The Book of Spies

1

A LIBRARY could be a dangerous place. The librarian scanned the ten men in tailored tuxedos who lounged around the long oval table in the center of the room. Encircling them were magnificent illuminated manuscripts, more than a thousand of them, blanketing the walls from floor to ceiling. Their spectacular gold-covered bindings faced out to showcase the fortune in gems decorating them.

The men were members of the book club that owned and operated the secret Library of Gold, where the annual dinner was always held. The finale was the tournament, in which each member tested the librarian with a research question. As the books towered around them and the air vibrated with golden light, the men sipped their cognac. Their eyes watched the librarian.

“Trajan,” challenged the international lawyer from Los Angeles. “A.D. 53 to A.D. 117. Trajan was one of the most ambitious warrior-emperors of old Rome, but few people realize he also revered books. His supreme monument to his successes at war is called Trajan’s Column. He ordered it erected in the court between two galleries of Rome ’s library-which he also built.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting. The librarian’s fingers plucked at his tuxedo jacket. Nearly seventy years old, he was a tidy man with wrinkled features. His hair was thin, his glasses large, and his mouth set in a perpetual small smile.

The tension heightened as he mulled. “Of course,” he said at last. “Cassius Dio Cocceianus wrote about it.” He went to the shelves containing the eighty volumes of Cassius Dio’s history, Romaika, compiled in the second and third centuries and transcribed by a Byzantine calligrapher in the sixth century. “The story is here, in volume seventy-seven. Most of Cassius Dio’s work has been lost. Our library has the only complete set.”

As pleased laughter swept the exclusive group, the librarian laid the large volume into the arms of the challenger, who stroked the embedded opals and sapphires on its cover. Gazing appreciatively at the golden book, he stood it up beside his brandy glass. Eight other illuminated manuscripts stood beside eight other brandy glasses. Each was a testament to the librarian’s intimate knowledge of ancient and medieval literature and the priceless value of the library itself.

Now only the tenth member-the director himself-remained. He would pose the final question in the tournament.

The men helped themselves to more cognac. By design their yearly dinner was dazzling theater. Hours before the first martini was poured, ten wild ducks, freshly shot, had arrived by private jet from Johannesburg. The chefs were flown in from Paris, blindfolded of course. The seven-course meal was exquisite, including truffled sweetbreads with chestnuts. The alcohol was the best-tonight’s cognac was a Louis XIII de Rémy Martin, worth more than a thousand dollars a bottle in today’s market. All of the book club’s liquors had been laid down by those who had gone before, creating a cellar of indisputable quality.

The director cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at him. He was American and had flown in from Paris earlier in the day. The room’s tenor changed, becoming somehow menacing.

The librarian pulled himself up, vigilant.

The director peered at him. “Salah al-Din, also known as Saladin. A.D. 1137 or 1138 to A.D. 1193. General Saladin, a Kurdish Muslim, was famous for his espionage network. One night his enemy Richard the Lionheart went to sleep in his tent in Assyria, guarded on all sides by his English knights. They poured a track of white ash around the tent so wide no one could cross it undetected. But when Richard awoke, a melon with a dagger buried deep inside had appeared beside his bed. The blade could just as easily have been stabbed into Richard’s heart. It was Saladin’s warning, left by one of his spies. The spy escaped without leaving a clue and was never caught.”

Again the eyes watched the librarian. With every word, he had tensed. The door behind him opened quietly. He glanced over his shoulder as Douglas Preston stepped into the room. Preston was head of library security, a tall, muscular man who was an expert in weapons and took his work seriously. He was not wearing a tuxedo, instead had on his usual black leather jacket and jeans. Strangely, he carried a bath towel.

With effort, the librarian kept his voice steady as he headed across the room to another bookshelf. “The story can be found in Baha al-Din’s Sirat Salah al-Din: The Life of Saladin-”

“Of course, you’re correct,” the director interrupted. “But I want another manuscript. Bring me The Book of Spies.”

The librarian stopped, his hands reaching for the volume. He turned. The men’s faces were outraged, unforgiving.

“How did you find out?” he whispered.

No one answered. The room was so silent he could hear the tread of crepe-soled shoes. Before he could turn again, Preston ’s towel slapped around his skull, covering his eyes and mouth. There was a huge explosion of gunfire, and pain erupted in his head. As he fell, he realized the security chief had given him fair warning by using a technique of the later Assassins-the towel was to cover the entrance and exit wounds to control spraying blood and bone. The book club knew that.

2

Los Angeles, California

April, One year later

AS SHE walked into the Getty Center ’s conservation laboratory, with its sinks and fume hoods, Eva Blake smiled. On the sea of worktables lay centuries-old illuminated manuscripts, charts, and scrolls. Tattered and sprinkled with wormholes, all would be brought back to useful life. For her, conservation work was more than a profession-by restoring the old books she was restoring herself.

Eva’s gaze swept the room. Three other conservators were already bent over their tables, lone islands of movement in the vast high-tech lab. She said a cheery hello and grabbed a smock. A slender woman of thirty years, she had an understated face-the cheekbones were good, the chin soft and round, the lips full-that resisted the sharp cut of classical beauty. Her red hair tumbled to her shoulders, and her eyes were cobalt blue. Today she wore an open-necked white blouse, white pencil skirt, and low-heeled white sandals. There was a sense of elegance about her, and a softness, a vulnerability, she had learned to hide.

She stopped at Peggy Doty’s workbench. “Hi, Peggy. How’s your new project?”

Peggy lifted her head, took a jeweler’s loupe from her eye, and quickly put on large, thick glasses. “Hey, there. Seneca’s worrying me. I think I can definitely save Aristotle, but then he’s the one who said, ‘Happiness is a sort of action,’ so with that kind of Zen attitude he’s bound to last longer.”

Born and raised in England, Peggy was a gifted conservator and a longtime friend, such a good friend that she had stayed close even after Eva had been charged with vehicular manslaughter in her husband’s death. As she thought about him, Eva’s throat tightened. She automatically touched the gold chain around her neck.

Then she said, “I always liked Aristotle.”

“Me, too. I’ll see what I can do for Seneca. Poor guy. His toga’s peeling like a banana.” Peggy’s brown hair was short and messy, her eyeglasses were already sliding down her nose, and EX LIBRIS inside a pink heart was tattooed on her forearm.

“He’s in good hands.” Eva started to leave.

“Don’t go yet. I’d sure like your help-the provenance on this piece sucks.” Peggy indicated the colorful medieval chart spread out on her worktable. “I’m waiting for the results of the date test, but I’d love to know at least the century.”

“Sure. Let’s see what we can figure out.” Eva pulled up a chair.

The chart was about fourteen inches wide and twenty inches long. At the bottom stood two figures in rope sandals and luminous blue togas. On the left was Aristotle, representing natural philosophy, and on the right was Seneca, moral philosophy. To all appearances they were an unlikely pair-Aristotle was Greek, while Seneca was Roman and born nearly four hundred years later. Eva studied them a moment, then moved her gaze to medallions rising like clouds above their heads. Each medallion contained a pair of the men’s opposing theories, a battle of ideas between two great classical thinkers. The chart’s lettering was Cyrillic.

“The chart itself is written in Old Russian,” Eva explained, “but it’s not the revised alphabet of Peter the Great. So it was probably made before 1700.” She laid her finger along the right margin of the parchment, where small, faded words were printed. “This isn’t Russian, old or new-it’s Greek. It translates as ‘Created under the hand of Maximos after cataloguing the Royal Library.’ ”

Peggy moved closer, staring down. “I’m pretty sure Maximos is a Greek name. But which Royal Library? Russia or Greece? What city?”

“Our chart-maker, Maximos, was born Michael Trivolis in Greece and was later known as Maximos. When he moved to Russia, he was called Maxim. Does that give you enough information to know who he was?”

Peggy’s small face lit up. “Saint Maxim the Greek. He spent a long time in Moscow translating books, writing, and teaching. I remember studying him in an Eastern history course.”

“And that gives you the answer to your question-Maxim arrived in Russia in 1518 and never left. He died about forty years later. So your chart was made sometime in the first half of the sixteenth century in Russia.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

Eva smiled. “How’s everything with Zack?” Zack Turner was the head of security at the British Museum in London.

“Distant, as in he’s still there, and I’m still here. Woe is me-and he.”

“How about going back to the British Library?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. How are you doing?” There was concern in Peggy’s gaze.

“Fine.” It was mostly true now that the Getty had offered Eva the conservation job to tide her over until her trial. She was out of sight in the lab-the press coverage of the car crash had been exhaustive. But then Charles had been the renowned director of the elite Elaine Moreau Library, while she had been a top curator here at the celebrated Getty. Charming, handsome, and in love, they were a star-studded couple in L.A. ’s art and monied beau monde. His dramatic death-and her arrest and denials-had made for a particularly juicy scandal.

Being home all day every day after the accident had been hard. She watched for Charles in the shadows, listened for his voice calling from the garden, slept with his pillow tight against her cheek. The emptiness had closed around her like a cold fist, holding her tight in a kind of painful suspension.

“I’m so sorry, Eva,” Peggy was saying. “Charles was a great scholar.”

She nodded. Again her fingers went to the chain around her neck. At the end of it hung an ancient Roman coin with the profile of the goddess Diana-her first gift from Charles. She had not taken off the necklace since he died.

“Dinner tonight?” Peggy said brightly. “My treat for letting me tap into that big brain of yours.”

“Love to. I’ve got karate class, so I’ll meet you afterward.”

They decided on a restaurant, and Eva went to her workstation. She sat and pulled the arm of her stereo-binocular microscope toward her. She liked the familiarity of the motion and the comfort of her desk with its slide kits, gooseneck lamp, and ultraviolet light stand. Her project was an adventure manuscript about the knights of King Arthur completed in 1422 in London.

She stared through the microscope’s eyepiece and used a scalpel to lift a flaking piece of green pigment from the gown of a princess. The quiet of the work and the meticulous focus it required soothed her. She carefully applied adhesive beneath the paint flake.

“Hello, Eva.”

So deep was her concentration, the voice sent a dull shock through her. She looked up. It was her attorney, Brian Collum.

Of medium height, he was in his late forties, with eyebrows and hair the gray color of a magnet and the strong-jawed face of a man who knew what he wanted from life. Impeccably turned out in a charcoal suit with thin pinstripes, he was the name partner in the international law firm of Collum & Associates. Because of their friendship, he was representing her in the trial for Charles’s death.

“How nice to see you, Brian.”

He lowered his voice. “We need to talk.” Usually his long face radiated optimism. But not now. His expression was grim.

“Not good news?” She glanced at her colleagues, noting they were studiously attending to their projects.

“It’s good-or bad, depending on what you think.”

Eva led him outdoors to a courtyard of lawns and flowers. A water fountain flowed serenely over perfectly arranged boulders. This was all part of the Getty Center, a complex of striking architecture sheathed in glass and Italian travertine stone crowning a hill in the Santa Monica Mountains.

Silently they passed museum visitors and sat together on a bench where no one could overhear.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

He was blunt. “I have an offer from the D.A.’s office. If you plead guilty, they’ll give you a reduced sentence. Four years. But with good behavior you’ll be out in three. They’re willing to make a deal because you have a clean driving record and you’re a respected member of the community.”

“Absolutely not.” She forced herself to stay calm. “I wasn’t driving.”

“Then who was?”

The question hung like a scythe in the sparkling California air.

“You really don’t recall Charles getting behind the wheel?” she asked. “You were standing in your doorway when we drove away. I saw you. You had to have seen us.” They had been at a dinner party at Brian’s house that night, the last guests to leave.

“We’ve been over this before. I went inside as soon as I said good night-before either of you got close to your car. Alcohol plays tricks with the mind.”

“Which is why I’d never drive. Never.” Working to keep the horror from her voice, she related the story again: “It was after one A.M., and Charles was driving us home. We were laughing. There wasn’t any traffic on Mulholland, so Charles wove the car back and forth. That threw us against our seat belts and just made us laugh harder. He drove with one hand, then with the other…” She frowned to herself. There was something else, but it escaped her. “Suddenly a car shot out from a driveway ahead of us. Charles slammed the brakes. Our car spun out of control. I must’ve lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I was strapped down to a gurney.” She swallowed. “And Charles was dead.”

She smoothed the fabric of her skirt and stared off as grief raged through her.

Brian’s silence was so long that the distant roar of traffic on the San Diego Freeway seemed to grow louder.

At last he said kindly, “I’m sure that’s what you remember, but we have no evidence to support it. And I’ve spent enough of your money hiring investigators to look for witnesses that I have to believe we’re not going to find any.” His voice toughened. “How’s a jury going to react when they learn you were found lying unconscious just ten feet from the driver’s door-and it was hanging open, showing you were behind the wheel? And Charles was in the front passenger seat, with the seat belt melted into what was left of him. There’s no way he was driving. And you had a 1.6 blood alcohol level-twice the legal limit.”

“But I wasn’t driving-” She stopped. With effort, she controlled herself. “You think I should take the D.A.’s deal, don’t you?”

“I think the jury is going to believe you were so drunk you blacked out and don’t remember what you did. They’ll go for the maximum sentence. If I had a scintilla of hope I could convince them otherwise, I’d recommend against the offer.”

Shaken, Eva stood and walked around the tranquil pool of water encircling the fountain. Her chest was tight. She stared into the water and tried to make herself breathe. First she had lost Charles and all their dreams and hopes for the future. He had been brilliant, fun, endlessly fascinating. She closed her eyes and could almost feel him stroking her cheek, comforting her. Her heart ached with longing for him.

And now she faced prison. The thought terrified her, but for the first time she admitted it was possible-she had never in her life blacked out, but she might have this time. If she had blacked out, she might have climbed behind the wheel. And if she did-that meant she really had killed Charles. She bent her head and clasped the gold wedding band on her finger. Tears slid down her cheeks.

Behind her, Brian touched her shoulder. “You remember Trajan, the great ruler who expanded the Roman empire?”

She quickly wiped her face with her fingers and turned around to him. “Of course. What about him?”

“Trajan was ruthless and cunning and won every great battle he led his troops into. He had a rule: If you can’t win, don’t fight. If you don’t fight, it’s no defeat. You will survive. Take the deal, Eva. Survive.”

3

Washington , D.C.

April, Two years later

CARRYING A thermos of hot coffee and two mugs, Tucker Andersen crossed into Stanton Park, just five blocks from his office on Capitol Hill. The midnight shadows were long and black, and the air was cool. There were no children in the playground, no pedestrians on the sidewalks. Inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass, he listened as traffic rumbled past on C Street. All was as it should be.

Finally he spotted his old friend Jonathan Ryder, almost invisible where he sat on a bench facing the granite statue of Revolutionary War hero Nathanael Greene. Tonight a call had come in from Tucker’s wife that Jonathan was trying to reach him.

Tucker closed in. A slender man of five foot ten, he had the long muscles of the runner he still was. His eyes were large and intelligent behind tortoiseshell glasses, his mustache light brown, his gray beard trimmed close to the jaw. Mostly bald, he had a fringe of gray-brown hair dangling over his shirt collar. He was fifty-three years old, and although his official credentials announced CIA, he was both more and less.

“Hello, Jonathan.” Tucker sat and crossed his legs. “Nice to see you again. What’s it been-ten years?” He studied him. Jonathan looked small now, and he was not a small man. And tense. Very tense.

“At least ten years. I appreciate your meeting me on such short notice.” Jonathan gave a brief smile, showing a row of perfect white teeth in his lined face. Lean and fit, he had a high forehead topped by a brush of graying blond hair. He was wearing black sweatpants and a black sweatshirt with a Yale University logo on the sleeve instead of his usual Savile Row business suit.

Tucker handed him a mug and poured coffee for both of them.

“Sounded important, but then you could always make sunrise seem as if it were heralding angels.”

“It is important.” Jonathan sniffed the coffee. “Smells good.” His hands shook as he drank.

Tucker felt a moment of worry. “How’s the family?”

“Jeannine’s great. Busy with all her charities, as usual. Judd’s left military intelligence and isn’t going to reenlist. Three tours in Iraq and a tour in Pakistan were finally enough for him.” He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the past lately.”

Tucker set the thermos on the seat beside him. They had been close friends during their undergraduate days at Yale. “I remember when we were in school and you started that investment club. You made me a grand in two years. That was a hell of a lot of money in those days.”

Jonathan nodded. Then he grinned. “I thought you were just a smart-ass-all looks, no brains, no commitment. Then you saved my skin that night in Alexanderplatz in East Berlin. Remember? It took a lot of muscle-and smarts.”

After college, both had joined the CIA, in operations, but Jonathan had left after three years to earn an MBA at Wharton. With an undergraduate degree in chemistry, he had worked for a series of pharmaceutical companies, then gone on to found his own. Today he was president and board chair of Bucknell Technologies. Monied and powerful, he was a regular on Washington ’s social circuit and at the president’s yearly Prayer Breakfast.

