Library of Gold (52 page)

A footnote to worldwide news, but a headline-grabber in Los Angeles, was that Charles Sherback had been found on the island, dead. Full of curiosity, former friends and colleagues had called, giving Eva condolences. At the same time the media had swarmed, packing her voice mail with pleas for interviews and camping out outside her hotel. She could not go to the drugstore, pick up her dry cleaning, or eat in a café without being peppered with questions. Thankfully here in Washington she was out of the fish bowl.

As was the way of politics in Afghanistan, Syed Ullah was no longer warlord. The Kabul government had sent its army to force him to give his region to an up-and-coming young rival, and now Ullah was running for the next parliamentary election. It appeared as if he would win, but Kabul gave no indication it was worried. Its ties to Pakistan remained tangled. The film of the two Pakistani newsmen had been confiscated, and the Islamabad government had ordered them to forget anything they saw, so the U.S. military base was safe. It was in Pakistan’s best interest to keep Afghanistan as stable as possible, at least for now.

As she walked down the busy street, Eva watched the dusky shadows. She still felt the bone-weary exhaustion of being hunted, of the roller-coaster ride of terrifying failures and exhilarating successes. And she deeply missed her friend Peggy Doty. Several times she had talked on the phone with Peggy’s longtime beau, Zack Turner, who remained inconsolable.

She fought back anger as she remembered Charles’s faked death, her incarceration, and the still unidentified corpse in Charles’s grave. Betrayal after betrayal. She wondered who she had been before prison and the Library of Gold operation. Clearly she had changed. It was time to find out who she was now.

Judd and Tucker were waiting at a table in Five Guys Famous Burgers and Fries on the corner of Dumbarton Street. They sat across from each other, the older academic-looking man in his tortoiseshell glasses and the battered athlete in his sports jacket and turtleneck. She smiled as they spotted her.

Motioning them to stay seated, she kissed each on the cheek. “You have my hamburger. Thanks, Tucker.”

“You look good, Eva,” Judd said. “Rested.”

“I feel rested.” She smiled as she sat between them.

The men were already eating, so she dove into the hamburger and fries they had ordered for her. She had not seen Tucker since her return to the United States, and she had been with Judd only when they were being debriefed. His face still looked troubled occasionally. Not only had his father been killed, but he had discovered his deep involvement in the powerful and immoral book club.

“How’s your mother, Judd?” Tucker was asking.

“Much better. Busy again with her philanthropies. She doesn’t know the truth about Dad and the Library of Gold.”

“No reason she should know,” Eva said quickly.

Judd nodded. “What’s the latest with the book club, Tucker?”

Tucker chewed a moment. “I can’t go into specifics, of course, but I can tell you the Justice Department has investigators working in the various countries in which the club members do business. The problem is, the members are effectively out of our control, even if we discover criminal activity—unless it’s in the United States or in a foreign country where the government is willing to cooperate.”

Judd shook his head in disgust. Then he changed the subject. “Have we made peace with the Greeks?”

Tucker chuckled. “H. L. Mencken wrote something to the effect that nations get along with one another not by telling the truth but by lying gracefully. We made a deal. In exchange for the Greeks’ forgetting we sent our paratroopers into their territory, we let them take credit for finding the Library of Gold.”

“That explains the news stories. Charles would’ve been furious.” Eva laughed. Greece’s renowned government historian Nikos Amourgis had received the credit. “What’s going to happen to the library now?”

Finished eating, Tucker pushed his plate away. “It’s vanished. The word is it will remain private.”

“You don’t know where it is?” she asked, surprised. “The Greeks don’t?”

“They ended their investigation on the island last month. The next week our flyovers told us it was gone. There are no buildings on the mesa now. The underground levels have been filled in, and a fruit orchard planted. Even the wharf’s been carted away. The bottom line is the island’s private, and the collection is privately owned, so they can do whatever they want. The library’s hardly a national security issue for us, so we won’t devote manpower to locating it again.”

They were silent with disappointment.

“What about the Carnivore?” Eva asked eagerly. “Did you track him down?”

