Library of Gold (26 page)

Eva suddenly swore. “Of course—Peggy’s cell phone. Whoever killed Peggy could’ve found my number on it.” She pulled her cell from her satchel. “The only time I dialed out was in the Athens airport, when I called around looking for Andy. I was calling Istanbul.”

“Give it to me.” He turned on the phone, then watched the screen to make certain it was connected to the network. Rolling down his window, he tossed it into the open bed of a passing pickup.

Eva smiled. “That’ll give Preston something to chase.”

He smiled back. In the small rear seat of the taxi they inadvertently gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. For a long moment warm intimacy passed between them. Judd’s heart rate accelerated.

Saying nothing, Eva looked away, and he turned to stare out the side window. That was the problem with shared danger. Inevitably it led to bonding of one sort or another, and one of the “sorts” could be sexual. He sensed her discomfort, her sudden aloofness, but he was not going to go there and explain what had just happened. Or that he had liked it.

Mentally he shook himself. They were on the outskirts of the city. Choosing a busy intersection, he told the driver to stop. There was a chance Preston had gotten their taxi’s plate number.

After helping Eva into her wheelchair, he paid the driver. The tail lights disappeared into traffic, and he wheeled her around, heading in the opposite direction. He scanned cautiously.

“There’s an alley ahead,” Eva prompted.

“I see it.” He pushed her inside.

She got up and discarded her blanket and scarf, piling them into the wheelchair’s seat. From the duffel bag she took out a midnight-blue jacket. As he removed the cotton from his lower lip, stripped off his attendant’s jacket, and unbuckled his white trousers, she pulled on her jacket and, without looking at him, took her shoulder satchel and hurried off to keep watch.

He slid into jeans, a brown polo shirt, and a brown sports jacket. Folding the wheelchair and their discarded belongings against the wall, he turned to gaze at her, a slender figure dwarfed by the alley’s tall opening, somehow jaunty and more unafraid than he would have thought.

Carrying the duffel, he joined her. “See anything?”

“No sign of Preston. Which way?”

They walked six blocks, went around a corner, and Judd hailed another cab. Within twenty minutes they were in the Sultanahmet district in the heart of historic Old Town, not far from Topkapi Palace, the Hagia Sophia, and the Hippo -drome. The taxi stopped, and they got out.

They walked another ten minutes, at last crossing onto a narrow street, at best a lane and a half wide. There were no cars, but trolley tracks ran down the middle. Tall stone buildings from centuries past abutted one another, shops and stores on the ground and second floors. He inhaled. The exotic scents of cumin and apple-flavored tobacco drifted through the night air.

“This is Istiklal Caddesi,” he told her. “
Caddesi
means avenue. Our hotel’s four blocks farther.”

As they continued on, she commented,“You seem to know a lot about Istanbul. Have you been here before?”

“No. I Googled it.”

The hotel was a stuccoed structure with a simple wood entry door and two shuttered windows on the right. The street was quiet, businesses closed, with no restaurants, cafés, or bars to attract customers.

He slowed. “We have a small problem. All you’ve got is your real passport, which means you’ll have to give the hotel your name. So I’m going to go in alone and register myself under one of my covers. Then I’ll come out for you.”

He gestured, and she stepped up into the recessed entry of a trinket store. Her dark jacket and jeans blended into the shadow.

She’s learning, he thought to himself as he left her and went into the hotel. The interior was narrow and deep, with old unvarnished woods and faded upholstery. As expected, the clerk handed over a plain cardboard box with the correct cover name printed on it. Mentally Judd thanked Tucker. He placed an order with room service, walked toward the elevator at the rear, and continued on, exiting out the rear door.

When he appeared in the mouth of the alley, he could not see Eva, so well was she hidden in the doorway.

She hurried out, a question in her eyes.

“We’re fine,” he told her as they retraced his path down the alley. “I told them my brother would be joining me in a couple of days.”

“I thought you had only cousins.”

He grinned. “I have a brother now.”