“Glad I did the good deed,” Tucker said. “Look where you ended up-a baron of Big Pharma, while I’m still tilling the mean streets and urine-scented dark alleys.”

Jonathan nodded. “To each his own. Still, if you’d wanted it, you could’ve headed Langley. Your problem is you make a lousy bureaucrat. Have you heard of the video game called Bureaucracy? If you move, you lose.”

Tucker chuckled. “Okay, old friend. Time to tell me what this is all about.”

Jonathan looked at his coffee, then set it on the seat beside him. “A situation’s come up. It scares the hell out of me. It’s more your bailiwick than mine.”

“You’ve got a lot contacts. Why me?” Tucker drank.

“Because this has to be handled carefully. You’re a master at that. Because we’re friends, and I’m going to go down. I don’t want to die in the process.” He stared at Tucker, then looked away. “I’ve stumbled onto something… an account for about twenty million dollars in an international bank. I’m not sure exactly what it’s all about, but I’m damn sure it has to do with Islamic terrorism.” Jonathan fell silent.

“Go on,” Tucker snapped. “Which bank? Why do you think the twenty million is connected to jihadism?”

“It’s complicated.” He craned around, checking the park.

Tucker looked, too. The wide expanse remained empty.

“You’ve come this far.” Tucker controlled an urge to shake the information out of him. “You know you want to tell me.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m not exactly an angel myself… But I don’t understand how anyone could-” Jonathan shuddered. “What do you know about the Library of Gold?”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s key. I’ve been there. It’s where I found out about this-”

Tucker watched Jonathan intently as he spoke. He was leaning forward slightly, gazing off into the middle distance.

There was no sound. No warning. A red dot suddenly appeared on Jonathan’s forehead and the back of his head exploded with a loud crack. Blood and tissue and bone blasted into the air.

Tucker’s training kicked in immediately. Before Jonathan’s lifeless body had time to keel over, Tucker hit the sidewalk and rolled under the bench. Two more sniper shots dug into the concrete, spitting shards. His heart pounded. His friend’s blood dripped next to him. Tucker swallowed and swore. He had come unarmed.

Using his mobile, he dialed 911 and reported the wet job. Then he peeled off his blazer, rolled it thick, and lifted it to attract attention. It was a light tan color, a contrast against the shadows. When no more rounds were fired, he snaked out from under the bench. Hurrying off through the park, he headed toward Massachusetts Avenue, where he thought the bullets had originated. As he moved he considered what Jonathan had said: Islamic terrorism… $20 million in an international bank… the Library of Gold… What in hell was the Library of Gold?

As he crossed the street, Tucker scanned the area. A young couple was drinking from Starbucks coffee cups, the man carrying a briefcase. Another man was pushing a grocery cart. A middle-aged woman in a running suit and wearing a small backpack jogged past and circled back. Any of them could be the shooter, the rifle quickly broken down and concealed in the briefcase, the shopping cart, the backpack. Or the shooter could be someone else, still tracking him.

When he reached Sixth Street, Tucker ran into the swiftly moving traffic. Over the noise of honking horns, he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet whistling overhead. Crouching between the lanes of rushing cars, he spun around and stared back. A man was standing on the sidewalk at the corner, holding a pistol in both hands.

As the man fired again, Tucker put on a burst of speed, running with the cars. More horns honked. Curses filled the air. A taxi was entering traffic after dropping off its fare. Tucker pounded the fender to slow it, yanked open the back door, and fell inside.

The driver’s head whipped around. “What in hell?”

“Drive.”

As the taxi took off, Tucker peered out the rear window. Behind him, the killer ran into the congestion, looking everywhere, his gun still searching for its target. A van entered traffic, and Tucker lost sight of him. When the van turned the corner, opening up the view again, he spotted the man three blocks back. A car slewed around him, horn blaring. Another car skidded. The man pivoted, and a racing sedan slammed into him. He vanished under the wheels of the car.

“Let me off here,” Tucker ordered. He shoved money at the driver and jumped out.

Running back, he studied the stream of cars. They should have stopped. At least they should be swerving around the downed shooter.

As two police cars arrived at the park, sirens screaming, Tucker walked up and down the tree-lined block. Both sides. Traffic roared past. There was no sign of a body.

4

THE FUNERAL for Jonathan Ryder was held in the Chevy Chase Presbyterian Church in northwest Washington. A somber crowd packed the sanctuary-businesspeople, lawyers, investors, philanthropists, and politicians. Jonathan’s widow, Jeannine; his son, Judd; and assorted relatives sat in the front row, while Tucker Andersen found a spot in back where he could watch and listen.

After Jonathan was killed, the police had searched the buildings around Stanton Park and questioned all potential witnesses. They interviewed the widow, son, neighbors, and business associates, who were mystified why anyone would want to murder a good man like Jonathan. The police investigation was continuing.

Checking into Jonathan’s last words, Tucker had found only one mention of the Library of Gold in Langley ’s database. Then he researched the library online and talked with historians at local universities. He also queried the targeting analysts in the counterterrorism unit. Thus far he had found nothing helpful.

“In Jesus Christ, death has been conquered and the promise of eternal life affirmed.” The pastor’s voice resonated against the high walls as he conducted the Service of Witness to the Resurrection. “This is a time to celebrate the wonderful gifts we received from God in our relationships with Jonathan Ryder…”

Tucker felt a wave of grief. Finally the celebration of Jonathan’s life ended, and the strains of “The Old Rugged Cross” filled the sanctuary. The family left first, Judd Ryder supporting his mother, her head bowed.

As soon as it was decent, Tucker followed.

THE RECEPTION WAS in the church, in Chadsey Hall. Tucker chatted with people, introducing himself as an old college friend of Jonathan’s. It lasted an hour. When Jeannine and Judd Ryder were walking alone out the door, Tucker intercepted them.

“Tucker, how nice to see you.” Jeannine smiled. “You’ve shaved your beard.” A petite brunette, she was dressed in a black sheath dress with a string of pearls tight against her throat. She had changed a lot, no longer the lively wife he remembered. She was his age, but there was a sense about her of having settled, as if there were no longer any questions to be asked.

“Karen was in a state of shock,” Tucker admitted with a smile. He’d had a beard off and on for years. “It’s been a while since she’s seen my whole face.”

He shook hands with Jonathan’s son, Judd. “The last time we met, you were at Georgetown.” He remembered when Judd was born, Jonathan’s pride. His full name was Judson Clayborn Ryder.

“A long time ago,” Judd agreed genially. “Are you still with State?” Six feet one inch tall, he was thirty-two years old, wide-shouldered, with an easy stance. Fine lines covered his face, swarthy from too many hours in the sun. His hair was wavy and chestnut brown, while his brown eyes had faded to a dark, contemplative gray. His gaze was rock steady, but a sense of disillusionment and a hint of cynicism showed. Retired military intelligence, Tucker remembered.

The State Department was Tucker’s longtime cover. “They’ll have to pry my fingers off my desk to get rid of me.”

“The police said you were with Dad when he was shot.” Judd spoke with light curiosity, but Tucker sensed greater depths.

“Yes. Let’s go outdoors and chat.”

They walked out to the grassy lawn. Only a few people remained, climbing into cars and limousines at the curb.

Tucker guided the pair to a spot in the shadow of the stone church. “Have either of you heard of the Library of Gold?”

“It was one of the bedtime stories Dad used to tell me, like Lorna Doone and The Scarlet Pimpernel,” Judd said. “What about you, Mom?”

Jeannine frowned. “I vaguely recall it. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember much. It was something Jonathan and Judd shared.”

“Did the Library of Gold play a role in Dad’s murder?” Judd asked.

Tucker gave a casual shrug. “The police think a copycat of the Beltway Snipers might’ve shot him.” The Beltway Snipers had been responsible for a series of random killings a few years before.

Jeannine pressed her hand against her throat. “How horrible.”

Judd put his arm around her shoulders.

“Jonathan said he wanted my help with something related to the library,” Tucker continued. “But he died before he could tell me exactly what it was. What did your father tell you about the library, Judd?”

Judd settled his feet. “I’ll run through the basics. It all began with the Byzantine Empire. For a thousand years while the emperors were conquering the world, they were collecting and making illuminated manuscripts. But then the empire fell to the Ottoman Turks in 1453. That could’ve been the end of the court library, but a niece of the last ruler escaped with the best books. They were covered in gold and jewels. When she married Ivan the Great, eight hundred of the books went to Moscow with her.” He paused. “The legend was born with their grandson, Ivan the Terrible. After he inherited the library he added more illuminated manuscripts and started letting important Europeans see the collection. They were so impressed they went home and talked about it. Word spread across the continent that only when you stood among Ivan’s golden books could you really understand ‘wisdom, art, wealth, and eternal power.’ That’s how the collection got its name-the Library of Gold. It was a good adventure tale with a happy ending that turned into a mystery. Ivan died in 1584, maybe from mercury poisoning. At about the same time several of his spies and assassins got sick and died or were executed-and the library vanished.”

Tucker had found himself leaning forward as he listened. He stepped back and peered at Jeannine. “Is that what you remember?”

“That’s much more than I ever heard.”

“I checked into the library and came up with pretty much the same information,” Tucker admitted. “The Byzantine court library existed, but many historians believe none of the books landed in Moscow. Some think a few ended up in Rome, and the Ottoman Turks burned a lot, kept some, and sold the rest.”

“I like Jonathan’s story more,” Jeannine decided.

“Did you ask your father how he heard the story, Judd?”

“Never saw any reason to.”

“Where did Jonathan say the library was now?”

Judd gave him a hard look. “The way I ended the story for you was the way Dad ended it for me-with Ivan the Terrible’s death and the library’s disappearance.”

“Would you mind if I looked through Jonathan’s papers?” Tucker asked Jeannine.

“Please do, if you think you might find something,” she said.

“I’ll help,” Judd told him.

“It’s not necessary-” Tucker tried.

“I insist.”

THE RYDERS lived on the prestigious Maryland State side of Chevy Chase. The house was a baronial white mansion in the Greek Revival style, with six towering columns crowned by an intricately carved portico. Jonathan’s office was filled with books. But that was nothing compared to the real library. Tucker stared. From the parquet floor to the second-floor ceiling, thousands of books beckoned, many in hand-tooled leather bindings.

“This is amazing,” Tucker said.

“He was a collector. But see how worn his chair is? He didn’t just collect; he read a lot, too.”

Tucker gazed at the red leather armchair, worn and softened. Returning to the task at hand, he led Judd back to the office. They began inspecting Jonathan’s cherrywood desk, matching file cabinets, and the cardboard banker’s boxes of his personal belongings sent over from his office at Bucknell headquarters.

“The Department of State is a good cover,” Judd said noncommitally. “Who do you really work for, Tucker? CIA… Homeland Security… National Intelligence?”

Tucker let out a loud laugh. “Sorry to let you down, son. I really do work for State. And no, not State intelligence. I’m just a paper pusher, helping the diplomats wade through the various policy changes that have to do with the Middle East. A paper pusher like me is perfect to go through Jonathan’s papers.” In truth, Tucker was a covert officer, which meant his fellow spies, operations, assets, agents, and the people who had worked knowingly or unknowingly with him could be endangered if his real position were made public.

“Right,” Judd said, letting the matter drop.

When Tucker asked, Judd described the conditions he had seen in Iraq and Pakistan without ever telling him anything substantive about his own work.

“I’ll bet you’re being recruited by every agency in the IC,” Tucker said. The IC was the intelligence community.

“I haven’t been home long enough.”

“They’ll be after you. Are you tempted?”

Judd had taken off his suit jacket and was crouched in his white cuffed shirt and dark suit pants over a banker’s box, reading file names. “Dad asked me the same question. When I said no, he tried to convince me to join him at Bucknell. But I’ve saved my money and have a lease on a row house on the Hill. I figured to do nothing until I couldn’t stand it anymore. By then I should know what’s next for me.”

Tucker had been going through Jonathan’s desk. The last drawer contained files. He read the tags. The end file was unnamed. He pulled it out. In it were a half-dozen clippings from newspapers and magazines from the past week-and each article was about jihadism in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He peered up. Judd’s back was to him. He folded the clippings and stuffed them inside his jacket and returned the empty file to the drawer.

He activated Jonathan’s computer. “Do you know your dad’s password?”

Judd looked over his shoulder. “Try ‘Jeannine.’ ”

When that did not work, Judd made more suggestions. Finally the date of his birth did the trick. As soon as Judd returned to the banker’s boxes, Tucker activated a global search for “Library of Gold”-but uncovered nothing. Then he inspected Jonathan’s financial records on Quicken. There were no red flags.

“Dinner,” Jeannine announced from the open door. “You need a break.”

They joined her for a simple meal at the maple table in the kitchen.

“Your place is beautiful,” Tucker commented. “Jonathan came a far way from the South Side of Chicago.”

“All of this was important to him.” Jeannine made a gesture encompassing the house and their privileged world. “You know how ambitious he was. He loved the business, and he loved that he could make a lot of money at it. But strangely I don’t think he could ever have made enough to make him really happy. Still, we had many good times.” She stopped, her eyes tearing.

“We’ve got a lot of great memories, don’t we, Mom?” Judd said.

She nodded and resumed eating.

“Jonathan traveled a lot, I imagine,” Tucker said.

“All the time,” she said. “But he was always glad to come home.”

After coffee, Tucker and Judd returned to the office. By ten o’clock, they had finished their search, and Tucker was weary of the tedious work.

“Sure I can’t convince you to have a brandy?” Judd asked as he walked him to the front door. “Mom will join us.”

“Wish I could, but I need to get home. Karen is going to think I’ve gotten myself lost.”

Judd gave an understanding nod, and they shook hands.

Tucker went out to his old Oldsmobile. He liked the car. It had a powerful eight-cylinder engine and ran like a well-oiled top. He climbed inside and drove the rest of the way around the circular drive and out past the electronic gates and onto the street, heading to his far more modest home in Virginia. Since he was working, he had not brought Karen to the funeral. But she would be waiting for him, a fire burning in the fireplace. He needed to see her, to remember the good times, and to forget for a short while the fear in Jonathan’s voice for some impending disaster he had not had time to name.

Earlier, when he followed Jeannine and Judd’s limo to their place, he had thought a black Chevy Malibu was dogging him most of the way. He had slowed the Olds as he drove in through the Ryders’ gate, watching in his rearview mirror. But the car had rolled past without a glance from the driver, his profile hard to see beneath a golf cap pulled low over his forehead.

Now as he drove, Tucker went into second-stage alert, studying pedestrians and other cars. After ten blocks he made a sharp turn onto a quiet street. There was a car again, maybe the car, behind him. A dark color. A motorcycle turned, too, trailing the car.

Tucker made another sharp right, then turned left onto a silent residential avenue. The tailing car stayed with him, and so did the motorcycle. He hit the accelerator. Shots sounded, smashing in through the rear window. Glass pebbles sprayed, showering him. He crouched low and pulled out his 9-mm Browning, laying it on the seat beside him. Since Jonathan’s death, he carried it all the time.

Flooring the accelerator, he felt the big eight take hold, and the car hurtled forward into the night. Houses passed in a blur. No more bullets, but his tail was still with him, although falling behind. Silently he thanked the Olds’s powerful motor. Ahead was a hill. He blasted up it, the front wheels lifting at the crest, and over. The front crashed down, and he raced onward, turning onto one street and then the next.

He looked around, hoping… there was an open garage, and the attached house showed no interior lights. He checked his rearview mirror. No sign of his tail-yet.

He slammed the brakes and shot the car into the garage, jumped out, and yanked hard on the door’s rope. The door banged down.

Standing at the garage’s side window, gun in hand, he watched his pursuer rush past. It was the black Chevy Malibu, but he saw only the right side of the car, not the driver’s side, and could not quite make out the license plate number. He still had no idea who was behind the wheel. Immediately following, the motorcycle whipped past, its rider’s face hidden by a black helmet.

Tucker remained at the window, watching. A half hour later, he slid his Browning back into its holster and went to the center of the big garage door. With a grunt, he heaved the door up-and froze, staring into the mouth of a subcompact semiautomatic Beretta pistol.

“Don’t reach for it.” Judd Ryder’s face was grim. He had changed out of his funeral clothes and was wearing jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket.

Tucker let the hand that had been going for his weapon drift down to his side. “What in hell do you think you’re doing, Judd? How did you find me?”

Ryder gave a crooked smile. “You learn a few things in military intelligence.”

“You put a bug on my car?”

“You bet I did. Why didn’t the sniper in Stanton Park kill you, too?”

“I got lucky. I dove under the bench.”

“Bullshit. You claim to be a paper pusher, but paper pushers freeze. They wet their pants. They die. Why did you set up Dad?”

Tucker was silent. Finally he admitted, “You’re right-I’m CIA. Your father came to me for help, just as I said. After I got away, the sniper tried to shoot me, too. He was run down in traffic while chasing me. But when I went back, the body had disappeared. Either he survived and got out on his own, or someone picked him up. He’d seen me, which is why I shaved my beard-to make myself more difficult to identify. Someone just tried to kill me again, maybe the same asshole.”

