Library of Gold (36 page)

Today the group’s funds of some $6 trillion were registered, regulated, and owned by a series of fronts. They had much to be proud of—the Library of Gold had a permanent home and was maintained to the highest standards, and it would never be threatened as long as it was in their control. Since they saw to that, they were rewarded in kind.

“Doesn’t bloody matter,” Holmes said. “Risk is never to be taken lightly. You’ve gambled in grave ways that can impact all of us. We want to know why, and where you are going with it.”

Chapman said nothing. Instead he opened the wood box and lifted out a small illuminated manuscript, about six by eight inches, and stood it up so it faced the members of the book club. There was an intake of breath. Diamonds blanketed the cover in a dazzling array, shaped into overlapping circles, triangles, and rectangles, each filled in completely with more diamonds. Of the highest quality, they sparkled like fire.

“I know the book,” Randklev, the mining czar, said. He recounted the title in English: “
Gems and Minerals of the World.
Written in the late 1300s. It’s from the Library of Gold.”

“You’re correct,” Chapman told him. Then he addressed the group. “I was curious about the diamonds on the cover, so I asked a translator to search through the book, and he found the story behind them. Perhaps you remember that Mahmud, a Persian, invaded Afghanistan at the end of the tenth century. He made Ghazni his capital and lifted the country to the heights of power with an empire extending into what is modern-day Iran, Pakistan, and India.” He nodded at the lavish book. “Diamonds were one of the sources of his wealth—diamonds from a huge mine in what today is Khost province, near Ghazni. Then, some two hundred years later, Genghis Khan tore through Afghanistan, slaughtering the people. He left Ghazni and other cities in rubble. The devastation was so complete even irrigation lines were never repaired. The diamond mine stopped production. When Tamerlane swept through in the early 1380s, he destroyed what was left. The mine was forgotten. In effect, lost.”

“Khost province is a dangerous place to do business, Marty,” warned Reinhardt Gruen, the media baron. He looked around the group and explained.“The Afghan government has taken over the country’s security, but they don’t have a big enough army, and local police forces are stretched thin and are frequently corrupt. So province governors are supposed to be doing the job, which is a bad joke. In Khost, as I recall, several warlords have divided up the territory. Those warlords may be in collusion with the Taliban and al-Qaeda.”

“Shit, Marty.” Grandon Holmes, the telecom kingpin, stared. “No mine can operate in that atmosphere. Worse, you’ll be aiding the jihadists.”

“The exact opposite is true,” Chapman told them calmly. That was the conclusion to which Jonathan Ryder had jumped. “Syed Ullah is the warlord in charge in the area where the mine is, and he hates the Taliban and, by extension, al-Qaeda. When the Taliban were in charge in the 1990s, they crushed the drug trade. Heroin and opium were—and are again today—his biggest source of income. So you see, the Taliban and al-Qaeda are his enemies. He’s got an army of more than five thousand. He’d never let the jihadists infiltrate and take over his territory.”

Heads slowly nodded around the table.

Thom Randklev’s eyes brightened. “You know exactly where the mine is?”

“I do. I was going to bring all of you in,” Chapman lied. “This is merely sooner than I expected. And of course, you can have the contract to do the mining in addition to your share, Thom.”

Randklev rubbed his hands together. “When do I begin?”

“That’s the problem,” Chapman told them. “The deal isn’t ready to be signed.” In calm tones, and putting a positive spin wherever he could, he described the events of the last few weeks from Jonathan Ryder’s discovery of Syed Ullah’s frozen account in the international bank Chapman had bought, to Robin Miller’s escape from the Learjet in Athens. Then he explained what remained to be done in Khost, and that Judd Ryder, Eva Blake, and Robin Miller were still on the loose but would be found soon.

When he finished, there was a long silence.

“Christ, Marty,” said one.

“This is a hell of a mess,” said another.

“It’s not that big a mess,” Chapman said, “and think of the fortunes to be made.”

“If the mine is as big as you say,” decided Holmes, “we’d be bloody fools to interrupt the deal.”

“How much do you think it’s worth?” asked Klok.