They climbed the rear stairs to the sixth floor. She had agreed with him it was safer for them to stay together. Their room had two small beds and was sparsely furnished with florid furniture in the Old Turkish style.

While she went into the bathroom, he dropped the duffel onto the bed nearest the door and opened the box. Inside was another subcompact semi-automatic Beretta pistol just like the one he’d had to leave behind in Rome. He checked it, loaded it from the box of ammo, and tried on the canvas shoulder holster, adjusting it. Satisfied, he went to the window. The lights of the city spread out before him in a glittering vista, beckoning.

“Come look at this.” He pushed open the two vertical panes and leaned out.

She emerged from the bathroom, her striking features smoothed at last. She was beginning to feel safe again, he decided. She smelled fresh, of soap and rose water.

She leaned out the window, too. “What a magnificent view.”

“Istanbul is the only major city in the world to straddle two continents,” he said. “It’s built on seven hills, just as Rome is. Where we are—the Sultanahmet district—is on top of the first hill, on the south side. It’s the historic core of the city. See that?” A series of fireworks in calico colors sprayed above the dark waters of the Marmara.“That’s from a wedding boat. Look at the lighted mosques. The domes and minarets. The temples and churches. The maze of winding streets.” The night gave a spectacular quality to the ancient city, as if it were secretly reinvigorating itself while its inhabitants slept. “It must’ve looked something like this during the Byzantine period, when the emperors were conquering the world and collecting the best books.”

“It’s beautiful. Did you learn all of that from Google?”

“From my father. Visiting ancient Constantinople was something we’d always planned to do together. That’s how I knew Istanbul was called the City of the World’s Desire. He particularly liked this hotel. There’s a lot of history connected to it.” His chest tight, he turned to her. “If my father were a member of the book club when your husband joined the library, he could’ve been responsible in one way or another for the dead man in your husband’s grave and for sending you to prison. I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

“Charles told me they wanted to have me killed, but he talked them out of it.” She sighed heavily, and he felt a gap open between them. “I know you loved your father. Whatever he did or didn’t do has nothing to do with who you are. It’s not your fault.”

But he sensed that somehow, in her mind, he was tainted by it. He turned back into the room, remembering. When he was growing up, his father was gone for longer and longer periods of time. He had moved them around Washington from one house to another, always larger, more expensive. His mother’s loneliness. The beautiful gifts brought back from each trip. Artworks, jewelry, furnishings, books. His father had grown not only richer but leaner and stronger. As his hair grayed, their conversations more often focused on lessons he wanted to pass on: Think for yourself. You can never learn enough. No one can protect you but yourself. Money solves almost every problem.

“You said you’re a CIA contract employee,” Eva said.“What did you do before?”

“Military intelligence. The army. I retired about a month before Dad was killed.”

“You’re a rich kid with every opportunity in the world. I’ll bet your father would’ve loved for you to jump on the fast track to the executive suite at Bucknell.”

“True.” It was his father’s dream.

“But you ended up in the army. Why?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do. And no, it was before 9/11.”

“So you rebelled by being a stand-up guy. But that’s not all, is it? Who are you really, Judd Ryder?”

For that he had no answer. He was saved by a knock on the door. Sliding out his weapon, he padded toward it and peered through the peephole. Dinner had arrived.

They ate at a small table in the corner—lamb meatballs with lemon sauce, tangy roasted eggplant salad, and a spread of ground walnuts and sweet red peppers. They talked quietly, and when they finished, he poured raki, a milky aperitif flavored with anise, a Turkish drink he had enjoyed with his father at home. As he handed her a glass, his encrypted mobile rang.

She looked across the room to his bed, where the mobile lay. “Tucker with good news, I hope.”

He was already picking it up. As he punched the Talk button, he confirmed by saying, “Hello, Tucker.”

Setting down her glass, she listened as he put the mobile on speakerphone.

“You’ve arrived?” Tucker wanted to know.

“Yes, we’re at the hotel,” Judd said. “Your package was waiting. Thanks. You should know Preston was at the airport. We got past him. This time it wasn’t a leak; they tracked us through Eva’s cell phone.”