“What exactly did Dad say?”

“That he was very worried. He told me, ‘I stumbled onto something… an account for about twenty million dollars in an international bank. I’m not sure exactly what it means, but I think it has to do somehow with Islamic terrorism.’ ”

Judd inhaled sharply.

Tucker nodded. “He was shot before he could say anything more than he’d found the information in the Library of Gold.”

Judd’s eyebrows rose. “He told the story about the library to me as if it were fiction. You’re certain he said he found out in the library?”

“He said the library was key. That he’d been there.” He saw a flicker of hurt in Judd’s eyes. “Everyone has secrets. Your father was no exception.”

“And this one killed him. Maybe.”

“Maybe.” An idea occurred to him. “Were you on the motorcycle behind me?”

“It’s parked up the block. I got the license tag of the Chevy that was chasing you. I can’t have it traced-you can. He lost me in Silver Spring, dammit.” He slid his gun inside his jacket. “Sorry, Tucker. I had to be sure about you.”

Tucker realized sweat had beaded up on his forehead. “What’s the plate number?”

Judd gave it to him. Tucker walked back through the garage to the driver’s side door of his car.

Judd followed. “Let’s work on this together.”

“Not on your life, Judson. You’re out of the game, remember? You’ve got a row house on the Hill, and you’re taking some time off.”

“That was before some goddamn sniper killed Dad. I’ll find his killer on my own if I have to.”

Tucker turned and glared. “You’re impetuous, and you’re too close to this. He was your father, for God’s sake. I can’t have anyone working with me I can’t trust.”

“Would you really have handled it any differently?” Before Tucker could answer, Judd continued. “It’s only logical I’d be suspicious. Maybe you were responsible for Dad’s death. You could’ve tried to liquidate me, too. Look at it another way: You don’t want to be tripping over me. I sure as hell don’t want you in my way, either.”

Tucker opened the car door and sighed. “All right. I’ll think about it. But if I agree, you take orders from me. Me, get it? No more grandstanding. Now rip that bug off my car.”

“Sure-if you drive me to my bike.”

“Jesus Christ. Get in.”

5

AS SOON as he dropped off Judd Ryder, Tucker Andersen phoned headquarters.

“I’m coming in now.”

Watching carefully around, he parked the Olds at the back of a busy mall outside Chevy Chase, caught a taxi, and phoned his wife. Then he hailed another cab, this time directing it back to Capitol Hill.

The headquarters of the highly secret Catapult team was a Federalist brick house northeast of the Capitol in a vibrant neighborhood of lively bars, restaurants, and one-of-a-kind shops. This sort of busy neighborhood provided good cover for Catapult, a special CIA counteroperations unit-counterterrorism, counterintelligence, countermeasures, counter-proliferation, counterinsurgency. Catapult worked covertly behind the scenes, taking aggressive action to direct or stop negative events, both in triage and planning.

Tucker let the taxi pass the unit’s weathered brick house with its shiny black door and shutters. The porch lamps were alight. The discreet sign above the door announced COUNCIL FOR PEER EDUCATION.

Three blocks later, he got out and strolled back as if nothing was on his mind. But once inside the fenced lot, he hurried past the security cameras to the side door, where he tapped his code onto the electronic keyboard. After a series of soft clicks, he pushed open the door. It was heavy steel, engineered to protect a bank vault.

He stepped into the hallway. While the exterior of the house was elegant with history, the interior was utilitarian and cutting-edge. The plaster walls and thick moldings were painted in muted greens and grays, and stark black-and-white photographs of cities from around the planet hung on them, reminding the few who were allowed to enter of the far reach of Catapult.

Glancing up, he noted the needle-nose cameras and dime-size motion detectors as he passed a couple of staffers carrying high-security blue folders. In the reception area, the office manager, Gloria Feit, reigned from behind her big metal desk. To his right was the front entry, while to the left a long corridor extended back into the house, where there were offices, the library, and the communications center. Upstairs were more offices, a conference room, and two large bedrooms with cots for covert officers and special visitors in transit.

Gloria’s shift had begun at eight o’clock that morning, but she still looked fresh. A small woman with crinkled smile lines around her eyes, she was in her late forties. Once a field op herself, she and Tucker had worked together off and on for two decades.

Her brows rose over her rainbow-rimmed reading glasses. “You’re on time.”

It was a constant debate between them, since he often ran late. “How can you tell? I’m usually here.”

“Except when you’re not. Did you have good luck?”

“Luck is the result of preparation. I was prepared. But I didn’t have as much luck as I’d hoped. Sometimes I think you know too much, Gloria.”

She smiled. “Then you’ve got to quit telling me.”

“Good point.”

She had a remarkable memory, and he relied on her for details he occasionally lost in the barrage of information with which he dealt daily. Plus she was a walking encyclopedia of those with whom they had worked, both domestic and foreign.

“Why are you still here?” he asked. “You were supposed to go home hours ago.”

“Now that you’ve arrived, I’ll leave. Ted’s taking me out for a late dinner. Karen called to check that you got into Catapult okay. You’d better phone her.”

“Why does everyone worry about me so much?” But the truth was, Karen had spent too many years wondering where he was and sometimes whether he was alive.

“Because you worry, Tucker.” Gloria turned off her computer. “The rest of us are necessary to make sure you’re able to concentrate on worrying. It’s a heavy job, but anything to serve the country.” She grinned. “Your messages are on your desk. As soon as I saw you on the outside monitors, I let Cathy know you were here. She’s waiting in your office. Have fun.” She snapped up her purse, took out her car keys, and headed for the door.

Feeling the weight of Jonathan’s death, Tucker walked down the long corridor. His office was the last one, chosen because it was quieter when the place was most active. As second in command, he got a few concessions, and his office was his favorite one.

He opened the door. Sitting in one of the two standard-issue armchairs in front of his cluttered desk was Catherine Doyle, the chief of Catapult.

She turned. “You look like crap.”

“That good? Thanks.” He shot her a grin and went to his desk.

Cathy Doyle chuckled. She was the same height as Tucker and dressed in a camel-colored pantsuit, her ankle boots planted firmly on the carpet. At fifty-plus, she was still a beauty, with short, blond-streaked hair and porcelain skin. She had been a model to support herself through New York University, graduating Phi Beta Kappa, then went on to earn a Ph.D. in international affairs from Columbia University, where Langley had recruited her.

“Gloria’s gone home.” He sat. “I can call over to Communications for coffee or tea.”

“I wouldn’t mind something stronger.”

“That strikes me just fine.” Tucker rotated in his chair to the file cabinet and unlocked the bottom drawer. He pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label Scotch and held it up, looking back.

Cathy nodded, and Tucker poured two fingers into two water glasses. The spicy fragrance of the blended whiskey rose into the air, complex in its smokiness and scents of malted grain and wood. He handed a glass to her and cradled his, warming it between his palms.

“That license plate number came up,” she told him. “It belongs to a Chevrolet Malibu reported stolen earlier today.”

“Not surprising. Anything about the Library of Gold, an international bank, and jihadist financing?”

A slew of Washington’s agencies-CIA, FBI, DIA, Customs, the IRS, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, the Office of Foreign Assets and Control, and the Secret Service-sent names of suspect individuals and groups to Treasury, which then forwarded them to a vast database of dubious financial transactions. The database compared the names to existing files and identified any matches.

Cathy shook her head. “Nothing yet.”

“What about SWIFT?”

The Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication, SWIFT monitored international financial transactions on behalf of U.S. counterterrorism efforts, looking for suspicious transactions that might be for terrorist financing, money laundering, or other criminal activity. The problem was, the information SWIFT had was no better than that provided by the banks at either end of the transactions.

“Nothing,” she told him. “If we had at least the name of the bank, we’d have something to go on. In any case, the usual suspicious transactions have turned up, and they’ll be investigated thoroughly anyway. And nothing about the Library of Gold was there, either.”

“What about Jonathan Ryder? Travel records, phone logs.”

“Zero so far. We’re still looking.” She studied him. “What’s been happening with you?”

He told her about the funeral and listening to Judd Ryder’s “bedtime story.”

“Interesting the father would do that,” she said. “Shows he had a longtime connection of some kind to the Library of Gold.”

“Exactly. Then I went to the Ryders’ place, and Judd and I searched Jonathan’s office. The only thing I found was a file in his desk-an unmarked file.” He handed the clippings to her. As she read them, he said, “All are about recent terrorist activity in Pakistan and Afghanistan -mostly the Taliban and al-Qaeda. In terms of money, there’s one about how difficult it is to track jihadist financing-finding a needle in a haystack is the cliché the article uses. Another talks about how subsidiary jihadist groups are funding themselves through fraud, kidnappings, bank heists, petty crime-just a fraction of what we know-and then tithing back to al-Qaeda central.”

Decimated by intelligence agencies and the military, and largely cut off from previous sources of income, al-Qaeda’s highly skilled, operationally sophisticated inner circle no longer could carry out attacks across continents. Now the major threat was the al-Qaeda movement-the numerous regional franchises and grassroots operations being born or refashioning themselves as affiliates.

“I’m eager to hear what the analysts think,” Tucker said. “Several banks are mentioned in the articles. Right now it seems to me Jonathan was gathering research but didn’t know precisely what he was looking for.”

“My thought, too, although he was focusing on the two countries.” She set the clippings on his desk.

“After I left the Ryders’, I had another incident.” He described the Chevy Malibu’s chase. “I figure the guy spotted me at Jonathan’s funeral, so he knows what I look like now. I can’t drive the Olds again until this is over.”

“Damn right. You can’t go home, either. He may figure out where you live.”

“I’ll sleep here. It’s cozy.” He grimaced and drank. “Karen’s packing. She’s driving to a friend of hers in the Adirondacks until this is over. You have the adjustments to my cover at State set up?”

“I did that first. Probably an hour ago. Took you long enough to get here.”

“I had to dry-clean my trail-you know the drill.” He sat back, turning his whiskey glass in his hands. “I got a hit about the Library of Gold in our database. A few years ago a man who claimed to be the chief librarian managed to get in touch with one of our operatives. He said all sorts of international criminal activity was going on with the book club-those are the people who own it-and he couldn’t escape. Unless we extracted him.”

“What kind of activity?”

“He wouldn’t be specific. Claimed the information might be traced back to him and get him killed, but he’d tell us everything once he was safe. When we asked him to prove his bona fides, he smuggled out one of the illuminated manuscripts-The Book of Spies. It was created in the 1500s. We lost contact with him after that, and now Langley has the book somewhere in storage.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “You have a plan?”

“I’m putting one together.”

“Okay, but it’ll be hard to let you have any bodies. I’m shorthanded as it is, especially if you’re going to work on this.”

“No problem.” He described how Judd had found him in the garage where he had hidden from the Chevy. “His full name is Judson Clayborn Ryder. I want to put him on board as a private contractor. He’s got the credentials, and I can use him.”

“Bad idea. He’s emotionally involved.”

“True, but he calmed down quickly, and he’s going to look into it no matter what. This way I can keep my eye on him, and he was military intelligence, so he’s got expertise.”

She thought about it. Finished her whiskey. “I’ll have Langley check his background.”

6

Jefferson County , Missouri

THE NIGHT was crisp and clear over Missouri’s rolling hills as the man exited Interstate 55, heading west past farms and woodland. The truck was a Class-6 Freightliner with sweet power steering. His fingers bounced on the wheel as he watched the countryside pass by. On the seat beside him lay an M4 carbine rifle, the primary weapon for most special forces soldiers and rangers. It was an old friend, and when he moonlighted like this, he brought it along for companionship. He smiled, thinking about the money he was going to make.

The clothing factory lay ahead. It was squat, the size of a football field, encircled by a high chain-link fence and concertina wire. Stopping at the gate, he showed the credentials Preston had given him. The sleepy security guard glanced at them and waved him through.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he drove on, counting the loading docks sticking out like gray teeth on the south side of the building. When he figured out which was number three, he circled the truck and backed up to it. The brakes huffed.

Once on the dock, he swore, staring at the mountain of crates. For two hours he labored, driving his dolly between the dock and the open maw of the truck, packing the boxes inside. It was a lousy job for one man. He was going to bitch to Preston about that. Who would’ve thought uniforms would take up so much room?

When he finished, he was sweaty. Still, at least this part, the most dangerous part, was finished. He climbed behind the wheel and drove sedately toward the guard kiosk. The gate opened as he approached, and he passed safely through. That was the thing about Preston. He knew how to plan a job. He grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number. Time to give him the good news.

San Diego County , California

THE YOUNG man parked his stolen sedan under the branches of a pepper tree at the distant edge of the sprawling truck stop off busy Interstate 15. He slid his FAMAS bullpup service rifle into its special holster inside his long jacket and got out, walking casually through the nighttime shadows along the rim of the parking lot, staying far from the brightly lit station with its restaurant, sleeping rooms, truck wash, and repair garage. With the trucks roaring in and out, the stink of diesel, and the taste of exhaust fumes, the place was an assault on the senses.

Scanning carefully, he headed toward thirty trucks parked in neat rows, their lights off while their drivers were inside tending to business, food, or entertainment. The truck he wanted was a Class-7 Peterbilt, a heavy eighteen-wheeler.

He found it quickly, then read the license plate to be sure. Satisfied, he glanced around, then tried the door. As expected, it was unlocked. He hiked himself inside. The key was in the ignition. He fired up the engine, noted the tank was full, and drove off. As soon as he was on the interstate, he phoned Preston.

Howard County, Maryland

AT LAST Martin Chapman heard the car in his drive. He looked out of his third-floor window, the moon spilling silver light across Maryland ’s hunt country. His wife was at their château in San Moritz, catching the end of the ski season, and the interior of his big plantation-style home was silent. His German shepherds barked outside on the grounds, and the horses whinnied from the pasture and barns. The security lights were shining brightly, displaying only a fraction of his enormous Arabian horse spread.

He pressed the intercom button. “I’ll get the door, Bradley. Go back to sleep.” Bradley was his houseman, a faithful employee of twenty years.

Still dressed, Chapman glanced at the photo on his desk, showing Gemma in a long tight gown, diamonds sparkling at her ears and around her throat, and him in a rented tuxedo. They were smiling widely. It was his favorite portrait, taken years before, while he was studying at UCLA and she at USC, miles apart geographically, worlds apart economically, but deeply in love. Now both were in their early fifties. Full of warm emotion, he pulled himself away, a tall man with a head of thick white hair brushed back in waves, blue eyes, and an unlined, untroubled face.

Hurrying downstairs, he opened the door. Doug Preston stood on the long brick porch, golf cap in his hands. Rangy and athletic, Preston radiated calm confidence. Forty-two years old, he had honed, aristocratic features. Little showed on his deeply tanned face except his usual neutral expression, but Chapman knew the man better than he knew himself: There was tightness around his eyes, and his lips had thinned. Something had happened Preston did not like.

“Come in,” Chapman said brusquely. “Do you want a drink?”

Preston gave a deferential nod, and Chapman led him into his enormous library, where towering shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes. He looked at them appreciatively, then headed for the bar, where he poured bourbon and branch water for both of them.

With a polite thank-you, Preston picked up his drink, walked to the French doors, and peered out into the night.

Watching him, Chapman felt a moment of impatience, then repressed it. Preston must be handled carefully, which was why he manipulated him with the same adroitness he lavished on his multibillion-dollar, highly competitive business.

“What have you learned about the stranger in the park?” Chapman asked, reining him in. Preston had run down the sniper with his Mercedes and pulled the corpse inside. The man had had to be eliminated; too many people had seen his face.

Preston turned and made a focused report: “I waited outside Jonathan Ryder’s funeral, got photos of the guy who was with Mr. Ryder in the park, and ran them through several data banks. His name is Tucker Andersen. He works for State. I followed Andersen to the Ryder house, then picked him up when he left. I wasn’t able to scrub him-the man drives as if he’s a NASCAR pro. That kind of talent could mean something, but maybe it doesn’t. So I called a high-level contact in State Human Resources. Andersen is a documents specialist, and he’s scheduled to leave for Geneva tonight for a UN conference on Middle East affairs. It lasts three weeks. I checked, and he has a reservation at the conference hotel. Just to make sure, I’ve put a team on his house in Virginia, and I’ll keep in close touch with my man at State. If Andersen doesn’t leave, we’ll know we’ve got trouble. I’ll be ready for him and take him out.”

Chapman heard the annoyance in Preston ’s voice. The failure to liquidate Andersen was difficult to swallow for a man who detested loose ends.

Still, all was not lost. “Good work.” Chapman paused, noted the flash of gratitude in Preston ’s eyes. “What about the District police?”

For the first time, Preston smiled. “They’re still not asking any questions about the library, and they would be by now if they knew about it. It’s beginning to look as if Mr. Ryder either didn’t or wasn’t able to tell Andersen anything important.” Chief of security for the Library of Gold for more than ten years, Preston was a man passionate about books and completely loyal, traits not only prized but required of library employees.