“From what I read, Mahmud’s people had barely scratched the surface,” Chapman said. “And of course they had the disadvantage of working with primitive equipment. I’d say it’ll bring in at least a hundred trillion. Over decades, of course.”

They smiled around the table. Then they laughed. The future was good.

Dresser concluded the discussion. “I’d say you have our complete cooperation, Marty.” Then he glared. “But make damn certain you contain the situation. Do whatever you have to do. Don’t fuck it up. If you do, there’ll be consequences.” He looked around at the stony expressions. The men nodded agreement. “You won’t like them.”

51

Somewhere around the Mediterranean

Above the turquoise sea stood a small stone villa about three quarters of the way up a long green valley. It was nearly four hundred years old. Four stone cottages flanked it, two on either side, built more than a century ago for a don’s large extended family. Green ivy grew up the aged white walls of the buildings, and red geraniums bloomed from window boxes.

It was a beautiful afternoon, the air scented with the perfume of honeysuckle blossoms. Don Alessandro Firenze was sitting outdoors beneath his leafy grape arbor at the side of the villa. Here was the long wood table and upright wood chairs at which he and his
compadres
gathered to drink wine and tell stories of the old days. A man in his sixties, the don was in his usual chair at the head of the table, a straw hat on the back of his head. He was alone except for his book and 9 mm Walther, which lay on the table beside a tall glass of ice tea.

He lifted his head from Plato’s
Republic
. One of the advantages of semi-retirement was he could indulge himself. As a foolish youth, he had neglected his education. For the past dozen years he had spent much of his free time reading, the rest in tending his vegetable garden, grapevines, and honeybees. And of course there was the occasional outside job.

He gazed around, enjoying this piece of earthly heaven that meant so much to him. He noted the vibrant health of the bushes and flowering plants that grew around the grassy front yard. His large vegetable garden showed toward the rear, surrounded by a low white picket fence, and next to it was an enormous satellite dish and a generator in bomb-and fireproof housing. Much farther away was a honeybee colony in white boxes. The hillsides beneath the compound were lined with well-tended grapevines and dotted by gnarled olive trees. The property covered five square miles, so no neighbors disturbed him.

Through the window of one of the cottages he could see Elaine Russell in her kitchen. Her husband, George, had gone into the village for supplies. Next to their cottage was another, where Randi and Doug Kennedy napped outside in hammocks. On the other side of the villa, Jack O’Keefe—once known as Red Jack O’Keefe—was working at his computer, visible through his living room window. The other cottage was home to more of his
compadres
, two brothers. Intelligence work was as integral to all of their systems as veins and tendons, so they were merely semi-retired, too. They reveled in his jobs, acting as a moral compass whenever he needed debate.

Just as he was about to return to his book, Jack came at a half-run from his door. The don watched the easy gait, remembering when the older man could run the half mile faster than most people on the planet. About five foot ten inches tall, Jack still had catlike grace. But he looked worried, his corrugated face tense.

The don said nothing.

“Dammit, we’ve got a problem.” Jack dropped onto the chair beside him. “Someone’s been trying to trace back the e-mails between Martin Chapman and me. The bastard didn’t succeed, but he got damn close. I scrambled the two Internet service providers I created out of Somalia and the Antilles and shut them down. There’s no way they’ll find us now.”

The don felt hot fury explode in his skull. He said nothing, waiting for the storm to subside. His bad temper had caused enough grief for himself and those he loved.

“You told Chapman the rules,” the don said. “I told him. He agreed. Now he’s broken them twice.”

“I did some research on him and Douglas Preston. Preston’s ex-CIA, the bastard. You’d think he’d have a better way to earn a living now. Anyway, according to Chapman’s equity firm, Chapman is in Athens now. My deduction is Preston is with him, looking for Eva Blake and Judd Ryder. You told me this was about the Library of Gold, so I sent out word to our contacts and got some interesting results.”

When searching for the rich and powerful, most people never thought to investigate the less obvious sources—protection services, independent bodyguards, private mercenaries, party planners, chefs, maid and nanny businesses, boat crews, pilots, anyone who served the affluent.

“You have a lead?” the don asked.

“You bet I do. Wasn’t going to talk to you until I did. The problem is, it’s risky.”

