The Book of Spies

44

Washington, D.C.

AS HE ate a late lunch at his desk in Catapult headquarters, Tucker Andersen studied the photo of the blond woman who might be the Robin Miller mentioned in Preston’s note.

His people had located thousands of women with the name, ranging from infants to the elderly in the United States and abroad. Narrowing for age and occupation, he had settled on this one as the most likely, thirty-five years old now. Born in Scotland, she had degrees in classical art and library science from the Sorbonne and Cambridge and had worked in rare books and manuscripts in Boston and Paris. A couple of years ago she had quit her job at the Bibliothèque. After that, there was no record of her employment in other libraries or museums. No record of a new address-she had moved out of her apartment when she quit her job. No record of death. No trace at all.

He e-mailed the information and photo to Judd and sat back, thinking.

Then he picked up his phone and called Debi Watson, Catapult’s IT chief. “Any word from NSA about those phone numbers I gave you?” She was honchoing the numbers in Charles Sherback’s disposable phone, one of which could be Robin Miller’s.

“No, suh. I’ll call if something turns up. It all depends on where the satellites are, and of course there are millions of data bits to sort through. NSA is watching for us. They know it’s important.”

“It’s crucial,” he corrected. “Contact Interpol and the Athens police and tell them we’d be obliged if they’d let us know pronto if they run across a woman named Robin Miller. We believe she may be in Athens. I’ll e-mail you the details.” He hung up.

There was a knock on his door. When he responded, Gloria Feit, general factotum and receptionist, walked in and closed it behind her.

Her small frame was rigid. “He’s back. In her office.”

“Hudson Canon, you mean?”

“You asked me to let you know. I’m letting you know he’s back.”

“You’re pissed.”

“Me? How can you tell?” Her face broke into a smile, the lines around her eyes crinkling.

“No one’s going to take Cathy’s place. But we need a new chief. Hudson is temporary.”

“Yes, well, temporary as in ‘short-timer’ suits me just fine.”

“You don’t like him?”

She fell into a chair and crossed her knees. “Actually, I do like him. I just felt like being petty.”

He chuckled. “Then why are you pissed?”

“Because you’re not telling me what’s going on. You don’t think I’ve leaked anything about the Library of Gold operation, do you?”

So that was it. “The thought never crossed my mind.” Actually it had, but he did not want her to know that. He needed to consider everyone and anyone who could have had access to the information.

“Good,” she announced. “So tell me where you are with the mission.”

“Gloria.”

She sighed and stood up. “Oh, all right. Be that way. But you know you can count on me, Tucker. I mean that. For anything.” She walked to the door and turned. “When you’re offered the job of heading Catapult-and we both know you will be-take it this time. Please. I’ve already got you broken in.”

He stared as the door closed and shook his head, smiling to himself. Then the smile vanished. He stood up and left. It was time to talk to Canon.

ADJUSTING HIS tie, Hudson Canon stared into the mirror in what had been Cathy Doyle’s office. He did not like the way he looked. His short nose, round black eyes, and heavy cheeks no longer seemed solid, real to him. There was something otherworldly there, insubstantial, although he knew damn well he was a substantial man in all ways.

He turned back into the office, glad Cathy’s photos, plants, and personal things were gone. It had been a shock when he heard the news of her death, and then an even bigger shock when he received a phone call from Reinhardt Gruen, in Berlin, telling him what he had to do-or lose his savings. He had invested all of it in the Parsifal Group at Gruen’s invitation, and it had made him far more money than he had ever thought possible.

His cell phone vibrated against his chest. Locking the door, he answered it as he walked around to sit at the desk. Cell phones, PDAs, any sort of personal wireless devices were not allowed in Langley or Catapult, but he was boss here, and no one needed to know he must keep the disposable cell with him at all times now.

“We have a problem with Judd Ryder and Eva Blake. Our man hasn’t reported in, and we suspect they’re on the loose again. Where are they?” Reinhardt asked in a friendly German accent.

“I don’t know.”

“You were supposed to stay on top of this.”

“I’m not sure I can get the information.”

“Ach, really?” The tone was less friendly. “You are an important man. You are the head of Catapult. Nothing can be kept from you.”

Canon screwed up his resolve, banishing thoughts of losing his house. He was highly leveraged and had planned to take out the next six months of payments from his Parsifal account. He had already sold his beloved Corvette and bought a used Ford. The alimony and child support to his two ex-wives were killing him.

“It’s not that,” he said. “Look, Reinhardt, this has gone far enough. Obviously it’s not an easy fix. Catapult is never going to find your precious Library of Gold anyway. The whole mission has been a disaster.”

“Remove Tucker Andersen. Run it yourself.”

“I can’t take him off it. There’s no legitimate reason to do it. I’d be in hot water if I tried, especially now that Cathy’s dead. Besides, my boss wants an experienced hand here as number two to back me up.”

Gruen swore in German. “We think if Ryder and Blake are free they are heading to Athens. We need to know exactly where in Athens. Have you heard anything about a woman named Robin Miller?”

“No,” Canon answered truthfully. “Who’s she?”

There was a cold pause. “Let us be clear. Do you really think Catherine Doyle’s car crash was an accident?”

Canon felt sweat gather in his armpits.

“We need the information,” Gruen told him. “You will get it.”

“There’s no real need for it,” Canon tried. “I can close the operation down in just a few more hours anyway. I have the boss’s permission.”

“As you know it is far more than a few hours until you can do that, and too much can happen.” There was a pause. “You must make Tucker Andersen leave the premises of Catapult. Phone me immediately when he does. Do you understand what will happen to you if you do not?”

TUCKER KNOCKED on Hudson Canon’s door. Surprised, he heard the lock click open. Why had Hudson locked it? But then, Hudson had once been a highly successful undercover op, and habits of secrecy were hard to break.

The door opened, and the new chief gave him a short smile in greeting. “Come in, Tucker. I was thinking about checking in with you, too.”

Tucker entered as Hudson headed for the desk.

“Give me an update on how things are going.” Hudson sat and leaned back in the chair, clasping his hands comfortably behind his head.

“There’s not much new.” Tucker took a chair and recounted the few changes in the various missions. Canon wanted more frequent reports than Cathy had. That was fine-each manager had his own style.

“And the Library of Gold operation?” Canon asked.

“Glad you brought it up. I was wondering whether you happened to mention to anyone that my people were going to the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul.”

The answer was immediate. “Of course not.” The expression unchanged.

“They still haven’t located the library,” Tucker continued, “and the last time we talked, they were on their way out of Istanbul. Preston-he’s the janitor who’s been dogging them-was left behind alive but tied up in the Grand Bazaar. It’ll be a while before he gets free.”

“Where are they going now?”

This was the moment Tucker had expected, and it made him sick. After doing a thorough search through his memory, he knew he had written no one, phoned no one, e-mailed no one, made no notes to himself, and told only one person the critical details that Ryder and Blake had gone not only to Istanbul, but to the Grand Bazaar, to find Okan Biçer, and through him Andrew Yakimovich.

And so he lied: “To Thessalonika.” It was a large city north of Athens, within logical distance for Robin Miller to reach-if she were in Athens. Continuing the lie, he said, “A woman named Robin Miller got in touch with them. In exchange for helping her, she’ll meet them there and tell them where the library is.”

“That will solve a lot of problems-if they can pull it off.” Canon took a deep breath and stretched. “Thessalonika seems strange, though. Athens would be more likely, don’t you think?”

Why did he mention Athens? A sour taste rose in Tucker’s throat. “No, I don’t agree. This whole operation has been unpredictable. Thessalonika is large and historical. It makes sense to me.”

“Who is Robin Miller?”

“She has something to do with the library. I don’t have the details yet.”

Canon nodded. “Then it’s all good news. Your people have another decent lead. How are they getting to Thessalonika?”

“Judd didn’t have time to tell me.”

“I see. Well, then, you still may pull the proverbial rabbit out of the hat and find the library.” Canon studied him, concern on his face. “Do you have any idea how lousy you look? You’re pale. Your clothes are a mess. With all of the action in Europe, there’s no need to be concerned someone is still after you here. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Get out and breathe some fresh air. Take a walk. Use my car if you’d rather drive than walk. If you don’t want to go home, at least go shopping and buy some new clothes. This is a direct order, Tucker-get the hell out of Catapult.”

45

TUCKER ANDERSEN stalked around his office, mulling whether to phone his old friend Matt Kelley, the head of the Clandestine Service. But he had only one piece of evidence that Hudson Canon was the leak. It was possible Judd and Eva had been tracked to the Grand Bazaar through another means. One did not report one’s colleagues unless one was damn sure.

He stopped in front of his wall of books. It was not nearly as impressive as Jonathan Ryder’s huge library, but he had carefully chosen each one. As his gaze ran over the titles, mostly politics and intelligence and spy thriller fiction, he remembered the journeys he had taken in them, learning and entertaining himself with others’ lives, ideas, and knowledge. He thought about what Philip K. Dick had written: “Sometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane.”

Shaking his head, he poured himself a whiskey. He probably should get out of here. A walk around the block might clear his head. But then, Hudson Canon had been the one who suggested it, which made him want to stay put. Looking out the window, he gulped whiskey and saw that night had fallen. Dammit, he was tired of the cold in-transit room upstairs in which he had been bedding down.

Making a decision, he grabbed his sports jacket and slammed his arms into the sleeves. He went into the communications center. Debi Watson was still there.

She was looking disgustingly alert and young.

“Do you have anything new for me?” he asked.

“No, suh.”

“Phone your NSA person,” he told her. “Give him my mobile number. I want him to call me directly if either of those numbers for the disposable phones turns up. If you get any word about Robin Miller, call me on my mobile.” He wheeled around and left, her voice agreeing behind him.

He stopped at Gloria’s desk. “Hand over my mobile. I’m going out.”

She peered at him from above her rainbow-rimmed reading glasses. “It’s about time. You look like a caged animal.”

“Thanks. That cheers me up considerably.”

“I aim to please.” She handed him the secure mobile.

He had an idea, one he did not like. “Is Hudson still here?”

“You betcha. The man’s working away as if he’s the head of Catapult.”

“Are you supposed to let him know if I leave?”

She blinked. “Yes, he’s worried about you, too.”

