The Book of Spies (12 page)

He pointed without touching the page. The letters stood for the Latin words for the colors the long-ago artist had been instructed to use to fill in the line drawings, which had been rendered by a previous artist.
R
for
ruber
, meaning red;
V
for
viridis
, meaning green; and
A
for
azure
, meaning blue.

"It was painted by an Italian who was working in Ivan's court," Charles explained.

"I remember the book well," Preston said. "The stories about spies are inspiring. Those who find the secrets and take them to their graves are the real heroes. That's what we signed on for when we went to work for the Library of Gold. Complete loyalty."

As Preston talked, Robin stared at Charles. Her eyebrows knitted together with determination, and her lips thinned. The message was clear: If he did not tell Preston, she would.

"We've got a problem." Charles steeled himself as Preston focused on him.

"There's no reason for the director to know about it, Preston," Robin urged. "You can handle it."

Preston did not look at her. "What's happened, Charles?"

He sighed heavily. "It started in the museum. I'd just finished photographing
The Book of Spies
and was walking away when I noticed Eva. My wife. God knows how she got out of prison, but she was there, and she recognized me." He rushed on, describing the chase through the museum and her arrest. "I rented a car. When the police released her, I followed and found a quiet street. Then I was almost able to run her down. But she got away. I drove everywhere, looking for her again."

"Does she know about the Library of Gold?" Preston asked instantly.

"Of course not. I never talked with her."

"What else?"

"She recorded me on her cell phone," he admitted. "I don't know whether it was photos or a video."

"Please don't tell the director, Preston," Robin pleaded.

Preston was silent. Tension filled the room.

Charles rubbed his eyes and sank back in his chair. When he looked again, Preston had not moved, his gaze unreadable.

"Where would she stay in London?" Preston demanded.

"There were two hotels we preferred--the Connaught and the Mayflower. When she came alone, she stayed with a friend, Peggy Doty. At the museum I overheard a conversation that Peggy had moved back to London. I don't have her address, but my guess is Eva's with Peggy. They were close."

Preston tapped a number into his cell. "Eva Blake may be staying at one of these hotels." He related the information. "I'll e-mail you her photograph. Terminate her. She has a cell phone. It's imperative you get it." He ended the connection, then told Charles, "I'll handle Peggy Doty myself."

As Preston walked toward the door, Charles rose to his feet. He was sweating. "Are you going to tell the director?"

Preston said nothing. The door closed.

AS HE
drove toward Peggy Doty's apartment, Preston reveled in having pulled off the complex mission of recovering
The Book of Spies
. It had been like the old days when he was a CIA officer working undercover in hot spots across Europe and the old Soviet Union. But when the cold war had ended, Langley had lost the support of Congress, the White House, and the American people to properly monitor the world. Disgusted and heartbroken, he had resigned. By the time of the 9/11 attacks, when everyone realized intelligence was critical to U.S. security, he had committed himself to something larger, something more enduring. Something far more relevant, almost eternal--the Library of Gold.

Fury washed through him. Charles was self-important, and self-importance was always a liability. He had put the library in danger.

Preston speed-dialed the director.

"Did you get
The Book of Spies
?" Martin Chapman's voice was forceful, his focus instant, although it was past four
A.M.
in Dubai. The tirelessness of the response was typical, just one of the reasons Preston admired him.

"The book is safe. On the jet soon. And Charles has verified it's genuine."

As Preston had hoped, there was delight in the director's voice: "Congratulations. Fine work. I knew I could count on you. As Seneca wrote, 'It matters not how many books one has, but how good they are.' I'm eager to see it again. Everything went smoothly?"

"One small problem, but it's handleable. Charles's wife is out of prison and was at the museum opening. She recognized him, made a scene, and got herself arrested. Charles tried to run her down. Of course he failed. I'm driving to the apartment where he thinks she's staying. I just found out about all of this."

"The bastard should've reported it immediately. Robin was aware?"

"Yes." The library's rules were inviolate. Everyone knew that. It was one of the prime reasons the library had remained invincible--and invisible--over the centuries.

The director's tone was cold, unforgiving: "Kill Eva Blake. I'll decide later what to do about Charles and Robin."

PRESTON PARKED
near St John Street in the hip Clerkenwell neighborhood, around the block from Peggy Doty's apartment building. As he got out of the Renault, he pulled the brim of his Manchester United football cap low. The rich scent of Vietnamese coffee drifted from a lighted cafe, infusing the night. The historic area was full of a young, smart crowd involved in themselves and the evening's entertainment.

Satisfied he was clean, Preston walked quickly back to Peggy Doty's apartment building and tried the street door. It was locked. Finally a woman emerged. Catching the door before it could close, he slipped inside and climbed the stairs.

Peggy Doty answered his knock instantly, and it was clear why--she was ready to leave. She wore a long wool overcoat, and a suitcase stood on the floor beside her. Her apartment was dark and silent, indicating no one else was there.

He had to decide what to do. When he was much younger, he would have threatened her to find out where Blake was. But there was an intelligent, steely look about her that warned him she might lie, and if he killed her too soon, it would be too late to go back to her for the truth.

He put a warm smile on his face. "You must be Peggy Doty. I'm a friend of Eva's. My name's Gary Frank. I'm glad I'm here in time. Eva thought you might like a ride."

Peggy frowned. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Frank, but I've already called a cab." She was a small woman, with short brown hair and eyeglasses sliding down her nose. Her face was open, the face of someone people automatically liked.