“That’d be a good result.” Chapman moved on to his next concern: “What about the library dinner?”

Preston drank deeply, relaxing. “Everything’s on track. The food, the chefs, the transportation.”

Book club members had been flying into the library throughout the past month, working with the translators to find and research questions in preparation for the annual banquet’s tournament. It was during Jonathan’s visit to the library just days before that he had learned about Chapman’s new business deal and become alarmed.

“Where are you with the Khost project?” Khost was a province in eastern Afghanistan, on the border with Pakistan. It was there Chapman planned to make back his huge losses from the global economic crash, and more.

“On schedule. The uniforms and equipment have been picked up. They’ll be shipped out in the morning. I’ve got it well in hand.”

“See that it stays that way. Nothing must interfere with it. Nothing. And keep your eye on the situation with Tucker Andersen. We don’t want it to explode in our faces.”

7

Chowchilla , California

Two weeks later

AT 1:32 P.M. Tucker Andersen finished briefing the warden of the Central California Women’s Facility. She was a stout woman with graying brown hair and a habit of folding her hands in front of her. She escorted him out of her private office.

“Tell me about Eva Blake,” Tucker said.

“She doesn’t complain, and she hasn’t gotten any 115 write-ups,” the warden said. “She started on the main yard, tidying up and emptying trash cans. Ten months ago we rewarded her with an assembly-line job in our electronics factory. In her free time she listens to the radio, keeps up with her karate, and volunteers-she teaches literacy classes and reads to inmates in the hospital ward. A couple of months ago she sent out a raft of résumés, but none of the other convicts knows it. There’s an unwritten law here-you don’t ask an inmate sister what she’s done or what she’s doing. Blake has been smart and kept her mouth shut about herself.”

“Who are her visitors?” Tucker asked as they passed the guard desk.

“Family occasionally, from out of state. A friend used to drive up every few months from L.A. -Peggy Doty, a former colleague. Ms. Doty hasn’t been to see her in a while. I believe she’s working at the British Library in London now. This is Blake’s housing unit.”

They stepped into a world of long expanses of linoleum flooring, closed doors, harsh fluorescent lighting, and an ear-bleed volume of noise-intercoms crackling, television programs blaring from the dayrooms, and loud shouts and curses.

The warden glanced at him. “They yell as much to give them something to do as to express themselves. We’re at double capacity here, so the noise is twice as loud as it should be. Blake is in the unit’s yard. She gets three hours every day if she wants it. She always does.”

The warden nodded at the guard standing at the door. He opened it, and the raw odor of farmland fertilizer swept toward them. They stepped outside, where the Central Valley sun pounded down onto an open space of grass, concrete, and dirt. Women sat, napped, and moved aimlessly. Beyond them rose high brick walls topped with electrified razor wire.

Tucker scanned the prisoners, looking for Eva Blake. He had studied photos as well as a video of the court appearance in which she had pleaded guilty to vehicular manslaughter in the death of her husband. He looked for her red hair, pretty face, lanky frame.

“You don’t recognize her, do you?” the warden asked. “She’s that one.”

He followed her nod to a woman in a baggy prison shirt and trousers, walking around the perimeter of the yard. Her hair was completely hidden, tucked up into a baseball cap. Her expression was blank, her posture nonthreatening. She looked little like the very alive woman in the photos and video.

“She goes around the yard hour after hour, loop after loop. She’s alone because she wants it that way. As I said, she’s smart-she’s learned to make herself invisible, uninteresting. Anyone who’s interesting around here can attract violence.”

Impressive both in her attitude and her ability to be inconspicuous, Tucker thought.

The warden clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m going to give you some advice. In prison, male cons either obey orders or defy them. Female cons ask why. Don’t lie to her. But if you have to, make damn sure she doesn’t catch you at it, at least not while you’re trying to convince her to do whatever it is you want her to do. You really aren’t going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”

“It’s national security.”

She gave a curt nod, and Tucker walked across the grass toward Eva Blake, catcalls and whistles trailing him. He wondered how long it would take her to realize she was his goal. A good hundred yards away, her strides grew nervy, and her chin lifted. She stopped and, in a slow, deliberate pivot, turned to face him. Her arms were apparently restful at her sides, but her stance was wide and balanced, a karate stance. Her reaction time was excellent, and from the way she moved, she was still in good physical condition.

He walked up to her. “Doctor Blake, my name is Tucker Andersen. I’d like to talk to you. The warden’s given us an interview room.”

“Why?” Her face was a mask.

“I may have a proposition for you. If so, I suspect you’ll like it.”

She peered around him, and he glanced back.

The warden was still standing in the doorway. Looking severe, she nodded at Blake. That made it an order.

“Whatever you say,” Blake said, relaxing her posture slightly.

As she started to move around him, she stumbled and twisted her ankle, bumping into him. He grabbed her shoulders, helping her. Regaining her equilibrium, she excused herself, moved away, and walked steadily back toward the prison.

THE INTERVIEW room had pastel walls, a single metal table with four metal chairs, and cameras poking out high from two corners.

Tucker sat at the widest part of the table and gestured at the other chairs. “Choose your poison.”

Not a smile. Eva Blake sat at the end. “You say your name is Tucker Andersen. Where are you from?”

“ McLean, Virginia. Why?”

She pulled his wallet from beneath her shirt, opened it, and read the driver’s license, checking on him. She spread out the credit cards, all in the same name. She nodded to herself, put the billfold back together, and handed it to him. “First time I’ve ever seen a ‘visitor’ in the yard on a non-visitor day.”

He had not felt her pick his pocket, but her bumping into him had been a clue. As he followed her into the prison, he had patted his jacket and found the wallet missing.

“Nice dipping,” he said mildly, “but then you’re experienced, aren’t you.”

Her eyes widened a fraction.

Good, he had surprised her. “Your juvenile record is sealed. You should’ve had it expunged.”

“You were able to get into my juvenile record?” she asked.

“I can, and I did. Tell me what happened.”

She said nothing.

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” he said. “When you were fourteen, you were what is commonly called wild. You sneaked beers. Smoked some grass. Some of your friends shoplifted. You tried it, too. Then a man who looked like plainclothes security spotted you in Macy’s. Instead of reporting you, he complimented you and asked whether you had the guts to go for the big time. It turned out he didn’t work for the store-he was a master dipper running a half-dozen teams. He taught you the trade. You hustled airports, ball games, train stations, that sort of thing. Because you’re beautiful, you usually played the distraction, prepping and positioning vics. But then when you were sixteen, a pickpocket on your team was escaping with the catch when some cops spotted him. He ran into traffic to get away-”

She lowered her head.

“He was hit by a semi and killed,” Tucker continued. “Everyone beat feet getting out of there. You were gone, too. But for some reason you changed your mind and went back and talked to the police. They arrested you, of course. Then they asked you to help them bust the gang, which you did. Why?”

“We were all so young… it just seemed right to try to stop it while maybe we had time to grow up into better people.”

“And later you used the skill to work your way through UCLA.”

“But legally. At a security company. Who are you?”

He ignored the question. “You’re probably going to be released on probation next year, so you’ve been sending out résumés. Any nibbles?”

She looked away. “No museum or library wants to hire a curator or conservator who’s a felon, at least not me. Too much baggage because of… my husband’s death. Because he was so well-known and respected in the field.” She fingered a gold chain around her neck. Whatever was hanging from it was hidden beneath her shirt. He noted she was still wearing her wedding band, a simple gold ring.

“I see,” he said neutrally.

She lifted her chin. “I’ll find something. Some other kind of work.”

He knew she was out of money. Because she had been convicted of her husband’s manslaughter, she could not collect his life insurance. She’d had to sell her house to pay her legal bills. He felt a moment of pity, then banished it.

He observed, “You’ve become very good at masking your emotions.”

“It’s just what you have to do to make it in here.”

“Tell me about the Library of Gold.”

That seemed to take her aback. “Why?”

“Indulge me.”

“You said you had a proposition for me. One I’d like.”

“I said I might have a proposition for you. Let’s see how much you remember.”

“I remember a lot, but Charles, my husband-Dr. Charles Sherback-was a real authority. He’d spent his life researching the library and knew every available detail.” Her voice was proud.

“Start at the beginning.”

She recounted the story from the library’s growth in the days of the Byzantine Empire to its disappearance at Ivan the Terrible’s death.

He listened patiently. Then: “What happened to it?”

“No one knows for sure. After Peter the Great died, a note was found in his papers that said Ivan had hidden the books under the Kremlin. Napoléon, Stalin, Putin, and ordinary people have hunted for centuries, but there are at least twelve levels of tunnels down there, and the vast majority are unmapped. Its location is one of the world’s great mysteries.”

“Do you know what’s in the library?”

“It’s supposed to contain poetry and novels. Books about science, alchemy, religion, war, politics, even sex manuals. It dates all the way back to the ancient Greeks and Romans, so there are probably works by Aristophanes, Virgil, Pindar, Cicero, and Sun Tzu. There are Bibles and Torahs and Korans, too. All sorts of languages-Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, Greek.”

Tucker was quiet a moment, considering. After a rocky start as a teenager, she had righted herself to go on to a high-level career, which showed talent, brains, and responsibility. She had muted herself to fit into prison, and that indicated adaptability. Pickpocketing him because he was an aberration told him she still had nerve. He was operating in a vacuum with this mission. None of the targeting analysts had found anything useful, and the collection of Jonathan Ryder’s clippings had turned out to be little help.

He studied the face beneath the prison cap, the sculpted lines, the expression that had settled back into chilly neutrality. “What would you say if I told you I have evidence the Library of Gold is very much in existence?”

“I’d say tell me more.”

“The Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection has loaned some of its illuminated manuscripts to the British Museum for a special show. The highlight is The Book of Spies. Do you know the work?”

“Never heard of it.”

“The book arrived at the reference door to the Library of Congress wrapped in foam inside a cardboard box. There was an unsigned note saying it had been in the Library of Gold and was a donation to the Rosenwald Special Collection. They tested the paper and ink and so forth. The book’s authentic. No one’s been able to trace the donor or donors.”

“That’s all the evidence you have it’s from the Library of Gold?”

He nodded. “For now it’s enough.”

“Does this mean you want to find the library?” When he nodded, she said, “What can I do to help?”

“Opening night of the British Museum exhibit is next week. Your job would be to do what you used to do when you traveled with your husband. Talk to the librarians, historians, and afficionados who’ve been trying to find the library for years. Eavesdrop on conversations among them and others. We hope if The Book of Spies really did come from the collection it’ll attract someone who knows the library’s location.”

She had been leaning forward. She sat back. Emotions played across her face. “What’s in it for me?”

“If you do a good job, you’ll return to prison of course. But then in just four months, you’ll be released on parole-assuming you continue your good record. That’s eight months early.”

“What’s the downside?”

“No downside except you’ll have to wear a GPS ankle bracelet. It’s tamper-resistant and has a built-in GSM/GPRS transmitter that’ll automatically report your location. You can remove it at night, to make sleeping more comfortable, if you wish. I’ll give you a cell phone, too. You’ll report to me, and you must tell no one, not even the warden, what you’ll be doing or what you learn.”

She was silent. “You opened my juvenile record. You can get me out of prison. And you can reduce my sentence. Before I agree, I want to know who you really are.”

He started to shake his head.

She warned, “The first price of my help is the truth.”

He remembered what the warden had said about not lying to the inmates. “I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“That’s not in your billfold.”

He reached down and un-Velcroed a pocket inside his calf-high sock. He handed her the ID. “You must tell no one. Agreed?”

She studied the laminated official identification. “Agreed. If anyone there knows where the library is, I’ll find out. But when I’m finished, I don’t want to come back to prison.”

Inwardly he smiled, pleased by her toughness. “Done.”

Years seem to fall from her. “When do I leave?”

8

London , England

THE WORLD seemed excitingly new to Eva-no handcuffs, no prison guards, no eyes watching her around the clock. It was 8:30 P.M. and raining heavily as she hurried across the forecourt toward the British Museum. She hardly felt the cold wet on her face. London ’s traffic thundered behind her, and her old Burberry trench coat was wrapped around her. She looked up at the looming columns, the sheer stone walls, the Greek Revival carvings and statues. Memories filled her of the good times she and Charles had spent in the majestic old museum.

Dodging a puddle, she ran lightly up the stone steps, closed her umbrella, and entered the Front Hall. It was ablaze with light, the high ceiling fading up into dramatic darkness. She paused at the entrance to the Queen Elizabeth Great Court, two sweeping acres of marble flooring rimmed by white Portland stone walls and columned entryways. She drank in its serene beauty.

At its center stood the circular Reading Room, one of the world’s finest libraries-and coming out its door were Herr Professor and Frau Georg Mendochon.

Smiling, Eva went to greet them. With glances at each other, they hesitated.

“Timma. Georg.” She extended her hand. “It’s been years.”

“How are you, Eva?” Georg’s accent was light. He was a globetrotting academic from Austria.

“It’s wonderful to see you again,” she said sincerely.

“Ja. And we know why it has been so long.” Timma had never been subtle. “What are you doing here?” What she did not say was, You killed your husband, how dare you show up.

Eva glanced down, staring at the gold wedding band on her finger. She had known this was going to be difficult. She had come to accept that she had killed Charles, but the guilt of it still ravaged her.

Looking up, she ignored Timma’s tone. “I was hoping to see old friends. And to view The Book of Spies, of course.”

“It is very exciting, this discovery,” Georg agreed.

“It makes me wonder whether someone has finally found the Library of Gold,” Eva continued. “If anyone has, surely it’s you, Georg”-now that Charles is gone, she thought to herself, missing him even more.

Georg laughed. Timma relented and smiled at the compliment.

“Ach, I wish,” he said.

“There’s no word anyone’s close to its discovery?” Eva pressed.

“I have heard nothing like that, alas,” Georg said. “Come, Timma. We must go to the Chinese exhibit now. We will see you upstairs, Eva, yes?”

“Definitely, yes.”

As they crossed the Great Hall, Eva headed toward the North Wing and climbed the stairs to the top floor. The sounds of a multilingual crowd drifted from a large open doorway where a sign announced:

TRACING THE DEVELOPMENT OF WRITING

SPECIAL EXHIBITION FROM THE LESSING J. ROSENWALD COLLECTION

She found her invitation.

The guard took it. “Enjoy yourself, mum.”

She stepped inside. Excited energy infused the vast hall. People stood in groups and gathered around the glass display cases, many wearing tiny earphones as they listened to the show’s prerecorded tour. Museum guards in dress clothes circulated discreetly. The air smelled the way she remembered, of expensive perfumes and aromatic wines. She inhaled deeply.

“Eva, is that you?”

She turned. It was Guy Fontaine from the Sorbonne. Small and plump, he was standing with a huddle of Charles’s friends. She scanned their faces, saw their conflicted emotions at her arrival.

She said a warm hello and shook hands.

“You’re looking well, Eva,” Dan Ritenburg decided. He was a wealthy amateur Library of Gold hunter from Sydney. “How is it you’re able to be here?”

“Do not be crass, Dan,” Antonia del Toro scolded. From Madrid, she was an acclaimed historian. She turned to Eva. “I am so sorry about Charles. Such a dedicated researcher, although admittedly he could be difficult at times. My condolences.”

Several others murmured their sympathies. Then there was an expectant pause.

Eva spoke into it, answering their unasked question. “I’ve been released from prison.” That was what Tucker had told her to say. “When I saw there was a manuscript from the Library of Gold here, of course I had to come.”

“Of course,” Guy agreed. “The Book of Spies. It is beautiful. Incroyable.”

“Do you think its appearance means someone has found the library?” Eva asked.

The group erupted in talk, voicing their theories that the library was still beneath the Kremlin, that Ivan the Terrible had hidden it in a monastery outside Moscow, that it was simply a glorious myth perpetuated by Ivan himself.

“But if it’s a myth, why is The Book of Spies here?” Eva wanted to know.

“Aha, my point exactly,” said Desmond Warzel, a Swiss academic. “I have always maintained that before he died Ivan sold it off in bits and pieces because his treasury was low. Remember, he lost his last war with Poland -and it was expensive.”

“But if that’s true,” Eva said reasonably, “surely other illuminated manuscripts from the library would’ve appeared by now.”

“She is right, Desmond,” Antonia said. “Just what I have been telling you all these years.”

They continued to argue, and eventually Eva excused herself. Listening to conversations, looking for more people she knew, she wove through the throngs and then stopped at the bar. She ordered a Perrier.

“Don’t I know you, ma’am?” the bar steward asked.

He was tall and thin, but with the chubby face of a chipmunk. The contrast was startling and endearing. Of course she recalled him.

“I used to come here a few years ago,” she told him.

He grinned and handed her the Perrier. “Welcome home.”

