ve got to have a leak.”

Stunned, Tucker thought quickly. “Only one person at Catapult besides me has any details—the chief, Cathy Doyle. What about on your end?”

“It’s just Eva and me, and she’s been with me the whole time. Whenever I get in touch with you, I use my secure mobile. Both phone and e-mail.” The mobile’s coding technology not only encrypted voice and data but also scrambled the wavelengths on which the messages traveled, making it impossible for anyone to decipher them.

Tucker swore. “Somehow we’ve been breached. I’ll talk to Cathy.”

“See what you can dig up about the Charboniers, too, and their relationship with the Library of Gold, and whether they’ve been up to anything hinky that might be terrorist related. Angelo said he was a member of the book club. When I asked whether Dad was, he wouldn’t answer.”

Judd’s tone was flat, professional, but Tucker sensed conflicted emotion when he spoke about his father and the book club. “Of course. You’re going to Istanbul?”

“Yes. We’re taking a commercial flight. It seems safest under the circumstances. Eva called ahead, but Yakimovich’s phone is disconnected. He’s probably moved again. She was able to reach two of his longtime friends in Istanbul, but they don’t know where he is now. If you can track him down, it’d be a big help. It’ll take us a few hours to get there.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” As soon as Tucker hung up, he dialed a colleague with whom he had worked during the cold war: Faisal Tarig, who was now with Istanbul police.

“I know Andy Yakimovich,” Faisal said. “A sly fellow, that one. But then, he’s half Russian and half Turk. Perhaps I can locate him. You still smoking those manly Marlboros?”

“No, gave them up for bottled water.”

“I hope you have not become boring, old friend. But if you are asking questions like this, perhaps not. I will be in touch.”

“Don’t tell anyone I called, or the intel I need.”

There was silence. “I see.”

After he hung up, Tucker sat a moment, thinking, then he left, heading to Cathy’s office. It was a large one, directly behind the receptionist’s desk. As chief, she got the best one. Fronting the street, it had special glass in the windows so no one could see inside or use a demodulator to listen in on conversations.

The door was open. He peered in. Family photos hung on the wall alongside CIA commendations. More photos stood on her desk. Some kind of green ivy was growing in a pot. Cathy was typing, staring at her computer screen, her short, blond-streaked hair awry.

“I know you’re there, Tucker. What’s on your mind?” She had not looked at him.

He walked inside and closed the door. “Who’s heard about my Library of Gold operation?”

As he sat, she glanced around at him and frowned. “Why do you ask?”

He explained about the leak. “There’s no way the Charboniers should’ve been at Yitzhak Law’s place, waiting for my people.”

She spun around to her desk, facing him. “I’ve told only one person about Yitzhak Law—the assistant director, in my regular report, about fifteen minutes ago. That’s too late for the leak to have come from us.”

“I’ll talk to our IT people. I suppose it’s possible someone’s broken into our system. But if so, it didn’t set off any alarms. I’ll make my reports to you verbally from now on.”

They were silent. Every day thousands of amateur and professional hackers tried to breach U.S. government computers. So far Langley had lost no important data, and like other small specialized units, Catapult used the same highly secure system.

She nodded. “Anything new about the Library of Gold?”

“Ryder and Blake are on their way to Istanbul, following a good lead. As for me, I’ll be glad when I can go home.” At least he was getting a lot of work done on the missions he was overseeing.

She nodded again. Then she gave him an understanding smile. “We all have to sacrifice sometimes.”

He said goodbye and returned to the communications center. Debi was still at her computer console. He told her what he needed.

“No one’s gotten into our system that I know of, suh.” Her brows knitted. “I’ll get right on it.”

Concerned, he returned to his office.

35

Athens, Greece

The Library of Gold Learjet circled down slowly, the lights of Greece’s ancient capital gleaming beneath. Nervously making plans, Robin turned away from the panorama and stared back down the length of the cabin to Martin Chapman, his tall figure upright in his seat. He was on his cell phone, his jaw working angrily.