“Don’t tell him.”

“Why, Tucker?”

“Just damn well do as I say.”

Her brows rose. “We’re not married-yet. Karen will be jealous.”

He sighed. She was right; he was in a huff. “Sorry. Don’t tell the boss, please.”

“Okay,” she said cheerfully.

But as Tucker turned away, he saw a motion-Canon’s door must have just opened, because it was closing now. Tucker went back to his office and found his Browning and holster in his locked desk drawer. Taking off his jacket, he put on the holster and slid the Browning inside. Hesitating, at last he took out the wad of cash he kept in the drawer, the two billfolds that contained cover identities, and other supplies.

Again he headed out.

“You haven’t left yet?” Gloria said as he passed her desk.

“I forgot my lollipops.”

“Silly me. I should’ve reminded you. If anyone asks, when shall I tell them you’ll be back?”

“Oh, a half hour. Maybe never.” He paused. “I didn’t say that.”

Her brows rose again, but she simply nodded.

He left through the side door into Catapult’s parking lot. The April night was cool, not a breeze stirring as he forced himself to slow to a normal pace. He passed staff cars and went out to the sidewalk. It was a balmy spring evening. He inhaled the scent of the freshly cut grass on the adjoining property.

Turning down the street, he noted who else was on the sidewalk and kept his head turned slightly so he could watch approaching cars with his peripheral vision. People were walking home from the Metro after work and school, tired, carrying groceries and briefcases and pushing children in strollers. The street was filled with traffic, many vehicles slowing to look for parking spots. In this neighborhood of mostly row houses, there were few garages or carports.

The trained mind was like a computer, and Tucker’s was automatically sorting through the array of humanity. At last he settled on a man in a loose gray jacket zipped up halfway, dark jeans, and black tennis shoes, about forty feet behind. In the light of street lamps, he seemed innocuous enough, but there was something about the way he moved, loose, rolling easily off the balls of his feet, alert. He had a destination in mind that had nothing to do with the relaxation of home.

Tucker turned the corner, then another. The man was staying with him, threading among the other pedestrians behind, always keeping several between them. Tucker rounded one more block and headed west onto Massachusetts Avenue. The man was still with him, but closer, probably waiting for the right moment. A weapon could easily be hidden beneath his gray jacket.

Tucker pushed into Capitol Hill market, a favorite in the area, small, crammed, and busy at this hour. Going to the back of the store, he stopped at the cooler to eye the selection of sodas but really to check back around the end cap to where he could sight down the aisle to the front door.

The man walked in, nodding to the kid behind the checkout stand, peering casually around as he continued on toward the butcher. The store was doing some construction. Tucker spotted two-by-four boards leaning at the rear of the back hallway. Cocking his head just enough to make certain the man had spotted him, he strolled into the dim corridor. Before he turned the corner, he glanced back. The man was coming, his expression pleasant.

Grabbing one of the boards, Tucker rushed out through the revolving glass door and into the cool night air. Tall trees cast dark shadows over the small parking lot. Instantly he pressed back against the store’s wall, holding the two-by-four. The door slowed its revolutions. As it picked up speed again, he jammed the two-by-four between the moving panes. And slid out his Browning.

As the pane slammed against the board, he stepped out, aiming as he looked inside.

Trapped, with no way to get to the wood, the man was pushing the door, trying to get back into the store. His shoulders were bunched with effort, but the door would not move-it spun only counterclockwise. The man whirled around, his face furious. He was in his late twenties, Tucker guessed. He had beard stubble, short brown hair, an average face. A forgettable face, except for the dimples in his cheeks. When he saw Tucker’s weapon through the glass, his hand immediately reached to go inside his jacket.

Tucker gave a shake to his head. “Don’t.”

The hand moved an inch more.

“We both know you were planning to wipe me,” Tucker told him. “My solution is to shoot you first. I’ll start with your gut and pinpoint each of your organs.” A gut wound was the most painful, and often fatal when organs were involved.

The man’s eyes narrowed, but he stopped moving.

“Good,” Tucker said. “Take out your gun. Slowly. Put it beside your feet. Don’t drop it. We don’t want the damn thing to go off.”

In slow motion the man removed his weapon and set it down on the floor.

“I’m going to take out the board now. Then you come outside. We’ll have a nice chat.” Keeping his gun trained on him, Tucker crouched and slid out the wood. The revolving door moved, and he grabbed the man’s gun. As soon as the man was outside, Tucker told him, “Over there.”

They walked into the black shadow of a tree.

“Give me your billfold,” Tucker ordered.

“I’m not carrying one.”

He was unsurprised. When a trained janitor went out on a job, he went clean. “Who are you?”

“You don’t care about that really, do you, old man?”

“Let’s see your pocket litter,” Tucker told him. “Carefully.”

The man pulled car keys from his jeans.

“Drop them.”

He let them fall through his fingers, then extracted the linings of his jeans pockets to show there was nothing more inside. He did the same with his outside jacket pockets. Using only two fingers on each hand, he opened his jacket, showing the lining had no pockets. He was wearing a pocketless polo shirt.

“Where’s your money?” Tucker demanded.

“In my car. Parked back where I picked you up.”

In other words, parked near Catapult. Tucker considered. “Who hired you?”

“Look, this was just a job. Nothing personal.”

“It’s personal to me. Who the fuck hired you.”

The dead tone got to the man. His pupils dilated.

“Sonny, I know how to kill without leaving a mark,” Tucker told him grimly. “It’s been a while. Tonight seems like a good time to take up the sport again. Would you like a demonstration?”

The would-be assassin uneasily shifted his weight. “Preston. He said his name was Preston. He wired money into an account I have.”

Tucker nodded. “When did you get the call from him?”

“Today. Late afternoon.”

With a sudden move, Tucker took a step and slammed his Browning against the killer’s temple. He staggered, and Tucker hit him again. The man dropped to his knees on the pavement, then sat back and keeled over, unconscious.

Tucker dumped the ammo out of the man’s weapon and pocketed it-9-mm. It might come in handy later. He pulled out plastic handcuffs and bound the man’s hands behind him and his ankles together. He rolled him against the trunk of the tree where the shadows were deepest.

Activating his mobile, Tucker punched in Gloria’s number. As soon as she answered, he said, “Don’t say my name. Put me on hold and go into my office and close the door. Then pick up again.”

There was a surprised pause. “Sure, Ted. I have time for a quick private chat.” Ted was her husband.

When she came back on the line, Tucker told her, “I’m outside the rear of Capitol Hill market. I’m leaving a janitor here who tried to wipe me. He’s handcuffed, and I’ve got his ammo. Come and get him.”

“What! Oh, hell, what have you been up to now?”

“Hudson Cannon is dirty.”

“Is the janitor why Hudson wanted you to leave?”

“Yes.”

She swore. “I knew something was wrong. What do you want me to do with the guy when I get there?”

“He should still be unconscious. He’s tied up. Drag him into your car and then park him in the basement at Catapult. I don’t want Canon to know about any of this, for obvious reasons. Don’t tell Matt Kelley, either. There may be another mole inside Langley, and it could leak back to the Library of Gold people. This is a lockdown on security, got it?”

“Got it.”

“The kid parked his car somewhere near Catapult. I’ll put his keys on the ledge above the back door of the store. Locate the car and toss it. Phone me if you find anything.”

“I take it you’re not coming back.”

“Not until the Library of Gold operation is over. The story is I’m taking a short, well-deserved vacation.”

46

Rome, Italy

THE EFFICIENCY flat was in a forgotten corner of Rome, tucked away on one of the little streets on Janiculum Hill just south of St. Peter’s Basilica. The husky blast of a boat horn sounded from the Tiber River as Yitzhak Law paced to the flat’s open window. Running both hands over his bald head, he stared out at the unfamiliar terrain.

“You are distressed, amore mio.” Roberto Cavaletti’s voice sounded behind him.

Yitzhak turned. Roberto was studying him from the table beside the sink, their only table. The flat was one room, so small that opening the oven door blocked entry to the tiny bathroom. It reminded Yitzhak of his student days at the University of Chicago, and that was the only charm to it. That, and it was safe. Bash Badawi had brought them here yesterday, after a doctor had treated Roberto’s shoulder wound.

“I have a class to teach this evening,” Yitzhak said. “A meeting later tonight. When I don’t show up, they’ll worry.” It was not an issue yesterday, when he had no other classes or meetings. He was a professor in the Dipartimento di Studi Storico-Religiosi at the Università di Roma-Sapienza, and he took his responsibilities seriously.

Roberto massaged his close-cropped brown beard, thinking. “Perhaps it is worse than that. They will phone the house, leave a message, and when no one returns the call, they will go looking for you.”

“I thought of that, too. There’ll be an uproar. But it’s the students who concern me most-no one will be there to teach them.”

“You wish to tell the department? We have the cell phone Bash gave us. He said we must not leave, and no one could know where we are. A cell call is not leaving. And you do not have to say any details.” Roberto held up the cell.

“Yes, of course. You’re right.”

Feeling relieved, Yitzhak marched over and took the device. Calling out, he settled into the chair across from Roberto. He had changed the dressing on Roberto’s wound earlier. Thankfully it was healing nicely, and Roberto had had a good night’s sleep.

Gina, the department secretary, answered. She recognized his voice immediately. “Come sta, professore?”

Speaking Italian, he explained he had to leave in an hour for emergency business. “I’ll need a substitute for my lecture, Gina. And please alert Professor Ocie Stafford that I can’t attend his meeting, with apologies.”

“I will. But what am I to do with your package?”

“Package?… I don’t understand.”

“It looks and feels like a book, but of course I cannot be certain. It is in a padded envelope. This morning a priest from Monsignor Jerry McGahagin at the Vatican Library delivered it. He said it was most important. The monsignor wants your advice.” Monsignor McGahagin was the director of not only one of the oldest libraries in the world, but one that contained a priceless collection of historical texts, many of them never seen by outsiders.

He thought quickly. “Send someone over with it to Trattoria Sor’eva on Piazza della Rovere. As it happens, I’m near there now.” Bash had pointed out the place as a good restaurant serving excellent handmade pasta.

“Yes, I will do that. A half hour, no more.”

Yitzhak ended the connection and relayed the conversation.