Smiling, she stepped away to check the map showing where in the room each woodcut book, illuminated manuscript, and printed book was displayed. When she found the location of The Book of Spies, she walked toward it, passing the spectacular Giant Bible of Mainz, finished in 1453, and the much smaller and grotesquely illustrated Book of Urizen, from 1818. It was William Blake’s parody of Genesis. A few years ago, on a happy winter day, Charles and she had personally examined each in the Library of Congress.

The crowd surrounding The Book of Spies was so thick, some on the fringes were giving up. Eva frowned, but not at the imposing human wall. What held her was a man leaving the display. There was something familiar about him. She could not see his face, because he was turned away and his hand clasped one ear as he listened to the tour.

What was it about him? She set her drink on a waiter’s tray and followed, sidestepping other visitors. He wore a black trench coat, had glossy black hair, and the back of his neck was tanned. She wanted to get ahead so she could see his face, but the crowd made it hard to move quickly.

Then he stepped into an open space, and for the first time she had a clear view of his entire body, of his physicality. Her heart quickened as she studied him. His gait was athletic, rolling. His muscular shoulders twitched every six or eight steps. He radiated great assurance, as if he owned the hall. He was the right height-a little less than six feet tall. Although his hair should have been light brown, not blue-black, and she still could not see his face, everything else about him was uncannily, thrillingly familiar. He could have been Charles’s double.

He dropped his hand from his ear. Excited, Eva moved quickly onward until she was walking almost parallel to him. He was surveying the crowd, his head slowly moving from right to left. Finally she saw his face. His chin was wider and heavier than Charles’s, and his ears flared slightly where Charles’s had laid flat against his skull. Overall he looked tough, like a man who had been on the losing end of too many fistfights.

But then his gaze froze on her. He stopped moving. He had Charles’s eyes-large and black, with flecks of brown, surrounded by thick lashes. She and Charles had lived together eight intimate years, and she knew every gesture, every nuance of his expressions, and how he reacted. His eyes radiated shock, then narrowed in fear. He tilted back his head-pride. And finally there was the emotionless expression she knew so well when confronted with the unexpected. His lips formed the word Eva.

The room seemed to fade away, and the chattering talk vanished as she tried to breathe, to feel the beat of her heart, to know her feet were planted firmly on the floor. She struggled to think, to understand how Charles could still be alive. Relief washed through her as she realized she had not killed him. But how could he have survived the car crash? Abruptly her grief and guilt turned into stunned rage. She had lost two years because of him. Lost most of her friends. Her reputation. Her career. She had mourned and blamed herself-while he had been alive the entire time.

As he scowled at her, she pulled out her cell phone, touched the keypad, and focused the cell’s video camera on him.

His scowl deepened, and with a jerk of his head, he cupped his left ear and dove into the crowd.

“Charles, wait!” She rushed after him, dodging people, leaving a trail of disgusted remarks.

He brushed past an older couple and slid deeper into the masses. She raised up on her toes and spotted him skirting a display cabinet. She ran. As he elbowed past a circle of women, his shoulder hit a waiter carrying a tray of full wineglasses. The tray cartwheeled; the glasses sailed. Red wine splashed the women. They yelled and slipped on their high heels.

While guests stared, security guards grabbed radios off their belts, and Charles dashed out the door. Eva tore after him and down the stairs. The guards shouted for them to stop. As she reached the landing, a sentry peeled away from the wall, lowering his radio.

“Stop, miss!” He raced toward her, pendulous belly jiggling.

She put on a burst of speed, and the guard had no time to correct. His hands grabbed at her trench coat and missed. Stumbling forward, he fell across the railing, balancing precariously over the full-story drop.

She stopped to go back to help, but a man in a dark blue peacoat leaped down three steps and pulled the guard back to safety.

Cursing the time she had lost, Eva resumed her pell-mell run down the steps, the feet of guards hammering behind her. When she landed on the first floor, she accelerated past the elevators and into the cavernous Great Court. Thunder cracked loudly overhead, and a burst of rain pelted the high glass dome.

She saw Charles again. With an angry glance back at her across the wide expanse, he hurtled past a hulking statue of the head of the Egyptian pharaoh Amenhotep III.

She chased after, following him into the museum’s Front Hall. Visitors fell back, silent, confused, as he rushed past. Two sentries were standing on either side of the open front door, both holding radios to their ears and looking as if they had just been given orders.

As Charles approached them, she saw his back stiffen.

His words floated back to her, earnestly telling the pair in Charles’s deep voice, “She’s a madwoman… She has a knife.”

Enraged, she ran faster. The guards glanced at each other, and Charles took advantage of their distraction to lunge between them and sprint out into the stormy night.

Silently Eva swore. The two guards had recovered and were standing shoulder to shoulder, facing her, blocking the opening.

“Halt,” the taller of the two commanded.

She bolted straight at them. As their eyes narrowed, she paused and slammed the heels of her hands into each man’s solar plexis in teish karate strikes.

Surprised, the air driven from their lungs, they staggered, giving her just enough of an opening. In seconds she was outside. Cold rain bled in sheets from the roiling sky, drenching her, as she rushed down the stone steps.

Charles was a black sliver in the night, arms swinging as he propelled himself across the long forecourt toward the museum’s entry gates.

“Dammit, Charles. Wait!”

The shriek of a police siren was growing louder, closer. Breathing hard, she raced after him and out onto Great Russell Street. Vehicles cruised past, their tires splashing dark waves of water up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians hurried along, umbrellas open, a phalanx of bobbing rain gear.

As she slowed, looking everywhere for Charles, hands grabbed her from behind. She struggled, but the hands held fast.

“You were told to halt,” a museum guard ordered, panting.

Another one ripped away her shoulder satchel.

A Metropolitan Police car screeched to the curb. Uniformed bobbies jumped out and pushed Eva against the car, patting her down. Frustrated, furious, she twisted around and saw Charles step into a taxi near the end of the block. As she stared, its red taillights vanished into traffic.

9

THE POLICE interview room was a cramped space on a lower floor of the thirteen-story Holborn Police Station, just seven blocks from the British Museum.

“Well, there, Dr. Blake, it seems you weren’t being truthful with me.” Metropolitan Police inspector Kent Collins nodded at the police guard standing in the corner, who nodded back. The inspector closed the door behind him, sealing out the world. “You told me your husband was dead. You didn’t tell me you were convicted of killing him.”

He was a bristly man with a large nose and, despite the late hour, smoothly shaved cheeks. Tough, impeccable, and definitely in charge, he was carrying a crisp new manila file folder under his arm.

Eva’s hands were in her lap, rotating the gold wedding band on her finger. She had not been able to phone Tucker Andersen because she had not been alone since the police arrested her. His warning to tell no one about her assignment was loud in her mind. But how was she going to get out of this? Could she, even?

“I said Charles was supposed to be dead,” she told the inspector. “If I’d filled you in on the rest, you might not have heard me out. The man I saw was Charles Sherback. My husband. Alive.” Then she reminded him, “I’m not the one who lied to the museum guards. He did. He told them I had a knife. They searched me. There was no knife.”

Inspector Collins slapped down his file folder and dropped into a plastic chair at the end of the table next to her so they would be sitting close but at a ninety-degree angle. She recognized the technique: If you want someone to resonate with you, sit shoulder to shoulder. But if you need to challenge them, face them. The ninety-degree angle gave him flexibility.

He turned, facing her. “We’re a little on the busy side to be searching among the living for a man who’s dead and buried.”

“Charles not only lied about the knife, he ran because he recognized me.”

“Or he ran because he was some innocent bloke you were harassing.”

“But then he would’ve complained to the guards about me.”

The inspector lost his patience. “Bollocks. You-not him-assaulted the two sentries at the museum’s entrance.”

“I didn’t have time to stop to prove I didn’t have a knife and explain why I needed to catch Charles. And another thing-I have a black belt in karate. I could’ve hurt the guards badly. Instead I hit them just hard enough to make them step back and take deep breaths. Did either file a personal complaint?” She suspected not, since there had been no mention of it.

“As a matter of fact, no.”

She nodded. “This is a lot bigger than just me. Charles is alive, and someone else must be buried in his grave. Will you please look for him?”

Inspector Collins’s expression said it all-he thought she was mad. “How do you expect us to find him? You don’t have an address. Nothing concrete at all.”

She picked up her cell phone, touching buttons as she talked. “I shot a video of him at the museum.”

Positioning the tiny screen so both could see, she started the clip. And there was a miniature Charles, standing tall in his black trench coat against the churning background of museumgoers. He was gazing straight at her, above the angle of the cell phone, and scowling.

“You can’t see his gait yet,” she told him. “The way he walks is important. He’s an athlete, and he moves like one, with a little bit of a slouch and a roll to his steps. His shoulders twitch periodically, too. It’s really distinctive. He’s also the right age and right height. The right eye color and voice, too.”

In the video, Charles looked down.

“This is where he spotted my cell phone,” she explained.

Charles lifted his hand to his ear, turned abruptly, and was swallowed by the crowd. Inwardly she swore. He had moved so swiftly she had no record of his walk. The video ended.

“That’s it?” The inspector’s focus felt like an assault. “That’s all you have?”

“It’s something. A beginning.”

“You said other people were there whom you and your husband knew for years. If that were your husband-a dead man-they would’ve said something. In fact, I imagine they would’ve made quite a fuss.” Shaking his head, the inspector opened his file, pulled out a sheet of paper, and slid it across the table. “The Los Angeles police e-mailed me this. Tell me who it is.”

It was a portrait of Charles, shot for brochures for the Elaine Moreau Library. His refined features and glowing black eyes stared out at her.

“It’s Charles, of course.” Her voice was quiet. “After he disappeared he must’ve dyed his hair and had work done on his face.”

The inspector jabbed a thumb at it. “This photo looks nothing like the man in your video.” He gazed at her, challenging her. “I spoke to the prison. Is this the first time you thought you saw him since he died?”

She hesitated, then rallied. “Obviously you know it’s not.”

He pulled out another paper and read aloud: “ ‘In the first three weeks after Dr. Sherback died, Dr. Blake said she thought she had seen him twice. According to her account, she approached the men, who were friendly. But when she explained why she wanted to talk, they backed away.’ ”

The oxygen seemed to leave her lungs. “They looked similar to Charles.” How could she get out of here so she could find him? She thought quickly. Then: “My husband and I were librarians and curators of ancient and medieval manuscripts. We used to fly around the world to attend openings like tonight’s. Being back in that atmosphere again… perhaps you’re right that I’ve made a huge mistake.” She lowered her voice. “I miss him a great deal. I hope you can understand.”

A flicker of compassion touched the inspector’s bristly features. He peered at her, seeming to contemplate what to do.

Her entire body felt tight. She turned so her shoulder brushed his. “I’m really sorry to have caused so much trouble.”

“Maybe you want him to be alive so you don’t have to carry the guilt for what you’ve done,” he said.

She gave him the answer he wanted to hear. “Yes.”

There was pity in his tired eyes. Shrugging, he got to his feet. He pulled her passport from inside his sports coat and handed it to her. “Get on a plane tomorrow and go home. Make an appointment to see a therapist.”

Eva gathered her things and followed Inspector Collins down the hall of the police station. As she listened to the breathy ventilation system, her mind kept returning to the man in the museum, the man she was certain was Charles, despite what she had told the inspector.

With each step, she reconstructed his profile, his height and age, the shocked recognition in his eyes. As they rode the elevator down, in her mind she replayed his words to the museum guards, hearing the familiar intonation of his voice.

The inspector left her, and she continued outdoors and stopped. As she stood in the shelter of the station house’s doorway, she had a vision of Charles racing away through the stormy night. She could see his arms swinging at his sides. There was something about that. Something about his hands.

That was when she remembered. She took out her cell phone. She restarted the short video, staring hard. Freezing it, she pumped up the size of the image. Charles’s left hand had been sliced badly in an accident at a dig in Turkey. If this man was Charles, there should be a long scar on his hand.

She half-expected to see smooth skin. Instead, her breath caught in her throat as she spotted it-a scar snaking blue-white across the top of his thumb and hand and then disappearing up under the cuff of his trench coat. Charles.

She jumped up and turned to go back into the station… and stopped herself. There was no way the police would help her. She considered Tucker Andersen. But he probably knew about the previous times she hoped she had seen Charles. He would not believe her, either.

But she needed to report in. She dialed his number.

There was no preamble. “What did you learn?” he asked instantly.

“I couldn’t find anyone who knew anything new about the Library of Gold,” she told him truthfully. “All of them have the usual theories.”

“Pity. Go back to the museum tomorrow. Spend the day.”

“Of course.” She had bought herself some time.

Opening her umbrella, she walked through the sidewalk’s lamplight, trying to gather her thoughts. Her marriage to Charles had not been perfect, but whose relationship ever was? With his death, the problems had vanished from her mind. She had loved him dearly, and she had thought he loved her. Fourteen years older, he was already celebrated in his career when they met. She remembered his walking into the classroom that first time; the long, confident strides. The handsome face that radiated intelligence and curiosity. He was the guest lecturer for an upper-division course where she was the assistant while working on her Ph.D. Quoting from Homer and Plato, he had charmed and impressed everyone.

“Gratias tibi ago, Dr. Sherback. Benigne ades,” she had told him. Thank you. It was generous of you to come.

The crowd of admirers had dwindled away to just him and her.

He had peered down at her, taking her in. Then he spoke in Latin, too. “You remind me of Diana, goddess of the hunt, the moon, and protectress of dewy youth. Tell me, do you have an oak grove and a deer nearby?”

She laughed. “And my bow and arrow.”

“Ah, yes, but then you’re not only a huntress but an emblem of chastity. No wonder you need your weapons. I hope you won’t turn me into a stag as you did Acteon.” The goddess had transformed Acteon when he saw her bathing naked in a stream, then set her hunting dogs on him.

“You are completely safe,” she assured him. “I have no dogs, not even a teacup poodle.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “I like a woman who can speak Latin and who knows the ancient gods and goddesses. Will you join me for a cup of coffee?”

Colleagues, critics, and art lovers had admired him, and women had thrown themselves at him. But she was the one who had caught him. She had never suspected she was marrying a man who could pretend to be dead and send her to prison. But then, she like many others had been dazzled by him, by their lifestyle, and by her own dreams and ambitions.

As she moved along the street, the rain was a constant tattoo on her umbrella. She must find Charles. All she had was the short video. The inspector was right. It was not going to be enough. She took out her cell phone again and dialed Peggy Doty. Peggy had gotten back her old job at the British Library so she could be close to her boyfriend, Zack Turner, and Eva was staying with her while in London.

When Peggy’s sleepy voice answered, Eva apologized, then said, “Remember the time I covered for you at the Getty when you took off for Paris to meet Zack for a few days? And the time I showed you the secret glue that’s invisible and never fails? And then there was the time I blocked the sex-fiend tourist who was putting the moves on you.”

There was a chuckle. “You must be desperate. What do you want?”

“It’s a big favor, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t vital. I need a copy of the security videos for the museum’s opening tonight. Particularly those that include the people around The Book of Spies.”

“What?”

“And I need them now. Right away. I’m walking toward the museum. I wouldn’t ask unless I really did need them.” With luck, they would show Charles chatting with someone she knew. Maybe he or she would have learned something useful.

There was a long silence. Finally Peggy said, “You want me to ask Zack.” He was the head of security at the museum.

“He’ll do anything for you. Please phone him.”

On the other end of the line, a sigh sounded loudly. “I’ll call you back.”

Eva thanked her, following Theobalds Road, clasping her shoulder satchel to her side. But as she walked, she had a strange feeling. She peered back. A man in a blue peacoat was striding along about thirty feet behind. His face was in shadows. The man who had saved the museum guard from toppling over the staircase had also worn a blue peacoat. She looked again, but he was gone.

She headed north onto Southampton Row, then west onto Great Russell Street, where she found herself glancing at the cars speeding past. For a few heartbeats a bronze-colored Citroën slowed and paced her; then it rushed off. Uneasily she realized she had noticed it earlier. There was no one in the passenger seat, and she had been unable to see the driver.

At last the museum was in sight. She turned onto Montague Street, which ran along the massive building’s east side and connected with Montague Place. The street was just a block long, one of the narrow lanes winding through Bloomsbury. There was no traffic, although parked cars lined the sidewalk. She peered back and thought she saw movement beneath the darkness of a tall tree.

Her cell rang. It was Peggy. Swiftly she asked, “Do you have good news?”

“Honey, Zack says he can’t have copies made for you. It’s against the rules. I’m so sorry. Come home. It’s real late.”

Eva closed her eyes, disappointed. “Thanks for trying. I’m sorry I disturbed you. I hope you can get back to sleep quickly.” She touched the Off button.

Trying to decide what to do next, she was heading across the street when she heard the noise of a car’s engine and felt the pavement vibrate beneath her feet. She peered left. The vehicle was rushing toward her, headlights off. Terror shot through her. She accelerated, but the car angled, keeping her targeted.