She knew Gloria had sent out word to all Catapult operatives, asking them or any of their sources who had contact with Tucker or Judd to tell them to phone her for help. That was how the Carnivore must have known to have them call Gloria while they were trapped in the Library of Gold. Then when the Carnivore escaped on the island, Tucker sent paratroopers out to look for him. They reported a small dark speedboat on the west side, taking off into the night. It was possible the Carnivore was on it, but they had needed the helicopters to transport the injured off the island and so had not pursued.

Tucker shook his head. “No. I had Gloria send out another notice to our people after I got back, this time asking whoever had told the Carnivore about us to let us know. No one owned up to it. Frustrating as hell.”

“You’ve got someone in Catapult who knows the Carnivore,” Judd said, “or can reach him somehow.”

“Right. And no one’s talking.”

“Still, his help was critical,” Eva said. “In fact, I think it’s safe to say he was instrumental in saving our lives.”

“Yes, and I’m not going to hunt him,” Tucker said. “Bad things happen when one goes after the Carnivore, but that doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see much point to it, at least for now.”

“Oddly, I’m glad,” Eva said.

Tucker peered around the lively fast-food joint. Two middle-age men had arrived with their burgers and sat at the next table.

“Let’s get out of here.” Tucker stood and led Judd and Eva out of the restaurant.

As they walked down Wisconsin Avenue, Tucker, between them, glanced at one, then the other. “I know the Library of Gold operation was rough on you. You uncovered very unpleasant facts about people you loved. On the other hand, I’ve always believed illusions are overrated. Consider a great ballet. From the audience you see extraordinary dancers seemingly light as air, leaping, pirouetting, and generally moving like sylphs in ways most of us can only dream. But if you go backstage you find sweat, torn muscles, and mangled feet. Which is better?” Before they could respond, he went on: “My take is backstage. That’s where you learn what it takes to create something extraordinary. It shows the human spirit at its most indomitable. And the next time you sit in the audience the illusion is gone and you start to see that with effort all of us can achieve a sort of glory in our lives.”

“Are you talking about Judd’s father and Charles?” Eva asked.

“Yes. Both did despicable things, but they did good things as well. Remembering that will help you to live with the facts.”

They were silent.

At last Tucker said, “Judd, there’s work for you with me whenever you want. I know you’re reluctant now, but remember, I can use you. Ivan the Terrible was onto something when he commissioned
The Book of Spies
. Spies have a long if checkered past, and we’re still badly needed.”

Judd shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Eva cleared her throat. “What about me?”

The men stared at her.

“What do you mean?” Judd asked sharply.

“Both of you seemed to think I did a good job,” she said calmly. “I want to go through the CIA training program. If I get weeded out, so be it.”

“But you loved your work as a curator,” Judd objected.

“Yes, but I never felt the same commitment, the same sense of doing something that could make a difference. You must’ve sensed I was heading in this direction, Judd. Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered to teach me so much.”

Tucker chuckled. “You’re right, Eva. You’ve got the talent and the brains. I’ll make some calls tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll be leaving you here. I’m going to meet my wife at the Kennedy for opera. Her idea. I hate opera, but right now she gets whatever she wants.” He pounded Judd on the back and kissed Eva on the cheek. “I know I can trust both of you never to say a word about the operation.” He turned and left.

“Is he in charge of Catapult now?” Eva asked as she looked back over her shoulder, watching his energetic gait.

“Hell, no.” Judd’s gray eyes danced. “My bet is he’ll never take the job. Gloria’s irritated, but she’s living with it.” Then he said solemnly, “I warned you not to like the work too much.”

She smiled. “Are you going to hold it against me?”

“No. You’ll be a damn good addition to Langley.”

He reached into his pocket and held out his hand. As he uncurled his fingers, she saw her wedding ring and the necklace Charles had given her.

“You kept them?” She felt a strange emotion.

“Now that life is settling down a bit, I thought you might know more what you wanted to do with them. They’re yours, after all.”

“The pendant is a Roman coin. The goddess Diana. It was Charles’s first gift to me.”

“She’s the huntress,” he remembered.