Roberto shook his head. “You are bad. We are supposed to stay here.”

“You stay. That puts half of us in compliance.”

Roberto gave an expressive Roman shrug. “What am I to do with you. You are always the dog looking for one more good bone.”

“I’ll be back soon.” Yitzhak patted his hand and left.

Dusk was spreading across the city, the shadows long. Yitzhak had steeled himself not to think about Eva and Judd, but as he walked, passing apartment buildings and shops, he felt strangely vulnerable, which made him worry about them. Not until he heard from Bash that their dangerous situation was settled and they were safe would he feel right.

Twenty minutes later he reached the piazza and stopped across the street from the trattoria. All seemed normal, but then, tumult was normal to Rome-the streets a cyclone of traffic, bustling with shoppers, locals, businesspeople, cars parked two and three abreast. The windows of the trattoria showed customers inside eating and drinking.

Then he saw Leoni Vincenza, one of his advanced students, hurrying toward the restaurant, a padded envelope under his arm. It was bright yellow, a strange color for the Vatican. Perhaps the monsignore was using up donated stock.

Yitzhak pushed himself to rush, and he crossed at the intersection. “Leoni! Leoni!”

The youth looked up, his long black hair blowing around his face. “Professore, you have been waiting for me?”

Yitzhak said nothing and slowed, catching his breath. When Leoni reached him, he said, “Good to see you, boy. Is that my package?”

“Yes, sir.” He handed it to him.

“Grazie. My car is around the block. I’ll see you back at the university in a few days.”

Leoni nodded. “Ciao.” He returned the way he had come.

Yitzhak went in the other direction, feeling smart he had thought to misdirect the student. As he climbed Janiculum Hill, he stopped. His heart was thundering. He had been meaning to lose weight for years. Now it was evident he had better hurry on that promise.

He resumed walking, slowly this time, and finally reached the apartment building. He opened the front door and gazed up at the long staircase. He had to mount two flights, and the second was as long as the first. He hefted the package-it felt heavy, the weight of a book. He would rest a moment, and he was curious.

Ripping off the staples, he pulled out the volume. And stared, surprised. It was a thick collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, so battered it looked as if it had come from a used-book store. Definitely not a first edition. Why would the monsignore send this? He checked for a note but found none.

Shaking his head, he stuffed it back inside the envelope and climbed. Behind him he heard the front door open and close. When he reached his floor, he could hear footsteps on the stairs, hurrying upward. For some reason he found himself rushing down the corridor. As he slid the key inside the lock, he glanced back and froze.

Two men were running toward him, aiming guns.

“Who are you?” Yitzhak demanded, although even to him his voice sounded weak. “What do you want?”

There was no answer. One man was large, burly, and ferocious looking, the other small and wiry, with a mean face. The shorter man grabbed the key from Yitzhak’s hand, unlocked the door, and the big man shoved him inside. The door closed behind them with an ominous click.

47

Athens, Greece

THE CARNIVORE’S friend flew Eva and Judd into Athens International, and from there they took the suburban railway Proastiakos northwest through the night, transferring to Metro line three, which would take them into the city. They had been watching carefully for anyone too interested in them. The Metro car was crowded, people sleeping or talking quietly. Eva was eager to check into a hotel so they would be alone and she could rewind the leather strip around the scytale and translate the rest of Charles’s message.

She peered out the windows as the Metro sped past houses and apartment blocks built in modern Greece’s ubiquitous cement-box architecture. Ancient ruins occasionally showed, alight in the night. The juxtaposition of new and old was somehow reassuring, the past meeting today and making the future seem possible. She clung to her hopes for a future as she sat beside Judd, very aware of him. There was a lot about him she liked-but also something she feared.

She looked down at his hands resting on his thighs, remembering Michelangelo’s statue of David, his great masterpiece, in Florence. Michelangelo had said when he cut into the marble it had revealed the hands of a killer. Judd’s hands looked like David’s, oversize and strong, with prominent veins. But when he had sculpted David’s face, Michelangelo had uncovered a subtle sweetness and innocence. She glanced at Judd’s weathered face, square and rugged beneath his bleached hair, the arched nose, the good jaw. There was no sweetness or innocence there, only determination.

“How old are you, Judd?” she asked.

His body appeared relaxed, despite his constant watchfulness. There was no way to be certain how long it would take Preston to figure out the Carnivore had not eliminated them. Preston might be chasing them now.

“Thirty-two,” he said. “Why?”

“So am I. I’ll bet you knew that already.”

“It was in the dossier Tucker gave me. Is my age important?”

“No. But I thought you might be older. You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

He stared at her. “Why do you say that?”

“In prison there were women who had a sense about them of… it’s hard to describe. I guess I’d call it a challenging past. You’re something like that.”

What she did not mention was the women came from violent backgrounds, many sentenced on murder or manslaughter charges. They seemed to ache to fight, although, win or lose, the consequences for them would be serious. But she had never seen Judd start a fight or even look for one. Then with a chill she recalled his saying he wanted no more blood on his hands.

“I was undercover in Iraq and later in Pakistan,” he explained. “Military intelligence. Of course both were ‘challenging.’ But there were good things, too. In Iraq, I was able to help rebuild several schools. The Iraqis were coming back from the brink, and education was high on their list. Dad put together shipments of books for their libraries.”

“That doesn’t sound like military intelligence.”

“I had some downtime. That’s what I did with it, particularly at the end.”

She heard something else in his voice. “And before then?”

Smiling, he said, “Do all eggheads ask so many questions?”

“I’m an egghead?”

“A Ph.D. qualifies you.”

She scanned the other passengers. “Think what you know about me, including my shady past. I know almost nothing about you.”

He chuckled. “At least I’m sure you’re not a perpetrator of vehicular manslaughter.” He stared at her expression. “Sorry. That was stupid of me.” He faced straight ahead again.

Eva said nothing, sitting quietly.

At last he continued: “I uncovered some intel on an ‘al-Qaeda in Iraq’ operative and finally was able to catch him and take him in for questioning. God knows how he managed to get rope, but he did. He hung himself in his cell. His brother was also al-Qaeda, and when he heard about it, he came after me. It went on for weeks. He was ruining my ability to do the rest of my job, and I wasn’t able to track him down. Then there was a shift. It seemed as if he’d lost interest. I couldn’t figure it out-until a message was passed to me he was going to punish me by liquidating my fiancée.”

His fingers drained color as he knotted his hands. “She was MI, too. A damn good analyst. I got the intel just as she reached her usual security check. A Muslim woman stumbled and fell beside the checkpoint, and her suitcase slid under my fiancée’s Jeep. It looked like an accident, but the guards were instantly on it. The woman managed to shake free and run for it just as the suitcase exploded. It was an IED, of course. ‘She’ was wearing a burka, but one of the soldiers saw legs in jeans, and big feet in men’s combat boots.” He took a deep breath. “Four people were killed, including my fiancée. Later I got another message. In English it said, ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ The New Testament, of course. Apostle Paul. The son of a bitch was an Islamic jihadist quoting the Bible to me to justify murdering her.”

“You haven’t told me her name,” she said gently.

He cleared his throat. “Amanda. Amanda Waterman.”

“I’m so sorry. How horrible. You felt responsible for her death.”

“She’d still be alive. Her job wasn’t that dangerous.”

“I’ll bet you wanted to kill him for what he did.”

His body tensed. “I could never find him.”

“Do you still want to kill him?”

He looked at her sharply. “Would you blame me?”

“When I believed there was a chance I’d been driving and had killed Charles, it took me a long time to come to terms with it.” She paused. “No one went to Iraq without knowing the risks. Both of you were very lucky to find love.” She heard the sadness in her voice and wiped it away. “A lot of people never have that.”

He nodded, his expression granite.

Still, she wondered whether that was the only story behind the chilling looks she had seen on his face. One of his hands moved toward hers, to hold it. She remembered how he had pulled her to him after she had almost pitched off the yacht, how he had wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, how he had kissed her hair… the wonderful sound of his pounding heart. His musky, wet smell. He had saved her at the risk of his own life. In that moment she had wanted nothing more than to burrow in and forget the hard times. Pretend his protectiveness was the beginning of love. But the truth was she did not know what she really thought of him, much less what she felt, or whether someone with deep heartache and a violent past could ever be stable enough for enduring love. Could she, even?

She gave his hand a quick squeeze and released him. “Your mobile is chirping.”

Judd took it from his pocket. “An e-mail from Tucker. Some good news-he thinks he may have found Robin Miller.” He handed the device to her. “What do you think?”

She analyzed the photo of the woman displayed on the mobile’s screen-green eyes and thick ash-blond hair, but no bangs. The mouth was lush and round. Included were the woman’s age, height, and weight.

“The statistics match Robin Miller,” she told him. “But if I didn’t know better, I’d still say it’s not her. On the other hand, Charles had plastic surgery when he joined the library, so she might’ve, too. If she did, then her nose could’ve been shortened and turned up at the end, and an implant inserted in her chin. The eyes, hair color, and the rest of the face are the same.”

“With plastic surgery they’d be identical?”

“Absolutely.” She was still thinking about his fiancée’s death. “It’s interesting about the al-Qaeda jihadist and his last message to you. A version is in the Old Testament, too. Job said, ‘They that plow iniquity and sow wickedness reap the same.’ Then, thousands of years later, Cicero wrote, ‘As you have sown, so shall you reap.’ Anyway, what strikes me is it’s also in the Koran, which came some seven centuries later, after Cicero: ‘Have you considered what you have sown?’ The jihadist must’ve been at least somewhat educated. Otherwise he would’ve fallen back on what he knew-the Koran.”

“I thought about that, too. But I’m not going there, and God knows where he is or whether he’s even alive. Besides, you and I have a much more urgent problem-how to find Robin Miller and the Library of Gold.”

And survive, she thought.

48

EVA AND Judd disembarked at Platia Syntagma-Constitution Square-the center of modern Athens. A grand expanse of white marble, the plaza stretched below the parliament building, glowing serenely in lamplight. At the edges were elegant cafés sporting outdoor tables, where people were eating, drinking, gossiping.

As they walked toward the taxi stand, Eva mulled whether she could stay with the mission. As she glanced around, the Athens traffic seemed unusually thick, the shadows too dark and dangerous. She was troubled, her mind in turmoil.

