Library of Gold (9 page)

10

By eleven o’clock the British Museum was a dark fortress, massive and seemingly impenetrable. Surrounded by a great iron fence, it filled a full city block, dominating the narrow, quaint streets of the Bloomsbury neighborhood of London. Rain fell lightly. Nearby traffic had eased except on Great Russell Street, where it would thunder all night. There were no pedestrians in sight.

Four men in single file ran alongside the museum on Montague Place. They wore black nylon face masks and were dressed in black body suits, with large black waterproof backpacks snug against their shoulders. As they approached the iron gate, Doug Preston touched the electronic communicator on his belt. The click of the gate’s lock was audible. He slipped swiftly inside, followed by the others.

The team hurried past grassy plots and open space until they reached a side door in the North Wing. It swung open, pushed by a man in a museum guard’s dark blue uniform. They stepped inside, the door closed with a clang, and in unison all four pulled out towels from one another’s backpacks.

“Hurry, Preston,” the guard, Mark Allen Robert, said as they dried themselves. “I’ve bloody well got to get back.”

“Is everything handled?” Preston demanded.

Robert peered nervously at his watch. “They’ll be starting up rounds again through this wing in about twenty-five minutes. They’ll be checking the floors and galleries for an hour. To be on the safe side you need to be back here in twenty minutes. No more. I’ll control the security apparatus from downstairs.” He rushed away, his flashlight beam preceding him through macabre shadows created by dim amber lamps installed high on the walls.

Silently the men changed into crepe-soled shoes. They mopped rainwater from the floor.

“We’ve got seventeen minutes,” Preston told them quietly.

They raced off through the gloom without the benefit of flashlights. The museum’s security lamps were enough, and each man had memorized the route.

But at the top of the north stairs, Preston smelled an acrid whiff of cigarette smoke. He gave a brusque hand signal that told his people to stand back. Besides being the chief of security at the Library of Gold, he was a highly regarded expert in both break-ins and wet work, and this could be a minor interruption. He hoped like hell it was minor. His orders were to go in, grab, and get out without leaving any hint that intruders had breached the museum stronghold.

Crouching, he found his nightscope, bent the neck, and aimed it around the corner until he could see. A guard, smoking languidly, was sauntering along the shadowy hallway toward them. Smoking was not allowed in the museum, so Preston thought the man likely had come up here to escape the rain, hoping no one would notice.

Preston frowned and settled back on his heels, warily watching as the guard closed in on the stairwell. He was about to signal his men to retreat to the next floor when the guard put out the cigarette, lit another, and ambled around in a semicircle to retrace his path.

Preston shook his shoulders to relieve tension. Beneath his mask, sweat greased his face. He hated not being able to take out the guard.

Another five minutes passed while the man strolled the corridor. At last he extinguished the second cigarette, punched the button for the elevator, boarded it, and vanished.

“Ten minutes left.” Preston saw his men stiffen. “We can do it.”

With a snap of his wrist, he signaled, and they sprinted to the events hall where the Rosenwald collection was being exhibited. As expected, the security gate was lowered, but the light on the electronic lock was green, signaling it had been deactivated. Preston liked that—it increased the chances that the motion sensors inside the gallery had also been turned off.

Together they raised the gate three feet, slid under, and sped toward
The Book of Spies,
peeling off their backpacks. No alarms went off.

“Nine minutes,” Preston said, relieved.

The high-security display cabinet had a frame of titanium without corner joints that could leak air. The top consisted of two pieces of tempered, antireflective glass, each three-sixteenths of an inch thick and fused with polyvinyl butyral, which would hold shards together and away from the manuscript if the panes shattered. The seals were made of Inconel, a nickle-alloy steel, and shaped like a
C
in cross section so the arms of each
C
fit into grooves to create a high seal. If someone did not know what they were doing, it could take hours to figure out how to open the case.

Their movements were slow but choreographed. Using special hand tools, two men opened the top seals and removed the first pane of glass and set it on the floor, while Preston and the fourth man slid a fake illuminated manuscript out of a backpack and unwrapped its covering.