“Yes, somehow I reminded Charles of her.”

“He wasn’t wrong about that.”

She took the jewelry and the responsibility. “I’ll donate them.” She slid them into her pocket.

They walked on silently. She was mulling what Tucker had said about illusions.

“Strange how neither of us saw the truth about your father and Charles,” she said at last. “Instead what we saw was love.
Ut ameris, amabilis esto.
That’s from Ovid and it means that if you want to be loved, be lovable. In their own ways they were lovable. We can’t ever forget what they did—but it’d be healthy for us to work on forgiving them.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“Yes, we’ll talk more.”

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, gazing deep into her eyes. A warm intimacy passed between them.

“I’m glad to have met you, Eva Blake.” He took her hand. His grip was firm.

She held up their hands and gazed at his. His hand no longer looked to her like the hand of a killer. But then, Michelangelo had been working in marble, and this was the warm flesh of a man. A very good man.

Rome, Italy

The month of July was the height of Estate Romana, the Rome summer festival. A six-week auditory and visual feast, the festival was a flood of mostly outdoor shows, many set in grassy parks and amid ruins to take advantage of the splendor of ancient Rome. The Carnivore always tried to be in the city for at least a few days to enjoy as much as he could. Tonight was a good night for it, warm but not hot, the stars shining brightly.

Passing the tumbled walls and columns of the Temple of Claudius on his right, he climbed the steep paving stones of Via Claudia and breathed deeply, filling his lungs and expelling air in mighty bursts, savoring his returned vigor, his good health. Escaping from the Isle of Pericles had taken every ounce of strength he’d had. The medic’s painkillers had helped, and of course he had long practiced the rule of the cat—never show you’re injured, vulnerable.

Jack O’Keefe, Doug Kennedy, and George Russell had been waiting in a high-powered speedboat at the specified location, and within hours they were at the airport on Mykonos and on their way home. The bullet that got him had ripped through large muscles and nicked a rib, so he had taken time to convalesce, then resumed his regime of cardio and weights.

At the wrought-iron gate he bought a ticket and walked onto the grounds of the magnificent Villa Celimontana. The park spread across Celio Hill, one of the city’s seven storied hills, south of the Coliseum. Little known, it was an oasis of peace and greenery in chaotic Rome. Across the drive, “Jazz” was projected in colorful letters. The Carnivore strode through the lights, taking in the tall cypresses and centuries-old oaks and pines. The winding pathways were littered with pieces of carved marble and broken classical statues. In five minutes he was at the sixteenth-century villa, a tall two stories and pink in the night’s lights.

Turning a corner, he passed an outdoor jazz poster gallery, sculptures, artistic installations, and finally a fountain heralding the venue’s entrance. He listened to the jazz sounds of Charles Lloyd’s sweet tenor sax.

As the rich music filled the night air, he climbed the wood terraces built for the summer season. Rows of tables decorated with little red lanterns filled the top three levels of the semicircular amphitheater, while concert seating was on the patio below, the chairs facing the stage, where Lloyd was soloing in front of a small jazz band.

He found his table, sat, and reached for the beer that was awaiting him—a chilled blond beer from Birra Menabrea, perfect for the warm night.

“Good to see you, Uncle Hal.” Bash Badawi was out of his usual shorts and T-shirt, dressed for the occasion in worn jeans and an open-necked purple shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Both were cellophane tight against his muscular body. Despite the late hour, wraparound sunglasses sat on his straight jet-black hair, and his dark eyes were smiling in his golden face. He looked completely modern Roman.

“How’s your mother?” The Carnivore drank. Bash was not really his nephew, but his first cousin once removed—his mother’s sister’s grandchild. It was complicated, but then they came from a large Italian family.

“Mom’s good. Making pasta as if we were all still living at home. I told her she should start selling online, but she got all bent out of shape. The pasta wouldn’t be
fresh
—but I was for suggesting it. That woman can still swing a killer wood spoon. You know what I mean, with the long handle and the hot spaghetti sauce dripping from the bowl. Painful.” Grinning, Bash assessed him. “You look pretty good for a guy who had his entrails toyed with.”