The Book of Spies (39 page)

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 fire-proof 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 semiretired, 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."

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
heik
-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.

"We can get lost in the crowd here," she explained.

She was right. Plaka swarmed with tourists and locals, cars banned
from most of the streets. They walked through winding avenues and passageways crammed with small stores selling trinkets, souvenirs, religious icons, and Greek fast food. He smelled hot shish kebabs and then the cool scent of fresh flowers. Many of the streets were so narrow, sunlight fought for a place to shine through.

"You should be aware of a couple of things before you try to do any business in Athens," she told him. "Never raise your hand, palm up and out, when you greet someone. It's a hostile gesture here. Instead, just shake hands. And when a Greek nods up and down--especially if there's a click of the tongue and what looks like a smile--it's an expression of displeasure. In other words,
no
."

"Good to know. Thanks."

He bought her a disposable cell without incident, and they stopped at an open-air cafe to go back to work. So far he had seen no sign of a tail.

When the waitress came, he started to order Greek coffee, but Eva said, "Two Nescafe frappes,
parakalo
." The waitress gave a knowing smile and went inside.

"Instant coffee?" he asked, worried.

"What. You're a coffee snob?"

"I spent too many years inhaling desert sand not to appreciate a fine cup."

"Sympathies. But you really have to have it at least once. It's a local favorite, and it goes with the climate and the outdoor lifestyle. Besides, it's expensive, which means we can sit here for a couple of hours without ordering anything else."

He was doubtful but said nothing more. As he wrote a list of hotel phone numbers for her, two glasses of water and two tall glasses of a dark-colored beverage topped with foam arrived with drinking straws.

He glanced at the water and stared at the frappes.

She grinned. "I'm beginning to worry you don't have a sense of adventure."

He sighed. "What's in it?"

"Two cubes of ice, two heaping teaspoons of Nescafe powder, sugar, milk, and cold water. I know it sounds dreadful, but it's actually heavenly on a warm afternoon like this. You're supposed to drink the water first, to cleanse your palate."

"I've got to clean my palate? You must be kidding." But he drank the water.
She was sipping her frappe through her straw and laughing at him.

He tried it. It was almost chocolate, the coffee flavor strangely rich and soothing. "You're right. It's good. But next I want real Greek coffee. I like to chew as I drink."

"You have my permission." She glanced around. "I've been thinking about your dad's news clippings. I know you told me the analysts didn't see anything revealing, but I'd like to hear again what was in them."

"International banks were mentioned, and our targeting analysts have been closely monitoring their transactions. Nothing about the Library of Gold. There was a lot about affiliate jihadist groups in Pakistan and Afghanistan and the dangers they pose, but our people are already watching them so closely every one has a skin rash."

"Remember," she said, "I've been off the reservation--in prison a couple of years. Is al-Qaeda as dangerous as it was? Aren't we safer now?"

"Yes and no. It'll help if you understand al-Qaeda's structure. Years ago Osama bin Laden and his people saw what happened to Palestinian jihad groups that let new members join their leadership--intelligence agencies were able to infiltrate, map, and hurt them badly. That made al-Qaeda's leaders reluctant to expand, and after 9/11 they slammed the door entirely, which meant they couldn't even replace losses. They've had a lot--we've captured or killed most of their top planners and expediters. So now they can't compete on the physical battlefield anymore, but they don't need to. Their strength--and an enormous threat to us--is the al-Qaeda movement. It spread like wildfire during Iraq. The new jihadists revere al-Qaeda central and go to them for advice and blessings for operations, because they believe the leaders' bloody theology. It's proved to be an effective recruiting tool and keeps bin Laden and his cronies relevant--and powerful."

As the waitress passed, he ordered real coffee. "What's worrying us about Dad's clippings is the focus on Pakistan and Afghanistan, where the Taliban is strong. The two countries share a border through the mountains, but it's an artificial one the Brits created in the nineteenth century. The people on both sides--mostly Pashtuns--have never accepted it. For them the entire region has always been theirs. As for Pakistan, it's in crisis and has pulled its troops from the North-West Frontier Province. If the province falls to the jihadists, the whole country could crash. At the same time, Afghanistan has taken on its own defenses, so the U.S. and NATO have only a limited presence. Warlords rule the borderlands, and there's
concern whether they have the country's best interests at heart, since many have jihadist connections."