Ahead was the towering iron fence that surrounded the museum. Dropping her umbrella, she slapped the strap of her satchel across her chest and sprinted. With a silent prayer, she leaped high in a tobi-geri jump. Her hands closed around two wet rails, and her feet found two more for a precarious foothold.

Then she looked again. The car was a bronze-colored Citroën like the one that had paced her on Great Russell Street. But who-? She stared into the windshield. Charles? Oh dear God, it was Charles. His thick features looked frozen, his gaze vacant, but emotion showed in his hands. They were knotted around the steering wheel as if it were a noose.

With an abrupt movement, the Citroën jumped the curb and slammed along the fence. Sparks flew. The noise of the hurtling car, of metal screeching against metal, seemed to explode inside her head. She scrambled higher. The rough iron rails shook in her hands. As she fought to hold on, the Citroën blasted past beneath, enveloping her in a stench of exhaust.

As it careened off on the rain-slicked street, she released her hold on the fence and dropped to the ground, trying to absorb the fact that Charles had just tried to kill her. Filled with horror, she sprinted, her muscles pulsing as she pumped harder and harder, Charles’s cold face burned into her mind.

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 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 leaved, 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 northeast 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 yokokeage 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.

Relieved to be safely off the street, Eva cleaned her face in the bathroom and settled into a banquette at the back. She watched Judd Ryder at the bar, his long frame leaning into it as he waited for their orders and surveyed the room. The clientele crowded around the bar, shoes propped up on the foot rail. Ryder and she had attracted only a moment’s notice, and now no one was looking at her, including Ryder.

If she had learned one lesson in prison, it was survival required suspicion. He had thrown his peacoat onto the leather seat. She searched the inner pockets. There were a couple of felt-tipped pens, his small mirror, a granola bar, a fat roll of cash, and a London tube schedule. She returned everything but the schedule and was just about to check whether he had made any notes on it when he picked up her tea tray from the bar. Instantly she shoved the schedule back inside his coat.

He walked toward her, his stride long. He was dressed in jeans, a dark blue polo shirt, and a loose corduroy jacket. She could not quite make out the shoulder holster that held his gun. His square face was weathered and had a rugged outdoor quality, as if it had been formed more by life than biology. His hands were large and competent, but his dark gray eyes were unreadable. He was athletic and obviously familiar with karate, otherwise he would not have been able to dodge her blow. He could easily be telling her the truth-or not.

She hid her tension and smiled. “Thanks. It smells delicious.”

“Lapsang souchong tea, as requested. Heated milk and a warm cup, too.” He put the tray down. “Drink. You’re shivering.”

As he headed back to the bar to fetch his stout, she grabbed the tube schedule and inspected it. There were no marks or notes. Next she examined the peacoat’s outside pockets. Frowning, she discovered an electronic reader for some kind of tracking device. A small handheld computer with GPS capabilities, it was similar to those she had assembled in the prison’s electronics factory. Tracking devices could be used to keep tabs on anything, while readers like this displayed an array of information sent from the bug.

She looked up. The bartender was setting a full pint glass in front of Ryder, and he was paying the bill. She had little time. Her fingers flew as she touched buttons, and the handheld’s screen came to colorful life. She saw he was tracking two bugs. She keyed onto the first. Schematics flashed and coalesced into a map of London, showing a location: Le Méridien Hotel in the West End. She was not familiar with the hotel, and she did not have time to check the other bug. She slid the handheld back into his peacoat.

He was heading toward her, pint in hand, staring. As he stopped at the table, she saw his face had done a strange shift, revealing something hard and a little frightening.

She patted then smoothed his peacoat. “Forgive me. My nose is starting to run. I was just going to look for a tissue.” The condition of her nose was true.

Without comment he took a handkerchief from his pocket, handed it to her, and sat with his pint of oatmeal stout.

“Thanks.” She blew her nose, then wrapped her hands around her hot cup of tea. “When Charles and I visited London, we sometimes came here. In case you don’t know, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, and the Bloomsbury Group were regulars. Editors and writers still show up. The pub seemed to us the epitome of old Bloomsbury, the beating heart of London ’s literary world.”

“You’re feeling better,” he decided.

She nodded. “Why didn’t Tucker tell me about you?”

“You’re not trained, and we wanted you to act normally. Some people can’t handle being watched over. You wouldn’t have known how you’d react, and we wouldn’t have known either, until you were actually in the museum. There was only one opening night, and we were doing everything we could to maximize your chances of success.”

“Is your name really Judd Ryder?”

“Yes. I’m a CIA contract employee. Tucker brought me in for the job.”

“Then you’re working for Catapult.” Tucker had told her about his unit, which did counteroperations. “Why you?”

Ryder gazed down into his glass then looked up, his expression somber. “My father and Tucker were friends in college. They joined the CIA at the same time, then Dad left to go into business. A couple of weeks ago he asked Tucker to meet him in a park on Capitol Hill. Just the two of them. It was late at night… A sniper killed Dad.”

Seeing the pain in his eyes, she sank back. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. It must’ve been awful for you.”

“It was.”

She thought a moment. “But murder is a job for the police.”

“Dad was trying to warn Tucker about something that had to do with a multimillion-dollar account in an unnamed international bank-and Islamic terrorism.”

“Terrorism?” Her brows rose with alarm. “What kind of terrorism? Al-Qaeda? One of their off shoots? A new group?”

“We don’t know yet, but he appeared worried some disaster was about to happen. Dad had collected news clippings about jihadism in Pakistan and Afghanistan, but so far they don’t make a lot of sense. Of course Catapult is staying on top of international bank activity. The only real detail is where you come in-Dad said he’d discovered the information in the Library of Gold.”

“In the library? Then the library really does exist.”

“Yes. Dad also told Tucker some kind of book club owns it.”

“Was your father in the book club?”

He shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know yet.”

“If your father was a member of the book club, it sounds to me as if he had a secret life.”

He nodded grimly. “Just like your husband’s.”

She leaned forward. “You want to find out what your father was doing and who’s behind his death.”

“Damn right I do.” Anger flashed across his face.

“Why didn’t Tucker tell me any of this?”

“You didn’t have need-to-know, and we thought your assignment would be simple.”

“Both of us have personal reasons to find the library, but this is on a whole different level. So much bigger.”

“It is personal for both of us.” He set down his glass, put his hand into his jacket pocket, and slid her gold wedding band and necklace across the table. “I thought you might want these back.”

Staring at them, she moved her hands away from her cup and dropped them into her lap. “I don’t need them anymore. That was another life. Another person.”

He studied her. Then he scooped up the jewelry and returned it to his pocket. “Tell me about Charles and the car crash.”

“He was driving us home on Mulholland after a dinner party, and-” She stopped. In her mind she went back over the trip-Charles’s carefree laughter, his playful weaving of the car back and forth across the deserted road… She told Ryder about it. Then: “A car shot out from a driveway ahead, and Charles slammed on the brakes. Our car careened. I was nauseated and dizzy. And I lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I woke up on a gurney.” She hesitated. “Charles must’ve given me some kind of drug. Later the coroner found his wedding ring on the corpse, and the corpse’s teeth matched Charles’s dental records.”

“That shows a lot of planning, money, and dirty resources. Could Charles have pulled it off alone?”

“No way. He was an academic. Someone had to have helped him.”

“Who?”

She mulled. “I don’t know anyone who could have.”

“Where do you think he’s been?”

“God knows. He’s got a good tan, so it’s someplace sunny.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Dedicated. Our world’s small. Only a few thousand people are well-educated about illuminated manuscripts. Maybe a hundred are true experts. Most of us know one another in varying degrees. I suppose to outsiders we seem peculiar. We play card games from Greek and Roman times, and we have our own trivia contests. Our conversations can seem funny-we use Latin and Greek, for instance. Charles was considered by some to be the top authority on the Library of Gold. He was immersed in it, lived it, ached for it, and that’s why he was so knowledgeable. It would’ve been hard for him to live with anyone who couldn’t appreciate that in him.”

“And you did?”

“Yes. It made sense to me.”

He nodded. “Could his disappearance have been related to the library?”

“He was working awfully long hours before the car crash. He might’ve had some insight or uncovered something and felt he needed to disappear so no one would be tipped off while he closed in.”

She followed Ryder’s gaze as he surveyed the old pub. The polished brass fixtures glinted. A few customers had left; a few more had entered.

“I shot about an hour of video of the people around The Book of Spies,” he told her. “If there’s a cyber café open at this hour, we can look at it together.”

She pulled her satchel to her. “We don’t have to go anywhere. I have my laptop with me.”

They moved around the U-shaped banquette so they were sitting next to each other. As she put her computer on the table and turned it on, he produced a palm-size video camera, USB cord, and software disk from his jacket pockets.

Within minutes they were viewing the exhibition. Ryder fast-forwarded until Charles appeared. She pointed out Charles’s striking walk, described the changes he had made in his appearance, and identified the other people she recognized. But Charles spoke to no one, and no one spoke to Charles. And at no time did she see Charles make eye contact with anyone.

“That’s interesting,” Ryder murmured. He stopped the film and replayed it in several places. Although earlier he had been recording from a distance, he now was shooting close to the exhibit. “Look at how Charles is inching around the display case. Check out his right hand.”

She focused on the hand. Charles was holding it near his waist, cupped casually. The hand rose and fell as he moved, and his thumb twitched.

She stared. “Is he secretly photographing The Book of Spies?”

“Appears to be. But why? The addiction of a wacko bibliomaniac?”

“Or it could have something to do with the Library of Gold-but what?”

“My question, too.” He checked his watch. “It’s late. We should go. You’re staying with your friend Peggy Doty.” He frowned. “Would Charles know that?”

Her throat went dry. She grabbed her cell and dialed.

At last there was a sleepy answer. “Hello?”

“Peggy, it’s Eva again. You’ve got to get out of there. I know it sounds impossible, but I saw Charles tonight at the museum.”

Peggy’s voice was suddenly alert. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw Charles at the show. He’s as alive as you or me.”

“That’s crazy. Charles is dead, dear. Remember, you thought you saw him before. He’s dead. Come home. We’ll talk about it.”

Eva tightened her grip on the cell phone. “Charles tried to kill me. He knows I stay with you. You could be in danger. You’ve got to leave. Go to a hotel, and I’ll meet you. Even if you don’t believe me, just do this for me, Peggy.”

When they decided on the Chelsea Arms, Peggy volunteered, “I’ll make the room reservation for us.”

Suddenly exhausted, Eva agreed and ended the connection.

Ryder drained his glass. “I’ll have Tucker check into the identity of the man in Charles’s grave and give you a status report in the morning.” He related his mobile number and where he was staying.

They stood. As she slung her valise over her shoulder, he dropped his camera equipment into his jacket pockets and shoved his arms into his peacoat. Heading for the door, they skirted the drinkers at the bar and stepped out into the night. Glistening drops of rain floated in the lamplight.

“Will you be all right?” He hailed a taxi for her.

“I’ll be a lot better once we’ve found Charles.”

As a cab stopped at the curb, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Get a good night’s sleep.” Then to the taximan: “The Chelsea Arms.”

She climbed in. As the cab cruised off, she turned in her seat to watch what Ryder would do. He was walking in the opposite direction. Pulling out his electronic reader, he seemed to be studying it. Finally he lifted his head and caught a taxi for himself. Glancing at the bug reader again, he climbed inside.

Suspicion flooded her. She leaned forward. “I’ve changed my mind. Turn around. Take me to the Méridien hotel on Piccadilly.”

13

CHARLES SHERBACK knew he had made a terrible mistake. He dropped off the Citroën at the car rental agency and caught a taxi, his mind in tumult. Ovid was right: Res est ingeniosa dare. “Giving requires good sense.” And he had not simply ‘given’; he had sacrificed for Eva. In fact, he had risked a great deal for her.

As the windshield wiper slashed across the glass, he stared out unseeing at the rainy London night. She was supposed to be in prison. How could she have been at the British Museum show? And now he had failed to eliminate her.

“We’re here, guv’nor.” The taxi driver peered into his rearview mirror. He had white hair, a sagging face, and tired eyes that thankfully remained bored.

Charles paid and stepped out of the cab and into the noisy din of Piccadilly. As cars and trucks rushed past on the boulevard, he dodged pedestrians and strode into the five-star Le Méridien Hotel, hoping Preston was not early.

He peered around. The lobby was spacious, two stories high, topped by an intricate stained-glass dome. The appointments were modern and refined, and the air smelled of fresh flowers. The hotel was elegant, just the way he liked it. It was also busy with people.

At the elevator, he stepped inside and punched the button for the eighth floor. The elevator rose with maddening slowness. As soon as the doors opened he ran along the hall, jammed his electronic key into the lock, and marched into the deluxe room. The window drapes were closed against prying eyes, and a hot pot of coffee was waiting on the low table in front of two upholstered chairs. There was no sign of Preston.

“Hello, darling.” Sitting on the end of the king-size bed, Robin Miller clicked off the television. “I’m glad you’re back. Are you okay?”

A moment of happiness flowed through him. “I’m fine.” He peeled off his wet raincoat.

“Is she dead?”

Thick ash-blond hair wreathed Robin’s face and draped in thick bangs down to her green eyes. Her mouth was lush and round, and her skin glowed with a ruddy tan. She was thirty-five years old. On the director’s orders, all staff members had plastic surgery before they could go to work at the library. He had seen photographs of Robin from those days, and she was even more beautiful now.

“There were complications.” He shook his head with disgust. “Eva got away.”

She stared worriedly. “Are you going to tell the director she recognized you?”

He fell into a reading chair and poured a cup of steaming coffee. “It’s safer for me to take care of the problem myself.” He added sugar, then cream until the color turned to that of café au lait. He wished he had some good Irish whiskey to add.

“But what will you do?”

“I have to kill her.” He heard the determination in his voice. He had come this far, and he had no choice. From the moment he had accepted the job of chief librarian at the Library of Gold, his lot was cast. He remembered the sense of destiny fulfilled. He had faced reality, banished any regrets, and thrown himself into his exciting new life.

“Maybe you should ask Preston for help.”

He gave an abrupt shake of his head. “He’ll tell the director.”

They were silent, acknowledging the threat of it. He saw her hands were turning white from gripping the edge of the bed. He went to her and pulled her close. She laid her head on his shoulder. Her warmth flowed into him.

“I’m frightened,” she whispered.

Robin was a strong woman. Until now she had not admitted being afraid. Because she had not told the director instantly, she could be in as much trouble as he.

“This is all Eva’s fault,” he assured her. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if she hadn’t recognized me. I love you. Remember that. I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling.” She wrapped her arms around him. “But you’re not a killer. You don’t know how to do such things. As long as Eva’s alive, she’s dangerous to the library-and to us. You need to tell Preston so he can take care of her. If you don’t want to, I’ll do it.”

Four taps sounded on the door.

“Preston’s here.” She pulled away. “Give me a minute.”

“Hurry.”

She nodded and stood up, smoothing her hair and straightening her white cashmere sweater and brown trousers.

He crossed to the door, reaching it as another four taps began. He peered through the peephole. A distorted Doug Preston loomed in the hallway, a bulging backpack in his left hand. His right hand was hidden inside his black leather jacket, where he kept his pistol holstered. Everything about him, from his slightly bent knees to the sharp vigilance with which he was checking the corridor, seemed to radiate menace.

Charles took a deep breath and opened the door, and Preston strode into the room. Uneasily Charles watched as he scanned the interior. When he paused to peer at Robin, she nodded in greeting, her eyes wary. Charles focused on the backpack. He could postpone deciding whether to tell Preston about Eva because its contents were of immediate concern.

“You have The Book of Spies?” he demanded.

“I do.” Preston set the pack on a chair and started to unzip it.

“I’ll take over now.”

Preston stepped back.

As Robin joined them, Charles removed the foam bundle. “Move the coffee, Robin. Leave the napkins.”

She picked up the tray and carried it away. Although the table appeared clean, he used the linen napkins to wipe it. Then he set down the bundle and unpeeled layers of foam and transparent polyethylene sheeting. At last only archival polyester film remained.

He paused, feeling a visceral reaction. His throat full, he gazed at the illuminated manuscript glowing through the clear protective barrier.

“Ready?” He lowered himself into the reading chair and looked up.

Preston nodded.

“Hurry,” Robin said.

He unfastened the polyester and let it fall to the sides.

“Oh, my Lord,” Robin breathed.

“It’s a beauty, all right,” Preston agreed.

Charles stared, drinking in the sight of the fabled Book of Spies, compiled on orders of Ivan the Terrible, who had been fascinated by spies and assassins. Covered in gold, the volume was large, probably ten by twelve inches and four inches thick, decorated with fat emeralds, great rubies, and lustrous pearls-a fortune in gems. The emeralds were arranged along the edges of the cover, a rectangular frame of brilliant green. The pearls were gathered into the shape of a glowing dagger in the top two thirds, and beneath the dagger’s point lay the scarlet rubies, shaped like a large drop of blood. The jewels caught the lamplight and sparkled like fire.