They stopped as the ruins of the Parthenon temple came into view, towering majestically above the high Acropolis. The glowing white columns and pediments could be seen from all over the city, from between buildings and at the crosswalks of streets.

“The Parthenon is really something,” Judd decided. “And before you ask-no, I’ve never been to Athens. This is my first time.”

She forced a smile.

They took a taxi into the Exarchia district near the Athens Polytechnic, a quirkily bohemian neighborhood she had visited before meeting Charles. At the bottom of Stournari Street they got out and climbed into the Platia Exarchia, the nerve center of the area, where Athenians satisfied their love of political debate, and intellectuals came to spout their latest theories. Serious nightlife started in Athens after midnight. Through windows she could see the bars were bustling.

“Let’s get some food,” Judd said.

They went into a taverna named Pan’s Revenge. A musician strummed a mandolin-like bouzouki and sang a Greek sea song of yearning for a faroff love. Stopping at the bar, Eva translated as Judd chose a bottle of Katogi Averoff estate red, 1999, 90 percent cabernet, 10 percent merlot. She ordered the house speciality-moussaka and zucchini stuffed with wild rice-to go.

Purchases in hand, they walked around the corner. She felt Judd’s tension as he continued to watch for tails, and her own tension as she tried to decide what to do.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” he said.

“I know. Just thinking.”

Soon she saw the small hotel she remembered-pink stone with white stone moldings and enameled white shutters-where she had stayed years before.

“Hotel Hecate,” Judd read. “A Greek god or goddess?”

“The goddess of magic.”

“Maybe it’s a good omen.” He stared at her a moment, seeming to try to read her mind. “Are you going to be all right?”

Quite a few people were entering and leaving the various establishments. The door to a bar opened, and waves of laughter rolled out. She saw no sign of threat.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just hang out while you register.”

“Don’t run out on me.”

Her brows rose in surprise. Had he guessed she had been considering it? Before she could respond, he hurried into the hotel.

Walking along the block, she studied the other pedestrians as she tried to sort through her thoughts. She had made a lot of mistakes, and now she feared staying with the operation was another. What kind of man was Judd really, to do such violent work? Could he turn off the violence? Would he ever use it against her?

At the corner she paced back toward the hotel. She felt responsible for putting Yitzhak and Roberto in danger and for being the cause of Peggy’s murder. But once she had discovered Charles was alive and had left a message for her, she had blindly followed the trail to know more about what he might actually have felt for her. As she was thinking about that, an old man and woman passed, holding hands, talking to each other as if no one else in the world mattered. She felt a stab of heartache.

Judd appeared in the driveway beside the hotel. He scrutinized the area, then gave a casual nod.

“Everything okay?” he asked when she joined him.

Her gaze went to a black shadow that ran along the drive, suddenly aware that in the dark it was hard to tell the difference between a dog and a wolf. She sighed. “Thanks for everything, Judd. I’ll translate Charles’s message for you tonight, but then I’m going to fly out tomorrow for home.”

He did not try to change her mind. “I’m glad you’ve hung in as long as you have. You’ve been a great help, Eva.”

They went in the hotel’s rear entrance and climbed the stairs. The room was larger than the one in Istanbul and again had two beds. This time it overlooked the next-door hotel and the driveway far below. In the distance, the Parthenon shone.

As Judd bolted the door, she set their meal on a table beside the radiator and shrugged off her shoulder satchel to get the scytale and leather ribbon.

Watching expectantly, he dropped the duffel bag onto the bed nearest the door and removed his Beretta and the S &W 9-mm pistol and suppressor he had picked up from Preston.

She unlatched the snap that closed the side pocket of the satchel and reached inside. Instantly her hand felt an awful wetness. She pulled out the scytale and strip.

“Oh, no,” she breathed. “No.”

“What?”

“The ink’s run.” She held up the long piece of leather, soggy, the letters bleeding into one another. “It must’ve happened in the yacht, when we got drenched.”

“Is the message readable?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She grabbed a box of tissues from the bureau and sat on the other bed, holding the strip beneath the bright light of the lamp. As she dried it, he sat across from her, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, watching tensely.

“The letters are a blur,” she reported. “I may be able to get something, though.”

Remembering how Andy Yakimovich had done it, she carefully wrapped the strip around the scytale, pressing and pushing it gently into place, watching to make certain the blurred letters fit in lines. She worked a long time in the silent room. Finally she grasped the scytale’s ends, holding the leather in place with her thumbs.

“A few words make sense,” she said. “I can partly read where it says the secret is hidden in Spies, but I can’t read the following sentence.” She caught her breath at the next words, the signature at the end: “Te amo, Eva, 3-8-08.”

“What is it?” Judd leaned forward.

She translated: “ ‘I love you, Eva.’ ”

He saw where she was looking. “It’s dated the month before Charles disappeared. That answers one of your questions. A critical one, I imagine.”

She hesitated as she felt an onslaught of emotions. “I always thought of Charles as my strength, my anchor. When I’d have doubts or get sidetracked, he’d bring me back to center. Now I think that’s what he believed to be love. But the truth is it wasn’t concern or interest in me. He just couldn’t stand that I wasn’t as focused, as compulsive as he was.” She looked at him. “We still don’t know where the library’s location is written in The Book of Spies.”

There was a long silence of deep disappointment.

Judd sat up straight. “I’ll just have to find it in Spies myself.”

But the book was enormous. Trying to uncover the message without a clue or expert help could be impossible. And there was an even larger problem-he did not even know where the book was.

“Don’t worry, Eva. You should still go home tomorrow.” His gaze was steady. “I really meant it when I said you’d done a good job. In fact, you were invaluable. Without you I likely wouldn’t have been successful in Rome or Istanbul.”

His mobile rang, and he snatched it up.

She checked her watch. It was past four A.M.

“Yes, Tucker.” His jaw clenched as he listened. He told Tucker about the Carnivore’s attempt to wipe them and his change of mind, then about their discovery the leather strip was damaged. “We’re at the Hotel Hecate. I understand. Be careful.”

Eva watched as he punched the Off button.

When he turned to her, his expression was grim. “Cathy Doyle-that’s Tucker’s boss-has died in a car accident, and the man who took her place appears to be the leak. Another hired gun just tried to erase Tucker.”

“Oh, God. How’s Tucker?”

“Angry. Worried. The usual. In other words, he’s fine. He’s at the Baltimore airport. He’s flying here to help.”

“He didn’t have any new information about Spies or the Library of Gold?”

“No, but he’s given NSA my mobile number, so if one of the numbers on Charles’s cell is activated, both he and I will get the news. There’s more. Preston hired the guy to take out Tucker after we left him hogtied in the Grand Bazaar.”

“So Preston is back in action, just as the Carnivore said he’d be. Did Tucker know anything about the Carnivore?”

“He said the Carnivore was one of the underworld’s dirty secrets. Too useful to too many sides to kill, and anyway too elusive to find. Apparently back in the cold war, Langley occasionally did business with him. Tucker said he’d heard the Carnivore had ironclad rules, but he’d never had any reason to hunt him.”

“Doesn’t it seem to you Cathy Doyle’s death was more than an accident?”

“Yes. The assholes.”

She watched as he slapped his thighs, stood up, and paced the room.

“Why don’t you ask me to stay?” she said. “You can use my expertise.”

He turned, his muscular face severe. “People either love this work, or they put up with it because they have a sense of mission, of commitment to something larger, something for the common good. In religion it’s called faith. In a nation it’s patriotism. The risk of death is worth it to them. I can’t ask you to stay. You could die.”

“Do you love the work?”

“Never have. As soon as this is over, I really am going back to being a civilian. I figure I’ve contributed enough. It’s someone else’s turn.”

“Will you be able to live peacefully?”

“If you’re asking whether I have flashbacks or I’m a prime candidate to take a sniper rifle up into some tower and wipe anyone who’s in sight, the answer is no. Most of us aren’t affected that way. We don’t even get into fistfights in bars. We’re just normal people who’ve been doing a tough job and have some bad memories.”

Relief washed over her. With sudden clarity she realized she had been dwelling on her own personal fears. “Charles and the book club conspired in something that should’ve been good but turned it into evil and a loss to civilization so large it’s incalculable. The Library of Gold belongs to the world. I have the knowledge to help you find it and the awful people behind it. With luck it’ll be soon enough to stop from happening whatever your father was so worried about.” She took a deep breath. “I want to make my own commitment. Make the mission mine, too, and try to be braver than I ever was able during the years with Charles and in the penitentiary. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll see this through.”

He sat on his bed, facing her. “You’re sure?” He studied her, his gray eyes grave.

“Absolutely.” And she meant it.

“Then I’m glad. I have a feeling you’ve always been brave. But do me a favor-don’t like the work too much.”

“Fat chance.” Setting aside the scytale, she turned to him, sitting cross-legged. She had an idea. “We’ve got to find another way to go about this. I’ll start with Charles’s tattoo. It had to have sent shudders through the book club. Even a hint someone might reveal the library’s location would be a threat to them. That’s my first point. The second is, when I saw Charles and Robin together there was something intimate about them. I don’t know whether they were close friends, close colleagues, or maybe lovers. But if I’m right, she’s connected to Charles, which means his tattoo may have thrown suspicion on her. I know I’d be suspicious. Read Preston’s note again.”

He took out the torn notebook page. “ ‘Robin Miller. Book of Spies. All we know is Athens-so far.’ ”

“The beginning part of the note is like a list. ‘Robin Miller. Book of Spies.’ One. Two. Then we get to the heart of the matter: ‘All we know is Athens-so far.’ The tone makes me think they don’t know where The Book of Spies-or Robin Miller-is, except they’re in Athens, and they must be found.”

“You think she not only has the book but she’s on the run with it,” he said.

“It’s a good possibility.”

He grabbed his mobile. “I’ll call her.” He tapped in one of the numbers from Charles Sherback’s cell. “I’m getting a recording,” he told her. Then: “Ms. Miller, my name is Judd Ryder. I’m in Athens, and I’ve got the resources to protect you from Preston. I’d like to buy The Book of Spies. Call as soon as you can. I’ll leave my mobile on.” Then he dialed the other number and left the same message.