As Jack explained the possibilities, the don took off his hat and rubbed his forearm across his gray crew cut. His fingerprints had been burned off years ago, his face altered many times by plastic surgery. He had the body of a man in his forties, although his skin had aged—a regime of hormones, vitamins, and exercise could accomplish only so much. He nodded as he listened. Yes, that would do.

“It won’t be easy,” Jack warned again.

“I’ve just been reading Plato.” The Carnivore closed the book and set it beside his Walther. He gazed across his tranquil estate, wishing his daughter were here. But she did not approve of him. “It’s an insightful book. I don’t agree with everything. Still, one thing he wrote seems to apply: ‘Only the dead have seen the end of war.’” He stood up. “Summon the
compadres
. We’ll go into the villa and make preparations.”

52

Athens, Greece

A Greek newscast sounded from down the hotel corridor as Judd set their brunch tray on the floor outside the door. Listening, he peered left and right, then stepped back inside the room. Eva was at the table and looked tense, elbows on the top, a hand cupping her chin as she reread Charles’s notebook. Last night he had thought he was going to lose her. He was glad she had decided to stick it out, except now he felt even more responsible for her.

He shot the dead bolt and grabbed Preston’s S&W from under his pillow. Sitting, he emptied it of rounds, including the bullet in the chamber.

“Join me.” He patted the bed beside him.

Eva looked up and saw the gun. “Are you going to shoot me or teach me?”

“Teach. Then you’ll be able to shoot someone—hopefully not me.”

“We’ll see.” She gave a small smile and sat beside him.

“This is the safety. Flick it on and off so you know how it works.” When she did, he explained the basic mechanics of the weapon. “Stand up.”

“Okay.” She stood, long and slender, her dyed black hair falling around her face.

“Balance on both feet.”

She assumed a
heiko-dachi
karate stance, her feet at shoulder-width distance and parallel. Her knees were flexed, just the way he wanted them.

He passed her the gun. “Hold it in both hands, choose a point on the wall, stretch your arms a bit, but not so much you strain yourself. Aim. . . Stop hunching your shoulders. Let your bones relax—your muscles need to do the work.” Her grip looked capable but not confident. “Your hands automatically want to coordinate with your eyes—let them do it. Good. Now squeeze the trigger.” He watched. “Slow down. Pretend the trigger is a baby’s ankle. You don’t want to hurt it, but you’ve got to be firm, or the little guy will skedaddle away.”

“You did a lot of babysitting in your youth?”

“I have an active imagination.”

“You’ve raised babies in your imagination?”

“No, but I can act like one.”

She laughed, settled herself, and tried the trigger again.

“Much better,” he said. “You won’t know how true your aim is until you fire, but this is better than nothing. Practice one hundred times—slowly. Then take a break and do another hundred. You’ll begin to get the feel of the weapon and what it’s like to shoot it. If you actually do have to fire, you’ll get a powerful kick. This will help you prepare for that, too.”

Listening to the clicks, he took out his mobile, downloaded the phone numbers of all hotels in the Athens metropolitan area, and started dialing. At each place he asked to speak to Robin Miller. There were a few Millers, but no Robin Miller. He talked to the ones he could reach. They knew no one named Robin Miller.

Finally Eva said, “That’s another hundred.” She did not look bored but seemed definitely fed up. “How do I load this thing?”

They sat on the bed again, and he filed rounds into the S&W’s magazine. He took them out and handed the magazine to her. She fumbled for a while, then got better, sliding the bullets inside.

Finally, at around two o’clock, she put the weapon into her satchel. When he finished a call to another hotel, she held up a hand.

“Pame gia kafe,”
she said. “That means let’s go for coffee, which in Athens really means let’s go out. Enough already. You haven’t heard from NSA. Robin hasn’t called. Tucker isn’t getting in until late. Preston has never seen our disguises, so we’re reasonably safe. And once I have a cell, I can help call hotels, too.”

She had a point. In fact several of them. They left.

The day was warm. Athens was having a touch of summer in April. Through a thin layer of brown smog, sunshine glazed the concrete buildings and sidewalks. They took the Metro to Plaka, the city’s humming market and popular meeting place.