As soon as the second pane of glass was hiked out, one man carefully closed the jeweled
Book of Spies
and secured it in clear archival polyester film and clear polyethylene sheeting, then wrapped it in foam. They slid it into Preston’s backpack.

Keeping his breath rhythmic, Preston studied the display cabinet’s interior, which had a jet-black finish. He was looking for the small pegs that indicated correct placement. Satisfied, he set down the fake book and opened it to the only two pages that were real—color copied and touched up by hand from photographs Charles Sherback had taken during the evening’s showing. There were small seams where the pages had been glued into the book, but unless someone examined them closely, they were unnoticeable.

When he looked up, his men were wearing their backpacks. As he slung on his, the first two returned the panes of glass and closed the seals.

With a burst of satisfaction, he checked his watch. “Four minutes.”

One man chuckled; another laughed. Preston gave an experienced look around to make certain they had left nothing behind, and they raced away.

11

As the Citroën sped around the corner, Judd Ryder ran up the narrow street, following Eva Blake as she raced into the falling mist. Working for Tucker Andersen, he was in London to keep an eye on her and had learned two important pieces of information: First, she was alert to her surroundings—several times she had glanced over her shoulder, indicating she sensed she was being tailed. She had definitely spotted him once. And second, the man she believed to be her husband had just tried to kill her.

Still running, she hurled something beneath a bush. He looked and saw a faint glitter. Scooping up a wedding band and a pendant on a gold chain, he dropped them into his jacket pocket and accelerated past the Montague Hotel and around the corner. Traffic cruised past, and a scattering of people were on the sidewalks. He spotted her as she dashed into Russell Square Gardens.

Darting between cars, he entered the garden park, a manicured city block of lawns and winding walkways beneath the branching limbs of old trees. Although April had turned chilly, the trees had leaves, creating black swaths where not even the park’s ornate lampposts could shed light.

Blake was nowhere in sight. But he saw the Citroën on the east side of the park with the other traffic. It was circling. He took out his mobile and dialed her number.

A woman’s breathless voice answered. “Tucker?”

He knew she thought only Tucker had her phone number. “My name is Judd Ryder. Tucker sent me to help. I’ve been following you—”

She hung up on him.

Swearing, Ryder hurried along a path, checking the shadows. Had he just seen movement near the Garden Café, inside the square’s north-east corner? He stepped behind a tree. For a few seconds a wraith in a tan trench coat flitted in and out of the café’s dark shadows. It was Eva Blake.

He kept pace as she exited through the park’s wrought-iron gates and slipped behind an old-fashioned cabman’s shelter to hide as the Citroën passed and turned west. As it continued around the park again, she ran across the busy intersection toward the historic Russell Hotel.

He left the park, too. She slowed as she passed the hotel and wove through the throngs around the Russell Square Underground Station.

Stepping off the curb, he sprinted along the gutter. Once he was in front of her, he hid in the lee of the
Herald-Tribune
newspaper stand and pulled out his black watch cap. As Blake rushed past, he grabbed her arm and used her momentum to swing her close.

“I’m Judd Ryder. I just called you—”

“Let go of me.” She yanked so hard he almost lost his grip.

Her hair was rain-soaked, plastered against her skull, and her mascara had run, settling in dirty half moons under her eyes and gray dribbles down her cheeks. But it was her cobalt blue eyes that held him. They radiated fear—and defiance.

“I’ve got to get you out of here,” he ordered.

She abruptly leaned away and slammed out a foot in an expert
yoko-keage
side snap kick. He stepped back swiftly, and the brunt of her blow hit only the loose front of his peacoat. Surprised to lose impact, she teetered and banged into his chest. Her hands pressed against him.

He jerked her upright and shoved his wool cap at her. “Put this on. Stick your hair up inside it. We’ve got to change your appearance—unless you’d rather risk your husband finding you again. Take off your trench coat. If you do exactly what I tell you, I may be able to get you out of here.”

As commuters moved around them, she remained motionless. “Are you really working with Tucker?” she demanded.

“
For
him. Just like you are. That’s why I have your cell phone number.”