“Fingers crossed,” she said.

He went into the bathroom and emerged with water glasses. He opened the bottle of wine to let it breathe. “I’m going to take a shower. Then we eat.”

He grabbed a clean T-shirt and shorts from the duffel and went into the bathroom. She listened to the music of the running shower and walked around the room, arms crossed, holding herself, feeling relieved she had decided to stay and hoping Robin would call soon. Then she emptied the side pocket of her satchel and laid out everything to dry.

Judd emerged with droplets shining on his short bleached hair, his face wet and relaxed. The T-shirt was damp, clinging to his tapered waist. His stomach muscles were amazing, like rebar, and he had good long legs beneath his shorts, straight, the hair golden brown and curly, lovely. She turned away, busying herself by taking out her shirt and shorts. Then she went into the bathroom without looking at him again.

“Drink your wine,” she told him over her shoulder. “Behave yourself.”

“I’ll save half for you.”

The hot water soothed her. She washed her hair, caught by surprise at the black color as it fell over her face. She had never in her life dyed her hair. Toweling off, she fastened on her ankle device, buttoned her shirt, and stepped into the shorts.

When she emerged from the bathroom he was sitting at the table, inspecting Charles’s notebook again.

“Find anything?” She slid into the chair across from him.

“Nothing.”

“No call from Robin?”

He shook his head. “Tell me about your family.”

“Isn’t that in my dossier?”

“Just the basics. Mother, father, brother, sister, and you. They moved from Los Angeles to Iowa. You didn’t. I’d really like to know.”

She hesitated. “There’s not much to say, really. Dad worked construction. Mom cleaned houses. Dad drank-a lot. He’d have tirades and slap Mom around when she tried to convince him to quit. Eventually she started drinking, too. They got along a lot better, but it still was miserable. We could never bring our friends home because we never knew what we’d find.”

“You were the oldest, weren’t you?”

“Yes, and probably the luckiest. In Al-Anon you learn about the family mediator, the peacemaker-that was me. It kept me from falling into the bottle, too, because I was always trying to smooth things over to protect my little brother and sister. Then Dad started losing one job after the other, and his uncle offered him work at a lumber company he owned in Council Bluffs. I’d had my brush with the law by then. They were good about that and stood by me. But when everyone left, I stayed on in L.A., to go to college.” Her shoulders were tense. She raised her arms above her head and stretched.

“You didn’t want to end up like them.”

“No, I didn’t, but it didn’t stop me from loving them. They came to visit me in prison several times. I don’t know how they scraped the money together to do it, but they did.” She bit her lip. “Love is a crazy emotion, isn’t it?”

He was watching her, kindness glowing in his eyes. “Let’s eat.”

He poured wine as she got out the food. The moussaka was warm and spicy, the zucchini and wild rice crunchy. It was a simple but fine meal, and for the moment the lamplit hotel room felt cozy and safe.

“What about you and your family?” she asked as she ate.

“You know part of it. Dad was ambitious, but the higher he rose, the more pressure he was under, and the more traveling he had to do. When I started school, Mom went back to work, teaching kindergarten. Then, after a couple of years, she quit so she’d be free when he was home. It was great for me. The door was always open for my friends. She’d make chocolate pudding and oatmeal cookies and let us play outside and get dirty.” He studied his wine. “What was rough for both of us was not having him around. But when he was, he filled the house with his personality, and he spent every moment with us. Now that I look back, it’s obvious he was trying to make it up to us.”

“I’ll bet he enjoyed you, too.”

“I hope so.” He lowered his head. “You should know Dad started telling me stories about the Library of Gold when I was young. He must’ve known about it then. And that makes me think he was in the book club when the decision was made to bring Charles on board. Knowing how managerial Dad was, I have to believe even if he didn’t make the final decisions, he must’ve at least known about the arrangements.”

She felt her breath catch in her throat. Then she shook off her anger. “You’re not him. You’ve made your own choices, and it seems to me they’re one hundred eighty degrees different from his. I think you’ve inherited his best traits.”

He poured the last of the garnet-colored wine into their glasses, then he held up his.

“To our partnership.” He grinned.

She touched her rim to his and smiled into his eyes. “To finding the Library of Gold.”

49

THE AFTERNOON was bright, sunlight bouncing off the windshields of cars as Martin Chapman’s plush limousine rolled up to the Hotel Grande Bretagne on Constitution Square. One of the globe’s top establishments, the hotel looked like a palace and had a long history as a seat of power, which Chapman appreciated: The Nazis had made it their headquarters when they occupied Greece during World War II, and later the British Expeditionary Force took it over. Wars had been planned here, and treaties signed. From kings to corporate heads, jet-setters to diplomats, it was the place to stay, the only hotel Chapman ever used when in Athens.

The chauffeur rushed around the limo to open the door. Chapman got out, his mane of wavy white hair gleaming, blue eyes twinkling, tan face composed, carriage erect. Valets scurried. The hotel’s massive doors opened, and he marched inside.

The manager waited beside a tall Ionic column in the lobby, perfectly positioned for effect, surrounded by the hotel’s nineteenth-century art and antiques. He bowed and, after appropriate welcoming remarks, led Chapman across the mosaic marble floor to the private elevator, bypassing the registration desk.

They rose silently to the fifth-floor Royal Suite. Opening the door, the manager bowed again, and Chapman strode into a rich world of damasks and silks and antique furnishings from Sotheby’s, eager to see his wife. But there was no sign of her. Instead, standing in the middle of the grand triple living room was Doug Preston, holding a wood box. He inclined his head slightly, indicating the box contained what Chapman wanted. Dressed in a three-piece suit tailored to show no sign of his holstered pistol, the security chief’s expression was serious.

Chapman’s luggage was wheeled in, and the manager bowed himself out the door.

“Where’s my wife?” Chapman asked.

“Shopping, sir. Mahaira is with her.”

Chapman nodded and gestured. They went into the private formal dining room with its elegant table, set for a business meeting of only eight, since Jonathan Ryder and Angelo Charbonier were dead. Over the next year the book club would decide on their replacements. The centerpiece was a lavish display of orchids. Pads of paper and pricey Mont Blanc fountain pens with the hotel’s logo waited at each place.

Preston closed the door. “The butler will serve drinks. Is there anything else I can order for you?”

Chapman chose a Partagas cigar from the burled-wood humidor. He rolled it between his fingers next to his ear, hearing the muffled sound of fine tobacco. He clipped off the end and sniffed. Satisfactory. Lighting it with the hotel’s gold lighter, he went to stand by one of the tall windows overlooking the city’s landmarks.

“How close are you to finding the Carnivore?” Chapman smoked, controlling his fury.

When after four hours the Carnivore had not given Chapman confirmation of the kill, he had phoned the number the Carnivore had given him. It was disconnected. Then he had sent an e-mail to the contact man, Jack. It had bounced back.

Preston joined Chapman at the window and said, “It’s a problem. As you said, the Carnivore’s security is very tight. The e-mail address was routed through several countries. So far Jan’s had no luck tracing it back to its origin, but she’s still working on it.” Jan Mardis was Carl Lindström’s chief of computer security. “As for the disconnected number, there’s nothing we can do about it. I checked in with the man who recommended the Carnivore to you, but he claims he has no other way to reach him and you’ll never find him now. He doesn’t understand what happened, but whatever it was, he figures he’s burned, too. When the Carnivore takes a client’s money, it’s a trust to him. He always delivers. And he never forgets.”

Chapman felt a chill, remembering the cold litany of the Carnivore’s rules. Then he brushed it off. The bastard owed him the $1 million advance.

“Find him. I want my money, and then I want him terminated.”

Preston inclined his head. “Yes, sir. As soon as Jan has anything, it’ll be a pleasure to take him out.”

“What about Judd Ryder and Eva Blake? According to our Washington asset, they were heading for Thessalonika and had hooked up with Robin Miller.”

“It has to be Athens. They took a note I’d written to myself, and the Carnivore knew it was legitimate. I’ve posted men at the airport, train stations, and docks to look for them. I don’t see how they could’ve reached Robin, but maybe they have. That could work in our favor.” He paused. “I know how to find her.”

Chapman stopped, his cigar suspended on its way to his mouth. He studied Preston, who stood calmly beside him, the box still in both hands. He was not rattled, not apologetic. In fact, there was a deadly calm about him. His blue eyes looked like chipped ice. He had been humiliated, and he wanted revenge. Good.

“Tell me.”

“I had the pilot check the Learjet,” Preston said. “Robin didn’t leave her cell behind. If she were planning to escape, she’d take it with her because it was the only one she had. She doesn’t know she can be tracked through the cell. My NSA contact is waiting for her to activate it, and as soon as she does, we’ll have her. But there’s another problem: Tucker Andersen got away, and the man I hired in Washington to scrub him has vanished. So has Andersen. I have people looking for both.”

Chapman swore loudly. “Anything else?”

“My men in Rome captured Yitzhak Law and Roberto Cavaletti.”

“They’re dead?” he asked instantly, pleased.

Preston shook his head. “Not yet. Ryder and Blake have turned out to be far more trouble than any of us envisioned. With Law and Cavaletti, we have something to hold over them if we need it.”

Chapman thought about it. “Agreed. We can wipe them whenever we wish.”

“There’s one more thing. I talked to Yakimovich after I got free in the Grand Bazaar. He said Charles left behind a strip of leather with a message-the location of the Library of Gold is hidden in The Book of Spies.”

“Jesus. The old librarian smuggled out that book. He knew the location was in it?”

“He’s the one who put it there. Charles must have found some message he left. In any case, it’s not a problem. We’ll retrieve the book. Ryder and Blake will never get close.”

Chapman dropped his cigar into an ashtray and rubbed his hands. “Give me the box.”

But as Preston handed it to him, there was a tap on the door. With a nod from Chapman, Preston opened it.

Mahaira stood there in a beige linen suit, her graying hair perfectly coiffed in a frame around her soft face. “Madame asked me to tell you she is delayed, sir. Friends found her and insisted she have tea with them. She is most regretful.”

Stung by the news, Chapman turned his back on her. As he listened to her pad away, his gaze fell on the box. Quickly he opened it. Sighing with pleasure, he plucked from its velvet lining an illuminated manuscript spectacular not only for its physical beauty but also for what it would mean to his wife and the great new fortune he would have.

