The Book of Spies (47 page)

Tucker made a decision. "She's right. This is too important to fuck up."

Judd did not like it. A wave of worry shot through him as he reached the third story. Then he froze. The two men who had been with Preston on the Metro were striding from the rear of the building, their heads swiveling, their hands against their ears, clasping cell phones as they listened. Their other hands were inside their jackets. They had still not looked up.

"Shit," Eva muttered behind him.

Judd gave himself a shake to loosen his muscles. The noise of a large engine sounded, and a long white-and-gray tourist bus entered the drive behind the men, cruising toward the street. A short toot of the horn sounded, causing the pair of killers to scramble to the side--to their hotel's side--so the bus could pass. They were less than thirty feet away.

Judd whispered over his shoulder, "We're going to join our mobiles."

Tucker sighed and nodded. Eva stared at him, then gave a short nod.

Going as quietly as he could, Judd continued down as the bus neared. But then the fire escape creaked behind him. At the noise, Preston's men gazed up in unison. Their pistols appeared in their hands as the tourist bus rolled beneath the fire escape.

"Let's go!" Judd leaped, landing hard on two flat canvas suitcases.

Eva and Tucker dropped near the rear of the bus. All of them burrowed
down among the piles of luggage. Shouts followed the bus as it turned onto the street.

"Are you all right?" Judd asked immediately.

They nodded and turned, studying the hotel. Preston ran out the front door and gestured. A van squealed to the curb, and he jumped inside. The lumbering bus was no race car, and Preston would soon catch up.

"Is that who I think it is?" Tucker had been staring at the jeans and black jacket.

"Himself," Judd said. "That asshole Preston."

"Oh, hell," Eva said. "What do we do now?"

"Improvise. Come on." Judd scrambled to the sidewalk side of the bus.

Traffic noises filled the air. They were going downhill, passing Platia Exarchia. Shops, restaurants, hotels, and office buildings lined the avenue. From their elevated vantage point, they watched it all.

"I know this section." Eva was looking ahead. "See that big building in the next block? That's where we want to go. It's a parking garage."

They peered back. There was only one car between them and Preston's van.

"You know," Tucker decided. "I'm tired of this. You handle the parking garage. I'll take care of Preston. Then I'll catch up." He slid out his Browning.

"Are you sure?" Judd asked.

"I'm not
that
old, Judson."

The bus rumbled on. As they neared the garage, Tucker hunched up enough so he would be visible to the van. He scuttled across the bus to the street side. Over the luggage, Judd watched the van pull into the other lane to be closer to Tucker.

"But he
is
old," Eva worried.

"If only a tenth of everything I've heard about him is true, he can more than handle himself."

As Tucker aimed his pistol, they turned to watch again for the parking garage. They were only one building away. Grasping the guardrails atop the bus, they slid over, their legs dangling, and dropped and staggered. At the same time, a rain of gunfire sounded from above and from the van on the other side. The bus wobbled. Judd had a brief glimpse of passengers' faces, stunned, then horrified, by the sight of him and Eva.
They whipped their heads around to peer across the bus toward the noise of gunshots.

Judd pulled out his Beretta and ran toward the driver's side of a car that had just pulled into the garage.

"Give me your keys," he demanded of the driver as he emerged.

The driver's face was white. His clenched fist opened, and the keys started to slide off.

Judd snatched them, and Eva slid into the car's passenger seat. Hearing the loud noise of a car crash, from his peripheral vision Judd saw Preston's van had hit a car in the oncoming lane of traffic. Tucker slid off the back of the bus, stumbled, and ran onto the sidewalk toward them. His corrugated face showed a grim smile.

Judd opened the rear door of the car, then dropped in behind the steering wheel. He gunned the motor. Breathing heavily, Tucker fell into the backseat and slammed the door.

"Did you erase Preston?" Judd said.

"Don't know," Tucker rumbled. "But there are enough holes in the top of that van, it looks like a fine Swiss cheese."

"Drive straight ahead," Eva ordered. "This parking garage has an exit onto the next street. They'll never find us."

Until the next time, Judd thought but did not say. He slammed the accelerator.

The Isle of Pericles

AT FOUR
o'clock in the afternoon the eight members of the book club flew toward the Isle of Pericles in a comfortable Bell helicopter. Although the rotors chopped noisily, and the craft vibrated, Martin Chapman was enjoying himself. He had spoken with Syed Ullah before taking off and had received a good report. The news of the warlord's success in Khost should reach him during the banquet.

As the helicopter circled, Chapman stared down at the lush thyme-covered hills, the stately olive and palm trees, the wild native herbs. Acres of blooming citrus groves swept over the hills. Glistening waterfalls spilled at the ends of ravines. Smiling to himself, he took in the white pebbled beaches, the deserted coves, and the dramatic seaside cliffs, savoring the fact this secret Shangri-la had belonged only to him and few others.

The craft swept low over the south beach, passing the wharf where the cargo ship was being packed, and then up the valley toward the mesa, lower than surrounding hills. On it stood the Library of Gold compound, built a half century ago. Just beneath were four long stories of darkened glass, set into the steep slope and largely invisible from above and difficult to spot from the beach. Most of what went on at the compound was beneath the surface.

The craft landed on the helipad, and Chapman climbed out, the other book club members following. Their heads and shoulders low to avoid the whirling blades, they hurried off. At the same time, Preston gave a signal, and an equal number of bodyguards rushed toward it. Each grabbed one member's bag and briefcase.

A sense of anticipation was in the salty sea air as the eight walked toward the buildings, Preston and the guards following.

"Damn disappointing we won't have a librarian tonight," Brian Collum said as he adjusted his sunglasses.