Awed silence filled the room. Robin handed Charles clean white cotton gloves. Putting them on, he opened the book and slowly turned pages, savoring the style, the paint, the ink, the feel of the fine parchment between his cautious fingers. Each page was a showcase of lavish pictures, austere Cyrillic letters, and intricate borders ablaze with color. He felt a thrill at the effort involved not only in gathering the knowledge but in creating such art.

“Six years of painstaking labor went into this masterwork,” Charles told them. “Twelve months a year, seven days a week, twelve to fourteen hours a day. The crudest brushes and paints. Only sunlight and oil lamps to work by. No good heating during the brutal Moscow winters. The constant attack of mosquitoes in summer. Imagine the difficulty, the dedication.”

Robin sat on the floor and leaned an elbow on the table to be closer. Preston pulled up a chair and sat, watching the turning pages. The paintings showed secretive spies, rotund diplomats, monarchs in furs, soldiers in colorful uniforms, villains with wily faces. It was a rich compendium of stories about real and mythical assassins, spies, and missions since before biblical times.

“You’re sure it’s authentic?” Robin asked in a low, excited voice.

“The style’s correct, tending toward naturalism,” Charles told her. “The final touches are in liquid gold-not gold leaf.” Naturalism and liquid gold appeared only at the end of the Middle Ages, which matched the year the manuscript was finished in Moscow-1580. “What clinches its authenticity are the tiny letters beneath some of the colors. See? They’re almost invisible. Even the best forgers forget that telling detail.”

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.

14

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 café, 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 Méridien 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.

15

JUDD RYDER was puzzled. He walked west down the wide boulevard in front of the Méridien hotel and crossed Piccadilly Place, then Swallow Street, studying traffic. According to his electronic reader, The Book of Spies was in the middle of the boulevard, still moving, but more quickly than the vehicles. How could that be? He checked the altitude-and swore.

The bug was belowground. Sewer lines ran beneath the boulevard. Whoever had The Book of Spies had flushed the bug Tucker had planted on it.

He turned on his heel. It was possible the book was still in the hotel. As he hurried back, he took out his Secure Mobile Environment Portable Electronic Device-an SME-PED handheld computer. With it he could send classified e-mail, access classified networks, and make top-secret phone calls. Created under guidelines from the National Security Agency, it appeared ordinary, like a BlackBerry; and while either on or off secure mode, could be operated like any smart phone with Internet access.

Keeping it in secure mode, he speed-dialed Tucker Andersen’s direct line at Catapult headquarters.

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you, Judd,” Tucker said. “What have you learned?”

He crossed Piccadilly Street to where he could watch the hotel’s entrance. He settled back into the shadows. “I’ve got a shocker for you. Charles Sherback didn’t die in that car crash. He’s still very much alive.” He described what had happened in the museum, following Eva Blake from the police station, and witnessing Sherback’s attempt to run her down. “The bottom line is planting The Book of Spies worked-we got a bite. But what it means that Sherback is alive I sure as hell don’t know yet. There’s another big wrinkle-The Book of Spies has been stolen, and the thieves dumped the bug.”

Tucker’s voice rose. “You don’t know where the book is?”

“It may be in the Méridien hotel. The bug was there until a few minutes ago. Sherback was taking photos or making a video of the book in the museum, and the way things are going, it seems likely to me he and the book are together or he knows where it is. According to Blake, he’s had cosmetic surgery. As soon as I hang up, I’ll e-mail you the video I made at the Rosenwald show. I’ve keyed it on him. See if his new face is in any of our data banks. And find out who’s buried in his grave in L.A. That could lead us to whoever helped him disappear.”

“I’ll make both priorities.”

“You also need to know I had to tell Blake I’m working for you and the connection to Dad and the Library of Gold.”

There was a pause. “I understand. What do you think of her?”

“She seems as functional as you or me. She’s smart and tough.”

“She’s also beautiful and athletic. And vulnerable. Just your type. Don’t like her too much, Judd.”

Ryder said nothing. Tucker had researched him more than he realized.

When Ryder continued, his voice was brusque. “Blake is going to a hotel for the night. Whether I do anything more with her depends on what I find out next.”

“With luck you can send her home,” Tucker decided. “She did a good job, but I don’t like employing amateurs.”

Ryder wanted to see her again, but Tucker was right. It would be better for her if he did not. He had a lousy track record for keeping those he cared about alive. As he thought about it, he checked the other bug his reader was tracking-it was moving, too, but not toward Chelsea. It was headed north… toward him?

16

DRESSED IN their black trench coats, Robin and Charles took the elevator down to the hotel’s garage. From there they walked up a driveway and out into a shadowy cobblestone alley. Pulling their big roll-aboard suitcase, Robin glanced at Charles, who was looking handsome and intense. He wore the backpack in which The Book of Spies was secured, his hands gripping the pack’s straps possessively.

They emerged onto the boulevard, away from the vast hotel and its bright lights. Side by side they continued on, at last stopping where Preston had told them to wait.

“I’d hoped Preston would be here by now.” Charles stared at the traffic. “Maybe it’s taken him longer to find Peggy than he thought.”

“Are you all right?”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Oddly, I’m fine, too.” And she meant it.

A sense of inevitability had settled inside her. It was not simply that Preston had taken on the job of getting rid of Eva, or that she had high hopes Preston would not tell the director, but that some old resource-courage, perhaps, touched with foolhardiness-had risen to return her confidence. Whatever happened, she would figure out a way to handle it.

Charles focused on her. “Does Preston strike you as an abnormis sapiens crassaque Minerva?” An unorthodox sage of rough genius.

“He does. But then he’s also a helluo librorum.” A bookworm, a devourer of books. “Do you think we can trust him?”

“We don’t have a choice.”

They straightened like Roman tribunes, alert for Preston’s Renault. Horns honked. Vehicles rumbled along the boulevard. A few people strode on the sidewalk, swinging closed umbrellas under the cloudy night sky.

For a few moments the sidewalk was empty. When a taxi stopped down the block, Robin only glanced at the red-haired woman who stepped out and leaned over to pay the driver.

“Merda.” Charles tensed as the woman turned toward them.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“That’s Eva. Take care of The Book of Spies.” He slung off the backpack and laid it at her feet. He slid out his Glock.

“Are you insane? You already tried to kill her once and failed. Someone could see your gun.” As she spoke, she watched Eva stare at Charles. “She sees you.”

Charles’s face was flushed. He nodded and hid the weapon again. “I’ll follow her and call Preston. Hail a taxi and take The Book of Spies to the jet.”

As Charles finished talking, his wife turned on her heel and rushed away, toward Piccadilly Circus. He hurried after her.

AS CHARLES moved past other pedestrians, he put on his headset and called Preston, telling him about Eva.

“I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes,” the security chief said. “How did she know to be at the hotel?”

“I have no idea. Unless… but it doesn’t seem possible. Our scanner found a tracking bug on the cover of the book.”

“Jesus Christ. What did you do with the bug?”

“I flushed it. But it makes no sense that Eva would’ve planted it.”

“Don’t lose her, dammit. Keep the line open.”

He saw Eva had joined a crowd at the corner with Piccadilly Circus, waiting for the light to change. But before he could reach her, she crossed with them to the plaza and merged with the crowd there.

He craned and ran. Where was she?

17

THE NOISE and chaos of Piccadilly Circus reverberated inside Eva’s head as she sped onward, her cell phone dug into her ear, talking to Judd Ryder.

“It’s Charles. He’s following me. I’m in Piccadilly Circus, heading toward the Criterion. Are you close? He’s got a gun.”

“I’m already moving. Leave your cell on.”

Five streets flowed into the speeding roundabout encircling the busy plaza. Gaudy neon and LED lights advertising Coca-Cola, Sanyo, and McDonald’s cast the area in manic red and yellow light. She watched for a bobby. Now that Charles was near, she wanted a policeman.

“I’m passing Lillywhites,” she reported to Ryder. When she saw her reflected face in the glass of the sporting goods store, the strain on it, she looked away. Six of the tourists with whom she had crossed the street peeled off toward the Shaftesbury Fountain and statue. She went with them, peering around their shoulders. “Charles is still behind me. He’s wearing a phone headset, and he’s talking to someone on it.”

“So now we know he’s got a friend. Is there anyone with him?”

She checked. “Not that I can see. My group is climbing the steps to the fountain, and I’m going with them. I’ll move to the other side. The fountain will be good cover to block me from him.”

“I’m at the crosswalk with Piccadilly Street. Can you circle back to meet me?”

“He’ll spot me.”

“Okay. Go to the Trocadero Center. I’ll be there.”

The bronze Shaftesbury Fountain shone nickle gray in the night’s lights. A scattering of people sat on the steps. At the top, Eva rushed around to the far side and looked down on the plaza, congested and rimmed by a waist-high iron fence interrupted by the crosswalk she needed. There was no sign of Charles or a policeman. But across the teeming traffic stood the London Trocadero Center, a huge building where people thronged for food, alcohol, theater, and video games. That was where she would meet Ryder.

She joined a young couple as they sauntered down the fountain’s steps, holding hands. At the base, they headed right, and she moved straight ahead.

Suddenly something hard and sharp pressed into her left side. “That’s a gun you feel, Eva.” Charles’s voice. “You’re caught, old darling. It was logical you’d come this way. Sic eunt fata hominum.” Thus goes the destiny of man.

“Bad grammar, Charles. Homina. The feminine in my case, you bastard.” As they continued along the street, she looked down and saw his trench coat pocket bulged with his hand aiming his weapon.

In her ear, Ryder ordered, “Hide your cell. Leave it on.”

But as she slid the cell phone inside her jacket, the gun’s muzzle jammed her side again.

“No,” Charles snapped. “Give it to me.”

She froze, then looked back at him, saw the frosty expression, the hard black eyes. The anger and frustration that had been building in her burst out in a torrent. “I loved you. I thought you loved me. I want to be glad you’re alive, but you’re making it really hard. What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Keep walking, and lower your voice. Hand over the phone. Now.” A few people were glancing at them. “If you think I won’t shoot, you’re going to find yourself dead on the pavement.”

Her heart was pounding, and a cold sweat bathed her. She handed him the cell. “Don’t call me old darling again. I never liked that, you son of a bitch.”

He turned off her cell and spoke triumphantly into his headset. “I’ve got her, Preston. I’ll hold her so you can take care of her. Where do you want to pick us up?”

18

AS CHARLES walked beside her, the gun held against her side, Eva repressed a shiver. She tried to mute the outrage and hurt in her voice: “Why did you fake your death and disappear? I thought we were happy. But because of you I spent two years in prison-and now you want to kill me. After all those years together, don’t I mean anything to you?”

“You meant a lot… once,” he said impatiently. “You’ll never understand. You were always too much in the world.”

“And you weren’t enough in it. Is this about the Library of Gold?”

“Of course it’s about the library. I was invited to become the chief librarian,” he said reverently. Then he announced into his headset, “It doesn’t matter, Preston. She’s not going to tell anyone now.”

“I don’t recognize you. What have you become?”

He waved his free hand, dismissing her. “Some things are worth any cost.”

“The Library of Gold was more important than the friends and colleagues you left behind to grieve? More important than me?” She ached for the love she had lost.

“You’ve got a petty mind, Eva. Thank God a few people over the centuries were bigger. They kept the library alive, and not just physically but completely in spirit.”

She was silent, working hard to control her emotions. She needed to find out as much as she could while she looked for a way to escape.

“Where is the library?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You must be kidding.”

He shook his head. “You’ll never understand,” he said again.

Charles had always enjoyed the sound of his own voice, the brilliance of his logic, the forceful power of his personality.

“Who kept the library alive?” she asked, hoping to trigger his passion for holding forth.

His face broke into a smile. “When Ivan the Terrible lost the last war with Poland, he gave the library secretly to King Stephen Báthory as war tribute. The next ruler passed it on to Cardinal Mazarin of France, who had a famous library of his own. Eventually it went to Friedrich Wilhelm of Brandenburg, the Great Elector. Peter the Great had it, too, and so did George II of England. Later it was in the care of Napoléon Bonaparte, Thomas Jefferson, and Andrew Carnegie-all selflessly devoted to the library. That sort of commitment has never wavered through the years, and the secret of the Library of Gold’s existence has always been sacrosanct.”

Nervously aware of his gun, Eva glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see Judd Ryder-but he had been heading toward the Trocadero, a completely different direction. To make matters worse, Charles now took her around the corner and onto Haymarket Street. Was this where the man named Preston was going to meet them-and “take care of her”?

She looked back. Still no police. A man in a ragged gray raincoat buttoned up to his chin and a black watch cap pulled low over his forehead and ears was shambling along, head bent down.

Charles pushed her around onto another street. Now it would be harder for Ryder to find her. Maybe impossible.

She rallied. “So what you’re saying is you’ve finally gotten half your wish. You’re in charge of the library, but you’re still screwed, because you don’t have the other half-international acclaim for discovering it. You ached for that, but you’re never going to have it, because you can’t or won’t tell anyone where the library is.”

Charles gave a smug smile. He reached a hand up to his headset. He hesitated, then turned it off. Preston could no longer hear what he said to her.

“There’s a chance someone someday will figure out where it is,” he told her.

“You do know. Why wait?” She put sincerity into her voice. “You could be famous now. Tell me. I’ll help you.”

“To get the job, I had to agree to stay with the library until I died. All of us are lifers.”

“You mean captives. Tell me now. If we expose the library, you’ll be free.”

“No, Eva. It’s not safe. You don’t know Preston. Besides, I don’t want to leave the library.” Staying close to her, he changed the subject. “Remember the old board games we used to play? The simplest ones in all countries are based on three ancient pursuits-the hunt, the race, and the battle. Their equivalents today are fox and geese, backgammon, and chess.”

“Of course I remember. The Greeks and Romans had them, and so did the early Egyptians. Scripta and Latrunculi come to mind.”

“Very good. You haven’t forgotten everything I taught you.”

“You taught me a lot, but some of it I never wanted to learn, especially from someone I loved-like lying and betrayal. I still don’t understand why you let me go to prison.”

“Because you are Diana, the relentless huntress. I had to vanish completely. Assuming you believed I died accidentally in a car crash while you were asleep at home, you still would’ve been in our little world. If there was ever a hint about me and the library, you would’ve jumped on it. That was a threat far too dangerous.”

“You drugged me! Someone else is in your grave!”

His face torqued with outrage, as if she were the disloyal one. “I had to work like hell to convince the director not to let you burn up in the car. Sending you to prison was my idea. I saved your life.”

“And you think that makes what you did right? My God, Charles, you have the morality of a stick of wood. Stat fortuna domus virtute. Without virtue nothing can be truly successful. You may be the chief librarian-but you’re a failure.”

As Charles bristled, at his side appeared an outstretched hand, palm up and open. “Can you spare a few quid, mate?”

Eva peered around. It was the man in the ragged trench coat and watch cap. The corners of his mouth were pulled down in a permanent grimace, and he radiated self-pity. Then she caught a flicker in his gray eyes and noted his square face. Stunned, she gazed off. He was Judd Ryder.

“Get the hell away.” Charles hurried her onward.

Ryder was instantly back at Charles’s side, matching their pace. “Come on, be a good bloke. Help a feller out. See, me hand’s empty. Fill it with a nice coin, and I’ll be gone quick as a stink in the wind.”

From bad grammar to imagery, she knew it would be too much for Charles.

Furious, he turned on Ryder. “Fuck off.”

And Eva acted. Watching Charles’s hand still in his pocket but now pointed away, she took one quick step back, kicked the inside of his knee, and slammed the side of her hand in a shut -uchi strike into his neck. He grunted and staggered.

Ryder’s gun appeared in his hand. “Pony up your weapon, Sherback.” He ripped the headset off Charles’s head.

His equilibrium regained, Charles’s heavy jaw jutted with anger.

“Do it now,” Ryder snapped. “I won’t be nice and ask again.”

Fear in his eyes, Charles silently passed the pistol to him.

Eva took a deep breath. “How did you find us, Ryder?”

There was a small smile on his lips. “The ankle bracelet Tucker gave you.”

He hustled Charles down the quiet sidewalk, and she moved to Ryder’s other side, away from Charles. Pointing both guns at him, Ryder directed him around the corner to one of the silent single-block avenues in this part of London. Lined with tall buildings, it was so narrow there was no sidewalk and no place to park. No cars cruised past.

“Where are we going?” Charles demanded.

“In here.”

Ryder directed him into a dead-end alley where trash bins and cardboard boxes stood along the sides. It was deserted. The few doors were closed. The place reeked of garlic and old food. The buildings surrounding them were steep monoliths, showing only a slice of the night sky.

“Let’s call the police,” Eva said. “I want Charles arrested so I can clear my name. I want my life back.”

Ryder shook his head. “First we need to find out about the Library of Gold.”

Saying nothing, his posture ramrod straight, Charles kept walking. Ryder was still between them, holding both his and Charles’s guns.