50

THE MEMBERS of the book club had been checking into the Hotel Grande Bretagne throughout the morning. The meeting began promptly at two P.M., and their arrival infused the room with electric energy. All stood at least six feet or taller, and despite the nearly thirty-year range in their ages, each moved with the grace of an athlete, their bodies trim and fit.

Chosen in their youth, when they were struggling for money and power and displayed great promise, they had been cultivated, mentored, and financed-as Martin Chapman had. Still, very few who received such attention rose to join the fraternity of the secret book club. Those who did were living examples of the ancient Greek ideal of the perfect man.

Studying them as they stood talking around the table, Chapman felt a sense of pride. He had been director five years. They could be troublesome, but that was understandable. Spirited aggression was necessary to accomplishment, and they were warriors in and out of business-another critical trait of the Greek ideal. But at the same time he was concerned about the unusually high pitch of their energy and the sideways glances in his direction. Something had set them off, and he worried he knew what it was.

He checked the butler, who was serving drinks. They would wait to start the meeting until they were alone.

“You’re crazy, Petr,” one was saying, amused.

“You spend too damn much time in the library,” laughed another.

Petr Klok chose a martini from the butler’s silver tray and announced, “This is an organized universe based on numbers. The ancients knew that. The markets-their prices and timings-move in harmonic rhythms.” A bearded man with stylishly clipped hair, he was fifty years old and the first Czech billionaire. Taking advantage of his nation’s privatization reforms, he had begun small, buying an insurance company with vouchers and loans from Library of Gold funds and then growing it into an empire stretching across Europe and America.

Brian Collum found his glass of barolo on the butler’s tray. “You’re claiming financial ups and downs aren’t random? Clearly you’re nuts.” Graying, with a long handsome face, the Los Angeleno was the junior member, just forty-eight. He was the library’s attorney.

“Study the geometrical codes hidden in Plato’s Timaeus,” Klok insisted. “Then connect them to the architecture of Hindu temples, Pascal’s arithmetical triangles, the Egyptian alphabet, the movement of the planets, and the consonant patterns in the stained-glass windows of medieval cathedrals. It will give you an edge in the markets.”

“I, for one, am interested. After all, Petr predicted the worldwide crash of 2008,” Maurice Dresser reminded them. A Canadian, he had turned regional wildcatting into a trillion-dollar oil kingdom. He had thinning white hair and strong features. At seventy-five vigorous years, he was the oldest.

“Perhaps Petr is ahead of his time. He wouldn’t be the first,” Chapman said, a challenge in his voice. He paused until he had their full attention. Seeing the opportunity, he hoped to lull them with a small tournament. “Let’s see what you know. Here’s the subject-in 350 B.C., Heracleides was so far ahead of his time that he discovered the Earth spun on an axis.”

Collum instantly held up his cigar, volunteering. “A century later Aristarchus of Samos figured out the Earth orbited the sun. Also far ahead of his time.”

“But in the same era, Aristotle insisted we were stationary and the center of the heavens.” Dresser shook his head. “Big error, and rare for him.”

There was a hesitation, and Chapman stepped into it. “Reinhardt.”

Reinhardt Gruen nodded. “In the 1500s most scientists again believed the world was flat. Wrong. Finally Copernicus rediscovered it rotated and went around the sun. That’s a hell of a long time for the facts to come out again.” From Berlin, Gruen was sixty-eight years old and owned a global media conglomerate.

“But he didn’t dare publish his findings,” Klok remembered. “It was too controversial and dangerous. Ignorant Christian churches fought the idea for the next three hundred years.”

“Carl?” Chapman said.

“They claimed it went against the teachings of the Bible.” Regal, his blond hair graying, Carl Lindström was sixty-five, the founder of the powerful software company Lindström Strategies, based in Stockholm.

“Not enough,” Collum called out competitively.

As director, Martin Chapman was also referee. He agreed. “We need more, Carl.”

“I thought you idiots knew the Bible by now,” Lindström said good-naturedly. “It is in Pslams: ‘The world also is established, that it cannot be moved.’ ”

“Very good. Who’s next?” Chapman asked.

Thomas Randklev raised his highball glass. “Here’s to Galileo. He figured out Copernicus was right, and then he wrote his own books on the subject. So the Inquisition jailed him for heresy.” From Johannesburg, Randklev was sixty-three and led mining enterprises on three continents.

“Grandon. You’re the last man,” Chapman said.

Fifty-eight and a Londoner, Grandon Holmes headed the telecom giant Holmes International Services. “It wasn’t until the Renaissance that the Western world accepted the Earth rotated and orbited the sun-more than a millennium after Heracleides made the original discovery.”

Everyone drank, smiling. The tournament had ended with no errors in history, and each had contributed. A sense of friendly warmth and shared purpose infused the room. A full success, Chapman thought with relief.

“Well done,” he complimented.

“But just because Copernicus and the others were vindicated doesn’t mean Petr is right about all his financial nonsense,” Collum insisted.

“Spoken like an attorney,” Petr chortled. “You are a Neanderthal, Brian.”

“And you think you’re a friggin’ clairvoyant.” Collum grinned and drank.

Everyone had been served, so Chapman told the butler to leave. As the door closed, the group settled around the table. He noted the mood had changed, grown tense.

Uneasily he took the chair at the head, where the wood box was waiting. “Maurice, you called this meeting. Begin.”

Maurice Dresser adjusted the pen on the table beside him, then peered up. “As the senior member, it’s my job occasionally to bring grievances to your attention. You’ve been hiding something from us, Marty.”

Martin Chapman kept his tone conversational. “Elaborate, please.”

Dresser sat forward and folded his hands. “Jonathan Ryder, Angelo Charbonier, and our fine librarian Charles Sherback are dead, murdered. We suspect you had something to do with that. You asked Thom, Carl, and Reinhardt to acquire information. It involved blackmailing a U.S. senator, hacking into a secret CIA unit’s computer, and the murder of a CIA officer, one Catherine Doyle. Until we began talking to one another, we didn’t realize the extent of your actions. What in hell is going on?”

“Secrecy is based on containment.” Reinhardt Gruen drummed his fingers on the table. “This is far larger than I thought.”

“You’ve exposed us to discovery,” Carl Lindström accused.

“If the Parsifal Group is investigated, it may lead back to us.” Thom Randklev glared.

The room seemed to vibrate with tension.

Chapman looked around at the cold faces. Inwardly he swore again at Jonathan Ryder for starting the domino disasters that had brought him to this precipice.

He cleared his throat. “The Parsifal Group is safe, because it’s made too damn much money for too many important people for them to allow anything to be known about it. The exposure would have to be calamitous to change the equation, and this isn’t a calamity.”

The initial support money for the Library of Gold had been small but adequate, passed down through the centuries to ensure the library was cared for and secure. But in the second half of the twentieth century, when international commerce boomed, and its select group of supporters was formalized into the book club, common sense took over. A process to choose members was created. Opportunities opened through their successes, and investments were made, backed up when necessary by “persuading” Parsifal’s members to cooperate.

Today the group’s funds of some $6 trillion were registered, regulated, and owned by a series of fronts. They had much to be proud of-the Library of Gold had a permanent home and was maintained to the highest standards, and it would never be threatened as long as it was in their control. Since they saw to that, they were rewarded in kind.

“Doesn’t bloody matter,” Holmes said. “Risk is never to be taken lightly. You’ve gambled in grave ways that can impact all of us. We want to know why, and where you are going with it.”

Chapman said nothing. Instead he opened the wood box and lifted out a small illuminated manuscript, about six by eight inches, and stood it up so it faced the members of the book club. There was an intake of breath. Diamonds blanketed the cover in a dazzling array, shaped into overlapping circles, triangles, and rectangles, each filled in completely with more diamonds. Of the highest quality, they sparkled like fire.

“I know the book,” Randklev, the mining czar, said. He recounted the title in English: “Gems and Minerals of the World. Written in the late 1300s. It’s from the Library of Gold.”

“You’re correct,” Chapman told him. Then he addressed the group. “I was curious about the diamonds on the cover, so I asked a translator to search through the book, and he found the story behind them. Perhaps you remember that Mahmud, a Persian, invaded Afghanistan at the end of the tenth century. He made Ghazni his capital and lifted the country to the heights of power with an empire extending into what is modern-day Iran, Pakistan, and India.” He nodded at the lavish book. “Diamonds were one of the sources of his wealth-diamonds from a huge mine in what today is Khost province, near Ghazni. Then, some two hundred years later, Genghis Khan tore through Afghanistan, slaughtering the people. He left Ghazni and other cities in rubble. The devastation was so complete even irrigation lines were never repaired. The diamond mine stopped production. When Tamerlane swept through in the early 1380s, he destroyed what was left. The mine was forgotten. In effect, lost.”

“Khost province is a dangerous place to do business, Marty,” warned Reinhardt Gruen, the media baron. He looked around the group and explained. “The Afghan government has taken over the country’s security, but they don’t have a big enough army, and local police forces are stretched thin and are frequently corrupt. So province governors are supposed to be doing the job, which is a bad joke. In Khost, as I recall, several warlords have divided up the territory. Those warlords may be in collusion with the Taliban and al-Qaeda.”

“Shit, Marty.” Grandon Holmes, the telecom kingpin, stared. “No mine can operate in that atmosphere. Worse, you’ll be aiding the jihadists.”

“The exact opposite is true,” Chapman told them calmly. That was the conclusion to which Jonathan Ryder had jumped. “Syed Ullah is the warlord in charge in the area where the mine is, and he hates the Taliban and, by extension, al-Qaeda. When the Taliban were in charge in the 1990s, they crushed the drug trade. Heroin and opium were-and are again today-his biggest source of income. So you see, the Taliban and al-Qaeda are his enemies. He’s got an army of more than five thousand. He’d never let the jihadists infiltrate and take over his territory.”

Heads slowly nodded around the table.

Thom Randklev’s eyes brightened. “You know exactly where the mine is?”

“I do. I was going to bring all of you in,” Chapman lied. “This is merely sooner than I expected. And of course, you can have the contract to do the mining in addition to your share, Thom.”