“That means nothing. Why didn’t he tell me about you?”

“I’ll explain later.” He grabbed the watch cap and jammed it down onto her head and began to unbutton her trench coat.

“I’ll take it off myself, dammit.” She slipped off the strap of her satchel and shrugged out of the coat.

Catching both before they hit the ground, he rolled the coat into a ball so only the olive-green lining showed. She was wearing a black tailored jacket, a black turtleneck sweater, and tight low-slung jeans tucked into high black boots. Her dark clothing would help her to blend with the night.

“Push your hair up under the cap.” As she did, he returned her satchel. “Take my arm as if you liked me.”

Warily she slid her arm inside his. As they walked, he patted her hand. It was ice-cold and tense. He dropped her trench coat into a trash receptacle.

She started to turn.

“Don’t look back,” he warned. “Let’s keep the opportunities for your husband to see your face at a minimum.”

As they continued on, the number of pedestrians lessened, which was both good and bad. Good because they could make quicker progress. Bad because she was easier to spot. He produced a palm-size mirror, cupped it in his hand, and examined the cars approaching from behind.

“I don’t see the Citroën,” he reported. “You’re shivering. Button your jacket. We’ll find someplace warm to talk.”

“What did you say your name was?” She buttoned her jacket up to her throat.

There was no trust in her voice, but all he needed was her cooperation. “Judd Ryder.” He reached inside his open peacoat for his billfold. His hand came out empty. Instantly he remembered her side snap kick and that she had bumped into him, her hands on his chest. Tucker had been right—she was a damn good pickpocket.

She pulled the wallet from her satchel, looked inside, and checked his Maryland driver’s license, credit cards, and membership cards.

“Nothing says CIA.” She returned the billfold.

“I’m covert.”

“Then your name might not really be Judson Clayborn Ryder.”

“It is. Son of Jonathan and Jeannine Ryder. Cousin to many.”

“Credentials can be forged.”

“Mine aren’t. Here’s an interesting idea—try being grateful. I’m the one helping you get away from your husband.”

“If you really wanted to help me, why didn’t you do something to stop Charles when he tried to run me down? You could’ve at least used your gun to shoot out his tires.”

So she had found his Beretta. “It’s a myth shooting rounds into tires makes them explode.”

“Do you think Charles will try to kill me again?”

“Considering he was circling the park, I’d say he appears enthused about the idea.”

Her expression froze, and she looked away.

As they turned onto Guilford Street, she asked, “Are you the one who saved the museum guard who almost fell over the stair rail?”

“He needed some help. I was lucky to be close.” She took a deep breath. “I’m glad you did.” They passed a row of businesses, all closed. Sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of one was a homeless man, a dingy beach umbrella sheltering him and, in front of him, a hand-lettered sign:

MY DOG AND I ARE HUNGRY. PLEASE HELP.

Suddenly he felt her go rigid beside him.

“Charles!” she whispered.

With his peripheral vision, he caught sight of the Citroën approaching from behind.

“There’s no time to run,” he told her quietly. “Look at me and smile. Look at me! We’re just an ordinary couple out for a stroll.” He put his arm around her shoulders, took her over to the beggar, and dropped a two-pound coin into the man’s hand. “Where’s your dog?” he asked, playing for time as the car approached.

“I have a dog?” The man’s words were slurred. He stank of cheap wine.

“Says so on the sign.” He saw that the Citroën was nearly beside them.

“Bollocks. I left the bloody dog at home. Must be losin’ my friggin’ mind.” The two-pound coin vanished into the man’s pocket, and he stared blankly ahead as the Citroën rolled safely past.

Ryder peered down at Blake. “Our guests will be arriving soon, dear. We’d better head home.”

She gave a curt nod, and they hurried on.

12

The Lamb public house at 94 Lamb’s Conduit Street was a classic old-school pub with dark woods, smoke-brown walls, and an ornate U-shaped bar topped with rare snob screens that pivoted to provide a customer with a modicum of privacy. The dusky air was pungent with the rich aromas of fine ales and lagers.