“Christ.” The spymaster sounded frustrated.

“Did you find out anything about Yakimovich?” Judd asked.

“Yes, a good lead from an Istanbul source. There’s a merchant of old calligraphy in the Grand Bazaar who’s supposed to know where Yakimovich is. His name is Okan Biçer, and he shows up for work around three
P.M.
I’ll e-mail you his photo and give you directions to his shop.”

When they had memorized the directions and examined the photo, Judd ended the connection and tossed the mobile back onto his bed. Then he raised his glass, and Eva raised hers. They touched the rims with a soft clink. Drinking, they avoided the intimacy of each other’s eyes, the pain of their shared past, and the worry about what tomorrow would bring.

38

Fairfax County, Virginia

Cathy Doyle was exhausted. It was nearly one
A.M.
, and the day had been filled with work and the usual pressures to succeed at the various missions on which Catapult was working. As she drove across the Potomac River into Virginia, heading home, she turned on the radio. But it was a report of new terrorist attacks in eastern Afghanistan, and she already had enough facts about it; the last thing she needed was the somber news repeated. She punched off the radio.

Virginia was a land of urban congestion amid broad swathes of woods and farmland. She loved it—it always made her think of Ohio, where she had grown up. She turned off onto a two-lane road washed with moonlight. It ran along the river north of the District. At this hour, traffic was light, the widely spaced houses mostly dark.

She thought longingly of her twin daughters, home from spring break at Columbia, and her husband, a lawyer at the Department of Labor, who had just returned from a conference in Chicago. All would be sleeping, which she would be soon, too.

Humming to herself, she checked the road. There was almost no traffic, and she felt herself relax. She was thinking about home and bed again when she realized there was another car behind her now. She glanced at her speedometer. She was locked in at forty miles an hour, just where she wanted to be, and so was the other guy. Someone else heading home for a good night’s sleep.

To her right, the forest opened up, and she could see the river with its rippling surface painted a silky silver by the moonlight. She liked that, too. Nature in all its beauty. She cracked her window. The air whistled in, the cool night air tasting moist, of the river. She turned on the radio again, this time found a blues station. Ah, yes.

Settling back into her seat, she glanced into her rearview mirror. And stared. The other vehicle’s headlights were closing in, bombarding her car with light. She hit the accelerator, pushing out. As she passed sixty miles an hour, she checked her rearview mirror again. Her follower was even closer. There was still no other traffic as she started up the long, high hill that would eventually dip down into the valley where her house was, only a couple of miles farther.

Again she looked into her rearview mirror. The other car had moved out of their lane and into the oncoming lane. It was a big pickup. He had not signaled, and he had not slowed, either.

She slammed her foot on the accelerator, speeding toward seventy miles an hour. The pickup dropped back behind, in their lane again. But then the headlights loomed abruptly closer. As she floored the accelerator, he swung into the other lane, overtaking her. Her mouth went dry as they raced up the hill together

She braked to drop behind. Too late. The pickup crashed sideways into her car. Furious, she fought to control the steering wheel. The pickup slammed into her again, holding, pushing her toward the cliff over the river. This time the wheel ripped from her grasp.

Terror filling her, she gripped the steering wheel as the car hurtled through the guardrail, shot over the cliff, and crashed down through young pines, smashing against boulders. One collision after another hurled her back and forth. As the sedan flew over a final precipice and dived toward the shadowy river, she felt a moment of blinding impact, and then nothing.

Washington, D.C.

At eight
A.M.
the headquarters of Catapult was solemn and quiet, although all of the morning staff had arrived. A sense of shocked grief infused the building. The news of Catherine Doyle’s fatal accident had spread. Tucker had heard hours before, awakened by his old friend Matthew Kelley, the director of the Clandestine Service. When she had not returned home, Cathy’s husband had called. Then the Virginia State Police found her car submerged in the river, only a patch of the top visible. The vehicle was badly banged up, which was consistent with the terrain it had crashed down through, and she had apparently drowned. There would be a coroner’s report and the results of forensics in a few days.