Randklev rubbed his hands together. “When do I begin?”

“That’s the problem,” Chapman told them. “The deal isn’t ready to be signed.” In calm tones, and putting a positive spin wherever he could, he described the events of the last few weeks from Jonathan Ryder’s discovery of Syed Ullah’s frozen account in the international bank Chapman had bought, to Robin Miller’s escape from the Learjet in Athens. Then he explained what remained to be done in Khost, and that Judd Ryder, Eva Blake, and Robin Miller were still on the loose but would be found soon.

When he finished, there was a long silence.

“Christ, Marty,” said one.

“This is a hell of a mess,” said another.

“It’s not that big a mess,” Chapman said, “and think of the fortunes to be made.”

“If the mine is as big as you say,” decided Holmes, “we’d be bloody fools to interrupt the deal.”

“How much do you think it’s worth?” asked Klok.

“From what I read, Mahmud’s people had barely scratched the surface,” Chapman said. “And of course they had the disadvantage of working with primitive equipment. I’d say it’ll bring in at least a hundred trillion. Over decades, of course.”

They smiled around the table. Then they laughed. The future was good.

Dresser concluded the discussion. “I’d say you have our complete cooperation, Marty.” Then he glared. “But make damn certain you contain the situation. Do whatever you have to do. Don’t fuck it up. If you do, there’ll be consequences.” He looked around at the stony expressions. The men nodded agreement. “You won’t like them.”

51

Somewhere around the Mediterranean

ABOVE THE turquoise sea stood a small stone villa about three quarters of the way up a long green valley. It was nearly four hundred years old. Four stone cottages flanked it, two on either side, built more than a century ago for a don’s large extended family. Green ivy grew up the aged white walls of the buildings, and red geraniums bloomed from window boxes.

It was a beautiful afternoon, the air scented with the perfume of honeysuckle blossoms. Don Alessandro Firenze was sitting outdoors beneath his leafy grape arbor at the side of the villa. Here was the long wood table and upright wood chairs at which he and his compadres gathered to drink wine and tell stories of the old days. A man in his sixties, the don was in his usual chair at the head of the table, a straw hat on the back of his head. He was alone except for his book and 9-mm Walther, which lay on the table beside a tall glass of ice tea.

He lifted his head from Plato’s Republic. One of the advantages of semiretirement was he could indulge himself. As a foolish youth, he had neglected his education. For the past dozen years he had spent much of his free time reading, the rest in tending his vegetable garden, grapevines, and honeybees. And of course there was the occasional outside job.

He gazed around, enjoying this piece of earthly heaven that meant so much to him. He noted the vibrant health of the bushes and flowering plants that grew around the grassy front yard. His large vegetable garden showed toward the rear, surrounded by a low white picket fence, and next to it was an enormous satellite dish and a generator in bomb- and fire-proof housing. Much farther away was a honeybee colony in white boxes. The hillsides beneath the compound were lined with well-tended grapevines and dotted by gnarled olive trees. The property covered five square miles, so no neighbors disturbed him.

Through the window of one of the cottages he could see Elaine Russell in her kitchen. Her husband, George, had gone into the village for supplies. Next to their cottage was another, where Randi and Doug Kennedy napped outside in hammocks. On the other side of the villa, Jack O’Keefe-once known as Red Jack O’Keefe-was working at his computer, visible through his living room window. The other cottage was home to more of his compadres, two brothers. Intelligence work was as integral to all of their systems as veins and tendons, so they were merely semiretired, too. They reveled in his jobs, acting as a moral compass whenever he needed debate.

Just as he was about to return to his book, Jack came at a half-run from his door. The don watched the easy gait, remembering when the older man could run the half mile faster than most people on the planet. About five foot ten inches tall, Jack still had catlike grace. But he looked worried, his corrugated face tense.

The don said nothing.

“Dammit, we’ve got a problem.” Jack dropped onto the chair beside him. “Someone’s been trying to trace back the e-mails between Martin Chapman and me. The bastard didn’t succeed, but he got damn close. I scrambled the two Internet service providers I created out of Somalia and the Antilles and shut them down. There’s no way they’ll find us now.”

The don felt hot fury explode in his skull. He said nothing, waiting for the storm to subside. His bad temper had caused enough grief for himself and those he loved.

“You told Chapman the rules,” the don said. “I told him. He agreed. Now he’s broken them twice.”

“I did some research on him and Douglas Preston. Preston’s ex-CIA, the bastard. You’d think he’d have a better way to earn a living now. Anyway, according to Chapman’s equity firm, Chapman is in Athens now. My deduction is Preston is with him, looking for Eva Blake and Judd Ryder. You told me this was about the Library of Gold, so I sent out word to our contacts and got some interesting results.”

When searching for the rich and powerful, most people never thought to investigate the less obvious sources-protection services, independent bodyguards, private mercenaries, party planners, chefs, maid and nanny businesses, boat crews, pilots, anyone who served the affluent.

“You have a lead?” the don asked.

“You bet I do. Wasn’t going to talk to you until I did. The problem is, it’s risky.”

As Jack explained the possibilities, the don took off his hat and rubbed his forearm across his gray crew cut. His fingerprints had been burned off years ago, his face altered many times by plastic surgery. He had the body of a man in his forties, although his skin had aged-a regime of hormones, vitamins, and exercise could accomplish only so much. He nodded as he listened. Yes, that would do.

“It won’t be easy,” Jack warned again.

“I’ve just been reading Plato.” The Carnivore closed the book and set it beside his Walther. He gazed across his tranquil estate, wishing his daughter were here. But she did not approve of him. “It’s an insightful book. I don’t agree with everything. Still, one thing he wrote seems to apply: ‘Only the dead have seen the end of war.’ ” He stood up. “Summon the compadres. We’ll go into the villa and make preparations.”

52

Athens, Greece

A GREEK newscast sounded from down the hotel corridor as Judd set their brunch tray on the floor outside the door. Listening, he peered left and right, then stepped back inside the room. Eva was at the table and looked tense, elbows on the top, a hand cupping her chin as she reread Charles’s notebook. Last night he had thought he was going to lose her. He was glad she had decided to stick it out, except now he felt even more responsible for her.

He shot the dead bolt and grabbed Preston’s S &W from under his pillow. Sitting, he emptied it of rounds, including the bullet in the chamber.

“Join me.” He patted the bed beside him.

Eva looked up and saw the gun. “Are you going to shoot me or teach me?”

“Teach. Then you’ll be able to shoot someone-hopefully not me.”

“We’ll see.” She gave a small smile and sat beside him.

“This is the safety. Flick it on and off so you know how it works.” When she did, he explained the basic mechanics of the weapon. “Stand up.”

“Okay.” She stood, long and slender, her dyed black hair falling around her face.

“Balance on both feet.”

She assumed a heik -dachi karate stance, her feet at shoulder-width distance and parallel. Her knees were flexed, just the way he wanted them.

He passed her the gun. “Hold it in both hands, choose a point on the wall, stretch your arms a bit, but not so much you strain yourself. Aim… Stop hunching your shoulders. Let your bones relax-your muscles need to do the work.” Her grip looked capable but not confident. “Your hands automatically want to coordinate with your eyes-let them do it. Good. Now squeeze the trigger.” He watched. “Slow down. Pretend the trigger is a baby’s ankle. You don’t want to hurt it, but you’ve got to be firm, or the little guy will skedaddle away.”

“You did a lot of babysitting in your youth?”

“I have an active imagination.”

“You’ve raised babies in your imagination?”

“No, but I can act like one.”

She laughed, settled herself, and tried the trigger again.

“Much better,” he said. “You won’t know how true your aim is until you fire, but this is better than nothing. Practice one hundred times-slowly. Then take a break and do another hundred. You’ll begin to get the feel of the weapon and what it’s like to shoot it. If you actually do have to fire, you’ll get a powerful kick. This will help you prepare for that, too.”

Listening to the clicks, he took out his mobile, downloaded the phone numbers of all hotels in the Athens metropolitan area, and started dialing. At each place he asked to speak to Robin Miller. There were a few Millers, but no Robin Miller. He talked to the ones he could reach. They knew no one named Robin Miller.

Finally Eva said, “That’s another hundred.” She did not look bored but seemed definitely fed up. “How do I load this thing?”

They sat on the bed again, and he filed rounds into the S &W’s magazine. He took them out and handed the magazine to her. She fumbled for a while, then got better, sliding the bullets inside.

Finally, at around two o’clock, she put the weapon into her satchel. When he finished a call to another hotel, she held up a hand.

“Pame gia kafe,” she said. “That means let’s go for coffee, which in Athens really means let’s go out. Enough already. You haven’t heard from NSA. Robin hasn’t called. Tucker isn’t getting in until late. Preston has never seen our disguises, so we’re reasonably safe. And once I have a cell, I can help call hotels, too.”

She had a point. In fact several of them. They left.

The day was warm. Athens was having a touch of summer in April. Through a thin layer of brown smog, sunshine glazed the concrete buildings and sidewalks. They took the Metro to Plaka, the city’s humming market and popular meeting place.

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

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

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

“Good to know. Thanks.”

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

When the waitress came, he started to order Greek coffee, but Eva said, “Two Nescafé frappes, parakaló.” The waitress gave a knowing smile and went inside.

“Instant coffee?” he asked, worried.

“What. You’re a coffee snob?”

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

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

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

He glanced at the water and stared at the frappes.

She grinned. “I’m beginning to worry you don’t have a sense of adventure.”

He sighed. “What’s in it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eva sighed worriedly. “And somewhere in there may be where your father thought something awful was being planned.”

They worked two more hours without finding Robin Miller. Eva had another frappe, and he ordered another traditional Greek coffee. The sun was below the horizon, sending a violet cloak across the street’s paving stones.

“It’s discouraging.” She put down her cell, leaned back in her chair, and stretched. “Where is that woman?”

“God knows.” He leaned back, too. Just when he picked up his mobile again to phone another hotel, it rang. Quickly he touched the On button.

It was the NSA tracker. “One of the disposable cells was turned on briefly. But it’s off now. I’ll let you know if it’s activated again.” He relayed an address. Judd jotted it down and turned the paper so Eva could see it.

“It’s near,” she said excitedly. “South of us but still in Plaka.”