"It is most unfortunate we will not have a tournament," Petr Klok agreed. "I will miss that a great deal. I spent two days preparing with the translators."

"Think of something, Marty," ordered Maurice Dresser, the eldest member. The bossy Canadian oil man strode out ahead, the hot sun turning the skin on his skull pink beneath his thin white hair. "That's an assignment."

The others glanced at Martin Chapman good-naturedly. But with Charles Sherback and Robin Miller eliminated--their only librarians--there was no way the tournament could go on.

"Yes, Marty. It's your problem." Reinhardt Gruen deadpanned.

"Absolutely," Martin Chapman said, continuing the conviviality. Then he had an idea. "The impossible is nothing to me. That's why you voted me director."

"I need a drink--and I want to see the menu so I can start salivating," Dresser said over his shoulder. "Then who wants a round of tennis?"

They entered the grassy compound with its rows of roses. Glazed in sunlight, the three simple white buildings with their Doric columns stood like Grecian tributes to the past. The Olympic-size swimming pool shimmered. The tennis court was empty, but obviously not for long. Behind the complex rose a huge satellite dish, the island's link to the outside world. Once a village had covered the mesa and surrounding hills, its main source of income high-quality salt mines. But the mines had worn out, and now the island's only inhabitants besides the regular staff were rodents, seagulls, flamingos, and other birds.

"Damn, I'm going to miss this place," Collum said.

"Won't we all," Grandon Holmes agreed. "Pity to have to move the library. Still, I've always liked the Alps."

"We knew this day would come," Chapman reminded them.

Silently they passed two cottages. Charles Sherback had lived in one; the other was Preston's. They entered the big main house, which encircled a palm-shaded reflecting pool. Chapman paused to enjoy the view one last time. All was as it had been on his last visit. Decorated with Greek furniture, the walls full of museum-quality paintings from across Europe. Chandeliers of Venetian glass glittered, hanging on wrought-iron chains from the high ceiling. Ancient Greek statues and vases stood here and
there on the glowing white marble floor, quarried on Mount Penteli, near Athens. A walk-in fireplace of the same marble stretched across the end of the long room. The air was cool, thanks to the giant temperature-control system buried belowground. Men were moving furniture from other rooms toward the elevator and down to where it would be loaded onto trucks to be taken to the cargo ship.

The guest rooms were on this floor, in three of the arms around the reflecting pool. The book club split into two groups, each heading into a different wing to go to their usual rooms.

Chapman entered his suite, his bodyguard a respectful six feet behind. "You're new." He turned to study the man, who had a tanned face. It was one Chapman did not recognize.

"Yes, sir. You're Martin Chapman. I read about you in an article in
Vanity Fair,
the one about your big equity deal to buy Sheffield-Riggs. The financing was a thing of beauty. My name is Harold Kardasian. Preston brought me in this morning from Majorca with two others."

Majorca was known as a home for wealthy independent mercenaries. The guard was sturdy, obviously athletic from the way he moved, with thick brown hair that had streaks of gray at the temples. A pistol was on his hip. He was in his early fifties, Chapman judged, and had a touch of class--refined features, erect posture, deferential without being obsequious. Chapman liked that.

"You're a short-timer?" he asked.

"Just here for the two days you'll be here. I'd heard about Preston for years, so of course I signed up so I could work with him. Didn't know I'd have the privilege of working for you, too, Mr. Chapman."

Preston appeared in the doorway. "I'll take those." As Kardasian left, he laid the suitcase on the butler's stand and the briefcase on the desk.

Chapman went to the window. He looked out, drinking in the panorama of the sky, the wind-carved island, and the impossibly blue sea. When Preston handed him the menu, he ran his gaze down the seven-course feast.

"Excellent," he said. "You've made arrangements to blow up the buildings as soon as we've moved out?"

"Yes. I estimate tomorrow afternoon. By the time we're finished, all evidence the library or we were ever here will be scrubbed."

Chapman nodded. "Any problems on the island?"

"None. The chefs and food are here. They've been in the kitchen all
day. A few loud arguments but no serious fights so far--maybe I'll get off easy this year. The silver is polished. The crystal is shined. The wine is standing up. The library never looked better. I've ordered more than the usual extra security men. A total of fifty in all. Everyone's oriented and knows their assignments."

"Good. Send the translators to my office and tell them to wait. I need to talk with them after I finish some phone calls." He turned to study Preston, noticing a faint red streak down his cheek. "Any news about Judd Ryder and Eva Blake?"

"I almost caught them in Athens again. A very close call."

Chapman gestured. "Is that what happened to your face?"

Preston's hand went to his cheek, and he grimaced. "As I said, it was close. Now I know why we couldn't find Tucker Andersen--he's with them. Hudson Cannon learned they've been searching for the island, using our coordinates."

"Christ! Then we have to count on them coming here." Chapman thought a moment. "On the other hand, one's a rank amateur, and another is past his prime. You have fifty highly trained men on security. In the end, taking care of them on the island may be our best solution. They'll simply disappear, and Langley will never know what happened to them, or where."

Langley, Virginia

AT NINE
o'clock in the morning the storied seventh floor in the CIA's old headquarters building bustled with activity. Behind the closed doors were the offices of the director of Central Intelligence and the other top espionage executives, plus conference rooms and special operations and support centers. Gloria Feit hurried along the corridor, passing staff carrying briefcases, plastic clipboards, and color-coded folders. The air exuded a sense of urgency. Usually she felt a thrill being here, but right now her mind was on failed operations--and their costs.

Hudson Canon had told her to spend the night thinking about Tucker Andersen and the Library of Gold mission, but she would have anyway. She had tossed and turned and stalked the floor until daybreak.

Worried, she stepped into the suite of Matthew Kelley, chief of the Clandestine Service.