As the jet touched down at Athens International Airport, she studied her cell phone and battery, remembering Preston’s awful call to her while she was waiting on the jet in London for Charles and him to arrive. He had ordered her to take the cell apart, and then he told her Charles was dead. Grief swelled her throat. She forced herself to repress it.

Preston had never told her why she was to not activate it again. It did not matter; she was going to need a phone. Sliding the pieces into her pocket, she stood and walked to the rear of the plane.

Chapman peered up as she slung on the backpack that contained
The Book of Spies.
She did not like the look in his eyes.

Still, he spoke neutrally. “The helicopter is ready.”

She nodded. “Good.” But she knew it was not good. Once she was in the helicopter, she would be on her way to the hidden Library of Gold, where security was so intense no one could escape—but people occasionally disappeared. People like her. “Will you be going with us, Mr. Chapman?” she asked, although he had made no move to rise.

“I have other business. Magus will take care of you.”

From the front, Magus nodded knowing agreement. “Yes, sir, Mr. Chapman.”

She followed Magus out of the Learjet and into the black hours of night. The cool air made her shaved head feel even more exposed. She forced herself to stay calm. The airport extended around them, a wide sweep of tarmac with jets coming and going from the long arms of the terminal. It seemed far away, an impossible distance.

A small luggage truck had pulled up to the tail of the jet, and the driver was unloading bags and other items. He was a small man and elderly, with stringy arms showing beneath the short sleeves of his airport shirt. She felt a moment of hope; she might be able to handle him. As he humped Charles’s canvas-wrapped body into the back of the truck, she turned away.

“Let’s go.” Magus’s face was a mask. “I’ll bet you’re ready to get home and settle in.”

“You’re right,” Robin lied. “It will be good to be home.”

They walked toward the waiting vehicle, which would take them to the helicopter. It was only about seven feet long and narrow, with space in front for just two people—the driver and a passenger. The rear was an open bed, packed with her large roll-aboard slammed against the cab, Charles’s corpse, and several wood boxes Preston had picked up in London.

“I’ll help you in.” Magus stopped at the rear, where, as the junior member, she would ordinarily sit.

She stared at him, allowing a sense of helplessness to sound in her voice. “I’m so tired. And I’m supposed to keep this backpack with me all the time. Mr. Chapman’s orders. Would you mind if I sat in front with the driver?”

They looked at the bed of the truck. There was no gate or upper flap at the end, while the sides had short walls about a foot tall. The floor was hard steel.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not.” But he touched his hip, where she suspected he kept his gun inside his jacket. The gesture might have been automatic, but it felt like a threat.

Robin gave him a bright smile. “Thanks.”

He walked her around to the passenger side. There were no doors on the cab. She took off the backpack and climbed in. Then he walked around to the driver’s side, which was also open. He ordered the elderly man out from behind the steering wheel, and her heart sank. Now it would be Magus sitting next to her, armed, young, and strong.

As soon as the driver crawled into the back, Magus studied the automatic transmission, then put the light truck into gear. They rolled away.

She held the backpack on her lap, cradling it in her arms, realizing she had one lucky break—he was an unsure driver, glancing at the steering wheel, the small rearview mirror, the gear shift. That might help—that, and if she surprised him.

She turned around and watched the Learjet taxi away. Returning to face the front, she asked innocently, “Wouldn’t you like to see what’s in the backpack, Magus?”

“No.” He was focused on his driving.

But she started to unzip it, the sound jagged and sharp.

He glanced at her. “Close that up.” He reached a hand toward it.

She bit the hand and tasted blood. Swearing, he jerked his hand back, and she slammed the heavy backpack against the side of his head. Reeling, he lashed out with an arm, connecting only with the pack. With the sharp toe of her boot, she kicked the calf of the leg that had a foot on the accelerator and immediately crashed the backpack against his head again.

His foot bounced off the accelerator, the small truck careened, and there was a shout from the back as the driver slid out.