“Charles is the head of the Library of Gold,” she tried. “From what he told me, it’s been in private hands and secret since near the end of Ivan the Terrible’s life.”

“But where is it? Who controls it?”

“He wouldn’t say. The police will question him. That’s their job. Then we can turn over all the information to Tucker.”

Ryder gave a firm shake of his head. “This is CIA business.”

“I’m going to call the bobbies.” She leaned around Ryder. “I want my cell phone, Charles.”

Charles gave a strange smile and slid a hand toward the pocket where he had put it.

“Stop,” Ryder ordered.

“Better the police than you.” Charles said, but his words and gesture were a feint. Abruptly his weight shifted, and with lightning speed he threw himself at Ryder, reaching to get back his gun.

Ryder slammed a fist into Charles’s midsection just as Charles’s hand closed on the muzzle of the weapon. As he yanked the gun, Charles’s momentum carried the pair backward. Elbows shot out from their sides, and their torsos twisted. Before Eva could move, there was a loud explosion, and the stench of cordite ballooned into the alley’s dark air.

Charles dropped to his knees.

“Oh, my God.” Eva covered her mouth with her hands. Bile rushed up her throat.

Blood bubbled on Charles’s lips as he knelt motionless on the alley floor. A pool of blood on his black trench coat turned the fabric glossy.

Charles raised his gaze to look at her. “Herodotus and Aristagoras,” he said. Then he pitched forward, landing hard, his arms straight along his sides, his cheek pressed into the pavement.

19

RYDER DROPPED to his heels beside the downed man and felt the carotid artery. No pulse. He swore. He had just lost his best chance of finding the library and answers to who was behind his father’s death.

“I’m sorry, Ryder,” Eva said. “Is he dead?”

He nodded. Getting to his feet, he peered at the doors lining the narrow alleyway and then down the length to where it opened onto the street. There was no sign the gunshots had attracted attention. He seized Sherback’s armpits and dragged him behind a row of trash bins, where they would be out of sight and the dim light was adequate for what he needed to do.

Crouching beside the slack body, he rifled through the trench coat pockets.

Eva joined him, sitting on her heels. “What are you doing?”

“Interrogating him.” He took Sherback’s phone. “It’s a disposable cell.” Then he found her cell phone.

She grabbed it.

He stared at her. “Go ahead and call the cops-if you want to end up arrested as an accessory to your husband’s murder.”

She stiffened. Her shoulders slumped. She turned off the cell and pocketed it.

Ryder checked Sherback’s jacket, discovering a billfold and a small leather-bound notebook. He continued to search.

Eva opened the billfold and stood up to get better light. “He’s got a Brit driver’s license with his picture on it. The name says Christopher Heath, but that shouldn’t matter. His body can still be identified by his DNA.”

“Maybe not right away, not if the DNA of the man who was in the car crash was identified against what was supposed to be your husband’s DNA. That’ll take the cops a long time to sort out-if they even bother to check into such a long shot. Is there anything else in there? Notes to himself?”

She crouched again. “Nothing. No credit cards or anything. Just cash.”

The last item Ryder found was in Sherback’s pants pocket-a Swiss Army Champion Plus pocketknife, loaded with miniature tools. He stood up, took off the old gray trench coat he was wearing, and put it in a trash bin. Then he shoved everything, including Sherback’s Glock, into his peacoat pockets. He would go through Sherback’s notebook when he had time.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said to Eva. “You coming?” He watched emotions play across her face. The skin was tight, and the eyes bruised. God help him, working with an amateur was tough, but he needed her. She was his last living link to Sherback and the library.

“Yes.”

As they hurried down the alley, he told her, “The Book of Spies was stolen tonight from the British Museum. My guess is your husband was in London as part of the operation. His people must’ve left a duplicate book in the museum. A duplicate would explain why he was photographing the original, and it’d buy them time. The real one was in the Méridien hotel at some point.”

“Someone named Preston must be part of it. He was supposed to pick up Charles and me and then kill me.”

“Swell. Anyone else you can think of who wants to get rid of you?”

“My popularity ends there.”

As they hurried on, the sound of their footsteps seemed to echo in the alley.

“What did Charles mean by ‘Herodotus and Aristagoras’?” he asked.

“He told me there was a chance someone could figure out where the library was. Thinking about it, my guess is he left a clue or clues to its whereabouts. So Herodotus and Aristagoras might be it. But I don’t recall anything about them together.”

He felt a thread of excitement. “Let’s look at what it might mean from another angle. Who were Herodotus and Aristagoras individually?”

“Herodotus was a Greek-a researcher and storyteller in the fifth century B.C. He’s considered the world’s first historian.”

“So he could’ve written about Aristagoras.”

She paused. “You’re right. He did. The story happened twenty-five hundred years ago, when Darius the Great was conquering most of the ancient world. When he captured a major Ionian city called Miletus, Darius gave it to a Greek named Histiaeus to rule. But as time passed, he got nervous, because Histiaeus was growing too powerful. So he ‘invited’ Histiaeus to live with him in Persia, and he gave Miletus away again-this time to Histiaeus’s son-in-law Aristagoras. Histiaeus was furious. He wanted his city back and decided to start a war in hopes Darius would crush it and reinstate him. He shaved the head of his most faithful slave and tattooed a secret message on the man’s skin. As soon as the hair grew back, he sent the slave off to Aristagoras, who had the hair shaved and read the command to revolt. The result was the Ionian War, and Herodotus wrote about it at length.”

“You said Charles used to have light brown hair. That he’d dyed it black.”

She stared at him.

They turned on their heels and raced back along the alley. They crouched beside the corpse.

He handed her his small flashlight. “Point it at his head.” She did, and he pulled out Charles’s pocketknife, opened a long blade, grabbed hair, and started sawing.

Almost immediately a police siren sang out in the distance.

“I think they’re coming this way.”

He nodded. “Someone probably reported the gunshot.” There was a mound of black hair on the oily concrete beside him. He slid small scissors out from the Swiss Army knife and quickly clipped close to Charles’s scalp.

She leaned close. “I see something.”

Letters showed in the flashlight’s stark illumination, indigo blue against pasty white skin.

“LAW,” she read. “All capital letters. There are numbers, too.”

He clipped faster.

“031308,” she said.

“What does LAW 031308 mean?” he asked.

“ ‘LAW’ indicates it could be a code for a law library. Some codes are universal, others not. I don’t recognize this one. It could be special to a particular library-like the Library of Gold. But I don’t see how it’d lead us there.”

The siren screamed from the street, approaching the alley.

He jumped up. “Try the doors on this side. I’ll take the other side.”

They ran, grabbing doorknobs. All were locked. They were trapped in a dead-end alley with a corpse. If they ran out to the street, the police would see them. Rotating red slashes of light appeared at the alley’s mouth, flicking into the darkness, bouncing off the walls.

“There’s a ladder,” he told her, nodding.

They sprinted. The beacons had illuminated a fire escape ladder down the side of a building, almost unnoticeable because its black iron blended into the black granite of the wall. It was a good ten feet above them. He leaped. Wrapping both hands around the bottom rung, he hauled himself up and did a quick inspection. There was no way to lower the ladder.

Grasping the side rail, he leaned down and extended his hand. “Jump.”

As the grille of the police car came into view, Eva ran ten feet back and then dashed toward him, propelling herself high. He grabbed her hand. Straining, he held tight to the railing and pulled. Sweat beaded his forehead as he dragged her up to the first rung.

They climbed quickly. By the time the police car rolled into the alley, they were far above, with Ryder leading the way. At the top, he crawled over a low wall. The gigantic London Eye was a silver wheel of light on the horizon. Quickly he surveyed the flat roof-utility boxes, vent hoods, and a small shed that should contain a stairwell down into the building.

Eva’s face emerged above the rooftop’s rim, looking grim. She clambered over, turned, dropped to her knees, and leaned forward, staring down. He joined her. The police car had stopped about forty feet inside the alley, almost beneath them. Flashlights in hands, two bobbies were patrolling, kicking cardboard boxes, examining trash cans.

“They’ll find Charles,” she said in a low voice. “What will they do when they see what’s written on his head?”

“God knows. But he’s got no identification, so they’re going to have a nifty time trying to figure it out.” He paused. “I have a proposition. It’s likely The Book of Spies is headed back to the Library of Gold. You know a hell of a lot more about the library and Charles, the head librarian, than we do. I’d like to stash you someplace safe in London, and then I’ll phone or e-mail when I need to consult.”

There was a steely expression on her face. “I’m not the kind of woman who gets stashed someplace. I’m going with you.”

“No way. It’s too dangerous.”

Just then there was a shout below.

They peered over the side of the building and to their right. One of the bobbies was staring down behind the garbage bins where they had left Charles’s body. His flashlight moved slowly, indicating he was taking in the full length of the corpse. The second policeman rushed to join him, his free hand pressed against the gear dangling from his belt to keep it from flopping.

As the bobbies crouched, Ryder nodded at the alley’s mouth. “We have another visitor.”

A car had stopped on the street, blocking the alley. It was a Renault. The driver got out. Dressed in jeans and an open black leather jacket, he was tall and moved gracefully as he walked toward the police.

Ryder studied him, noting the loose joints, the open hands that appeared relaxed but were far from it, the head that moved fractionally from side to side, showing he was doing a far more thorough scan of the area than most people would realize. Everything about him announced a well-trained professional in tradecraft.

Eva looked at Ryder. “Preston?”

He kept his focus on the stranger, memorizing his features. “Yeah, I think so.”

20

THE TWO bobbies turned and closed ranks, blocking the garbage bins as Preston approached. Preston said something to them, but his words were lost over the distance. After listening, the policemen relaxed a bit. One nodded and gestured.

Preston walked over and leaned low to peer at Charles Sherback’s corpse. Ryder noted a slight tensing in his shoulders.

And then it happened. In concise, swift movements, he was suddenly upright, a sound-suppressed pistol in his hand as he turned back toward the bobbies. His face showed no emotion.

Ryder yanked out his gun. Too late. Preston fired under his arm point-blank into the heart of the nearest bobby, then immediately into the heart of the second. He had shot them without completely facing them, so certain was he of their positions and his ability to kill.

Eva stiffened. Ryder put a hand on her arm.

The two policemen stood motionless, stunned into bleeding statues. When they went down, one sat cross-legged, and the other knelt on one knee. Then they toppled, the first landing on his belly, the second on his side. As blood oozed out, their limbs made jerky movements.

Preston holstered his weapon and dragged Charles’s body out from behind the bins. The scuffing noise of Charles’s heels on the pavement drifted upward. Preston hefted the body over his shoulder and loped off. Ryder noted he still showed no emotion.

“He doesn’t want anyone to see the tattoo,” Eva decided.

Ryder studied the moving killer. Charles’s body was draped over one side. Part of Preston’s torso was covered by it, but Preston’s head and legs were even more chancy targets at this distance. Soon he would pass beneath them, heading out toward the Renault. Ryder had to act quickly. The torso was his best target.

“Call 999 and describe where the alley is,” he told her. “Go over to the shed to do it. Your voice shouldn’t reach the alley from there. Don’t tell them about us.”

Without a word she grabbed Charles’s cell and ran.

Balancing himself, he aimed carefully, inhaled, exhaled, and fired twice in quick succession, targeting Preston’s right side to avoid his heart. The explosions were loud. Preston suddenly staggered.

But as Charles’s body fell to the alley floor, Preston recovered, dropped beside it, and rolled. His weapon appeared in both hands, pointing upward, looking for the shooter. The man was damn good.

Ryder aimed and fired twice again.

Preston jerked back, and then Ryder got lucky-Preston’s head thudded against the pavement. The additional blow did it. Preston froze a moment. His eyes closed. One hand released his pistol, and the other flopped to the ground.

Smiling grimly to himself, Ryder hurried to the stairwell shed.

Eva was standing near the door. “I called them. Two dead bobbies got their attention. They’re on their way. Did you kill Preston?”

“I hope not. I want him to face some intense questioning. Move away from the door.”

It was padlocked. Using the handle of his Beretta, he broke the lock and swung open the door. A dank odor blew out. Lit only by thin starlight, concrete steps descended into a black abyss. He turned on his miniature flashlight, and they walked down quickly side by side.

He kept his voice even. “Are you up to talking about Charles’s tattoo?” Although she seemed to be coping well, he had no idea how much of what had happened had affected her.

“Are you kidding? You bet I am.”

“It seems to me since Charles wanted the library to be found, he intended the tattoo to be decipherable. My guess is he told us about Aristagoras and Herodotus because he thought you’d not only figure out he’d left a tattoo but you’d understand the message. So let’s go back to the beginning. What does LAW 031308 mean?”

She said nothing. They descended two more flights. The doors were numbered, indicating they had reached the sixth floor.

Finally she decided, “I suppose LAW might have nothing to do with the law or something legal. Or the letters could be initials, an acronym. But it’s not an acronym I recognize. ‘Loyal Association of the West.’ ‘Legislative Agency for War,’ ” she free-associated. “None of that makes a darn bit of sense. The number’s too short to be a telephone number. It might not be just a string of individual numbers either, but a whole number-if one skips the zero, then it’s 31,308. Or it could have a decimal. But where does the decimal point go?”

“Okay, let’s think in terms of codes. Bar codes. Postal codes. Some kind of shipping code.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Silently they continued downward.

“Maybe it does involve the law,” he said. “Were you ever in a lawsuit?”

“That bullet I’ve dodged.”

When they arrived at the ground floor, he cracked open the heavy metal fire door and gazed out. He closed the door gently.

“We’ve got company,” he said. “There’s a guard behind a reception desk, and he looks disgustingly alert. I’m not in the mood to take any more chances. We’ll go to the basement.”

Again they descended.

He had an idea. “Maybe the code is something personal. You know, personal to you and Charles.”

At the bottom, the stairway door opened onto an empty parking garage lit by a scattering of overhead fluorescent lights. A hundred feet away a driveway rose toward the entrance. It was sealed at the end by a heavy garage door, but there was a side door next to it. They rushed toward it. It was locked, but this time there was no padlock for Ryder to knock open. Surveying around, he screwed the sound suppressor onto his Beretta.

“Step back,” he ordered.

She did, and he directed the muzzle downward so the bullet would go into the ground on the other side. He fired. Pop. Metal dust spewed.

Putting the weapon away, he turned the knob and peered out. They were on a busy street, but he did not know which one.

“Looks safe,” he told her.

They stepped outside into the stink of exhaust. There were plenty of people on the sidewalk, entering and leaving watering holes. A pub door opened, and loud techno music blared out. But above that was the screaming noise of more police sirens. Two, he guessed.

He glanced at her, saw the alarm in her face. “With luck, they’re on their way to the alley,” he told her. “They’ll find Preston, and the rounds in the policemen’s bodies will match his pistol.”

“Yes, but they could have a description of us from the call that brought the two bobbies to the alley in the first place. The caller might’ve seen us.”

He was worried about it, too. There had been enough unpredictable events tonight that he was taking nothing for granted.

As they walked, she continued: “I’ve been thinking about what you said, Judd-that the code could be personal to Charles and me.”

It was the first time she had called him by his first name. “Go on.”

“The numbers could be a date. Charles and I were married on March the thirteenth in 2000. So ‘03’ could be March, ‘13’ could mean the thirteenth day, and ‘08’ is 2008.”

“That was just a month before he disappeared. So what happened on your anniversary in 2008?”

Suddenly two police cars were racing down the street toward them. Their rotating blue and red lights lashed through the night like sabers.

He smoothed his features. “We need to slow down and blend in. Hold my arm.”

Instead, she slipped her hand inside his, and he felt a strange sensation so pleasant he forced it from his mind before it could turn to grief. They continued on through the lamplight-and the police cars rushed past.

Dropping her hand, he busied himself by taking out his palm mirror and checking it. “They’ve turned the corner.”

He felt her relax. When she spoke again, her voice was businesslike. “If I tell you what I’ve figured out, you’ve got to promise to take me with you. I’ll bet everything that’s happened tonight will only make the people with the Library of Gold want to get rid of me more. I want to see them captured. I want to be there.”

“You’re blackmailing me.”

She gave a wry smile. “It appears I’ve learned something from you.”

He found himself smiling, too. “All right, it’s a deal.” Then he stared at her sternly. “But if I do, you’ve got to do exactly what I say-when I say it. I’m serious about this, Eva.”

“You’re the pro. Whatever you say, as long as you’re reasonable.”

“No. This isn’t negotiable. Look at it this way-if you come along, you’ll be putting me in danger, too. There may not be time to ask questions or argue.”

She sighed. “All right. So this is what I think… In 2008, Charles and I celebrated our anniversary by flying to Rome. We visited an old friend of his, Yitzhak Law. He’s a professor, well-known in the field. He and Charles often talked late into the night. They had a shared passion: finding the Library of Gold. Maybe the reason Charles left the tattoo was to say Yitzhak knows where the library is.”

He inhaled deeply. “Then we go to Rome.”