"Please call me Gary." Since she had not asked how Blake knew she was leaving, it was evident they were in touch. "You live in a great neighborhood. Didn't Peter Ackroyd and Charles Dickens use Clerkenwell for settings in their novels?" He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "I'm a used-book dealer."

Her face brightened. "Yes, they did. Maybe you're thinking about Ackroyd's
The Clerkenwell Tales
. That's a terrific piece of fiction about fourteenth-century London. The clerk at Tellson's bank in
A Tale of Two Cities
lived here, too. His name was Jarvis Lorry. And Fagin's lair was also in the Clerkenwell area."

"
Oliver Twist
is a favorite of mine. Eva says you work at the British Library. I'd like to hear what you do. Please let me drive you."

She hesitated.

He stepped into the silence. "Did you tell Eva you were calling a cab?"

She sighed. "Nope, I didn't. All right. This is really great of you."

He picked up her suitcase, and they left.

WITH PEGGY
Doty at his side, Preston drove south, heading for the hotel in Chelsea where she would meet Blake. Blake might already be there, and he wanted this small brunette with him to ensure he got access to the room without drawing attention to himself.

"So Eva sounded upset to you, too?" he prodded.

Her hands were folded in her lap, pale against her midnight blue coat. "She says her dead husband's alive. That she actually saw him. Can you believe it? I'm hoping she'll have recovered her brain by the time we get there."

"I'm sure she will," he said, and they drove on in silence.

At last he parked, tugged the brim of his cap low over his eyes, and walked with her into the hotel, carrying her suitcase. As she registered, he noted she was right-handed.

"Has Ms. Blake checked in?" she asked.

"Not yet, miss."

Her face crumpled. They took the elevator up to her room. It was full of fussy chintz and the hideous line drawings of horses standing around on hills one saw in tourist hotels in London.

She peered at the emptiness. "She should've been here by now, Gary."

He laid her suitcase on the valet stand. "Would she have stopped someplace first?"

"I'll call her." She tapped a number into her cell and listened, her expression growing grim. Finally she said, "Eva, this is Peggy. Where are you? Phone as soon as you get my message." She hung up.

"Was she with anyone when you talked before? They might've gone someplace together."

"All I heard was a noisy background." She sighed heavily. "I hope she's okay."

The time had come. Fortunately because of what he had learned from her, he now had a way to liquidate Eva Blake.

"Peggy, I just want you to know you're a nice woman."

She looked at him, a surprised expression on her face. "Thanks."

"And this is just what I do." Swiftly he leaned down and removed the untraceable two-shot pistol from his ankle holster.

Staring at the gun, she took a step back. "What are you--?"

He advanced and grabbed her shoulders. She was light. "I'll make it fast."

"No!" She struggled, her fists pounding his coat.

He pressed the gun up under her chin and fired. Skull and brain matter exploded. He held her a moment, then let her fall to the floor, limp in her big coat.

Pulling on latex gloves, he cleaned his black jacket with the special tissues he always carried. As he wiped the gun, he listened at the door. There was no sound in the corridor. He ran back to her, pressed both her hands around the gun's grip and muzzle, and then put the grip into her right hand and squeezed her fingers around it.

Snatching up her cell phone, he debated with himself, then finally decided the police investigators would be suspicious if the phone were missing. He memorized Blake's cell phone number, turned off Peggy's cell, and left it in her coat pocket. Then he wiped off the handle of her suitcase, used the wipes to take the suitcase to her, pressed one hand and then the other around the handle, and laid the suitcase back on the valet stand.

Outdoors, the night seemed warm and inviting. Striding down the busy street, Preston dialed out on his cell to his men in London. "Eva Blake is due to arrive shortly at this address." He relayed the hotel's information and room number. "Terminate her."

THE TEMPERATURE
in the room at the Meridien hotel seemed to have dropped ten degrees. As soon as Preston left, Charles had taken out his Glock and laid it on the coffee table next to
The Book of Spies
. He watched as Robin methodically packed their things. He was chilled, and his hands ached from knotting them. It seemed as if the world were shattering around him.

"You're not angry with me, are you, Charles?" she asked finally.

"Of course not. You were right--Preston will find Eva and take care of the problem. You've forgotten to scan the manuscript."

"I guess I'm a bit rattled."

She unzipped the suitcase and found the key-chain-size detector. It had a telescopic antenna that sniffed out hidden wireless cameras, audio devices, and tracking bugs. As soon as she turned it on, a red light flashed in warning.

Charles swore and sat up.

Brows knitting, she moved across the room, looking for the origin. As she approached
The Book of Spies,
the light flashed faster.

"Oh, no." Robin's face was tense.

She moved the detector over the cover of the illuminated manuscript until the light held steady. It pointed to one of the emeralds rimming the book's gold binding.

She read the digital screen. "It says there's a tracking bug in this emerald." Stricken, she peered at Charles.

"Maybe the museum or the Rosenwald Collection planted it as a security measure," he said. "No, that's insane. They'd never violate something as precious as
The Book of Spies
. It had to be someone else--but why?"

"What do we do? How can we tear off one of the jewels? We'll destroy the integrity of the book. It's a sacrilege."

They stared down at the manuscript.

At last Charles decided, "The integrity has already been destroyed because that 'emerald' can't be real." He took out his pocketknife and pried off the fake jewel, leaving a gaping hole in the perfect frame of green gems.

She groaned. "It looks awful."

Sickened, he nodded, then jumped up and ran into the bathroom. He flushed the bug down the toilet.