53

WHEN THE book club meeting concluded, Chapman opened the door. Mahaira was sitting in the foyer, hands folded neatly in her lap. As the members of the club trooped past to prepare for an evening on the town, she rose, smiling.

“She’s taking a bath,” she whispered.

Eagerly he headed across the carpet, removing the long-ago photo of beautiful blond Gemma from his pocket, burning her image into his mind.

Flushed with excitement, he hid it again and opened the bathroom door onto the opulent sanctuary of the bath, with its spacious glass shower, ornate full-length mirror, and marble-clad floor, walls, and ceiling. The air was infused with the fragrance of camellia-scented bath oil. Beneath the softly glowing crystal chandelier was the massive soaking tub set on a pedestal in the center of the enormous room. Bubbles rose above it, and above them was his gorgeous wife.

Her hair was piled on her head, a mass of golden curls, her smooth shoulders fragile and sweet. She turned to look at him, the vibrancy of youth in her violet-colored eyes, aquiline nose, and good chin.

“You’re here at last, Martin. How wonderful to see you.” Her voice was musical. “Bring me a towel, will you?”

“Later.” Stripping off his clothes, he stalked toward her.

Her laughter sang. She balled up a washcloth and threw it, sopping, at him.

He sidestepped and climbed the pedestal naked. He slid into the tub’s warm water.

She glided through the water toward him, bubbles cascading away. “I’ve missed you. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” He pulled her to him, running his hands hungrily over her breasts, her thighs.

“Umm,” she purred. “Umm, umm.”

He arched her backward and nipped her shoulders. Kissed the hollow of her throat. She laughed happily, the vibrations sending shudders through him. He felt her hands on his cock, stroking, twisting, pulling.

Fever inflaming his brain, he slid his hands under her bottom and lifted, his fingers digging into muscle. She licked his ears, the tip of his nose, and locked onto his mouth. The taste of her sent a titanic wave through him. Her legs straddling him, he lowered her slowly, then, in a heated rush, pulled her down and made love to her. To Gemma.

THEY DRESSED in the master suite, Beethoven playing from the tall armoire. The long rays of the setting sun spread across the carpet and touched their naked feet.

Wearing a long white skirt with a tight waist and a red silk strapless top, she sat on a brocaded chair, slipped on high heels studded with diamonds, and buckled the tiny straps around her slim ankles.

“Well, that was a waste.” Chuckling, she sat up and gestured at the smoothly made bed. “I’d planned to be lying here undressed for you.”

“How’s Gemma?” he asked casually as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. He watched her reflection in it. She had put on her makeup, and her lips were like rubies. She looked and sounded so much like Gemma his heart ached.

“Mother’s fine. She’s in Monte Carlo with her new boyfriend. I do wish she’d settle down. She’s costing you a fortune.”

Gemma had been married five times, but never to him. The summer they graduated from college, her family had given her a choice-either end the relationship or be disinherited. To spare her the pain of choosing, he left California and hitchhiked across the country to New York City, where he dove into the pirana-infested sea of finance, determined to earn the wealth that would make him acceptable. By the time he had, she had married her second husband, who drank, gambled, and went through all her money. That husband was Shelly’s father.

“She looked beautiful at the San Moritz party,” Shelly said. “But she never mentioned the family necklace and earrings. Or the new tiara you bought me. I wore all of them, you know.”

“Mahaira told me. I’m glad you enjoy them so much.”

“Mother loves diamonds, too. She must miss having them a lot. I offered to give the necklace and earrings back to her, but she wouldn’t take them. As long as I can remember, I think she’s hated you. Why is that? She won’t tell me.”

“I suspect that’s more her parents’ attitude than her own.” It was what he always said, because he had never understood why Gemma had been so furious at him for leaving California. It was some foolishness about insisting she had a right to be part of such an important decision. Now he breezed past his wife’s questions by focusing on what she could understand: “I doubt she’s ever really hated me, but now I agree she’s quite unhappy about the difference in age between you and me.” And, he hoped, jealous.

Shelly shook her head, her golden hair floating across her bare shoulders, and studied her four-carat diamond engagement ring and the diamond-encrusted wedding band. “I thought when you bought the family jewels to help her, she’d get over it.”

He said nothing. His tie satisfactory, he turned.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” she asked eagerly.

“I have business,” he said kindly.

A cold look crossed her face. “Okay. I’ll fly to Cabo, then. Friends invited me.”

“Where’s your wrap, darling? We’ll be late for cocktails.” While they were separated, he yearned for her. But when they were together… In the end, she was not Gemma.

As they crossed the living room, his cell phone vibrated against his chest.

Looking at her, he took it out. “Sorry, darling.”

She nodded, her face frozen. Alabaster.

He went into the dining room and closed the door.

It was Preston, and he sounded jubilant. “I just got a call from my NSA contact. Robin Miller turned on her cell phone, then turned it off. I’ve flown in men from the library for backup and to bring supplies, and we’re in Plaka-that’s where she was. We’ll find her and The Book of Spies very soon now.”

54

ROBIN MILLER had had a busy two days in Athens, and at last she was beginning to feel prepared as she walked through the twilight and deeper into Plaka. Besides oversize sunglasses, she wore a wig-a simple brown hairdo ending just below her ears. Long bangs brushed her dyed black eyebrows. Brown contact lenses colored her blue eyes, and she wore no eyeliner or mascara, no lipstick.

Her clothes were two sizes too large-baggy cotton pants and a loose button-down cotton shirt. Only her battered tennis shoes fit-bought at the Monastiraki Flea Market. She carried a shopping bag she had found on top of a trash can. It was stuffed with crumpled newspapers, while her billfold and other items were in her pockets. The first time she caught a reflection of herself in a shop window, she had not recognized the dowdy, overweight woman. She had smiled, pleased.

Now she needed money. As usual, Plaka marketplace was bustling. Vendors called from the doors of small shops, promoting their wares. A herd of black-robed Orthodox monks passed, holding black cell phones to their ears. She entered the little bank she had chosen and went up to a teller. Before disappearing to join the Library of Gold, she had put her life savings into a numbered Swiss account. Just a half hour ago, she had called the phone number she memorized long ago, releasing the funds to this bank.

The teller led her to a desk, where a bank officer had forms waiting. She filled in the account number and other required information and orally gave him her password.

“How do you wish the funds?” he asked.

“Four thousand in euros. A cashier’s check for two thousand more. The rest in a second cashier’s check. Leave the line to whom the checks are to be made out blank.”

“So much money. Would you not like to open an account? It will be safe here.”

“Thank you, no.”

He nodded and left. Turning in her chair, she watched the people coming and going.

When he returned, he ceremoniously handed her a fat white envelope. “If there is anything more I can do to help with your financial matters, madame, please tell me.”

She thanked him again and left. In total, she had about $40,000. It was not enough to ensure her safety from the book club for long. Still, at least she would have immediate cash.

The sun had set, and the shadows were deep across Plaka’s crowded streets. She liked the drama of the approaching night, and it would help to hide her. She slid the envelope inside the waistband of her pants. Her feet felt light, and her heart was hopeful as she wound south through the marketplace. She wanted to be as close as possible to where she had left her rolling suitcase and The Book of Spies.

As she walked, she took out her cell phone and dialed. Sometimes fortune smiled. Trying to negotiate her freedom with Martin Chapman had frightened her, but now she had an alternative.

When the man’s voice answered, she asked, “Is this Judd Ryder?”

“I am. Are you Robin Miller?” He had a strong voice. She liked that.

“Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I’m with the U.S. government. Do you know the location of the Library of Gold?”

So that was what he wanted. She ignored the question. “How did you hear about me?”

“I’ve been hunting for the library. I had a clue that took me to Istanbul, but Preston found me there and tried to eliminate me. There was a note in his pocket with your name, ‘Athens,’ and ‘The Book of Spies’ written on it. Earlier, in London, I’d gotten two phone numbers off Charles Sherback’s cell, but I didn’t know for sure to whom they belonged. I phoned both with the same message in hopes one of them was yours.”

She bit her lip. “You know who killed Charles?”

“We’ll talk about that when we meet.”

She had been trying to put Charles out of her mind. Whenever she thought about him, a bottomless ache filled her. The loss was so great, so raw, her world so destroyed, she had a hard time thinking. After several deep breaths, she considered her situation. Ryder had escaped Preston, which went a long way toward indicating he might really be able to protect her. And she understood his hunger to find the library.

“I’m sure Preston is searching for me,” she told him. “You’re lucky to have gotten away.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it. Explain why I should be doing business with you.” The voice had grown harder.

“I worked at the Library of Gold, but I never learned exactly where we were. I can tell you the library is on an island, but I don’t know which island. We’re always flown in with hoods over our heads, usually from Athens. There’s a helipad, a dock, and three buildings that look as if they’re a vacation compound, with a swimming pool and tennis courts. About twenty people are on staff, most of them security. Tomorrow night is the annual banquet, so beginning today Preston has been putting on even more guards.”

He seemed to like her answers. “Are there other islands in sight?”

“There’s one far away. When the day’s particularly clear, you can see the tip of it.”

“Do you have The Book of Spies?”

“I’ve hidden it in Athens, and I’m willing to sell it to you.”

“All right. Let’s meet.”

“I want five million dollars for it,” she said firmly. “Before you object, the Getty paid five-point-eight million for The Northumberland Bestiary just a few years ago.” The Bestiary was a rare thirteenth-century English Gothic illuminated manuscript. “This is the only copy ever made of The Book of Spies and should be worth a lot more, so I’m offering you a bargain.”

“You’re right; it’s a good deal if you look at it from your perspective. On the other hand I’m offering something of even greater value-I’m going to get you safely out of Athens. What’s your life worth?”

She felt a chill. “I’ll settle for three million.”

“Much better. I’ll make the phone call to release the funds, but it’ll take a few hours for it to be deposited into your account. Or you can have it in a cashier’s check or any other financial instrument you like. By tomorrow morning you’ll have your money.”

“A cashier’s check will be fine.”

With a flush of excitement, she looked around. She had left Plaka and had entered the Makrigianni district. She was on the Dionysiou Areopagitou, a wide pedestrian boulevard. To her left stood a line of stylish houses in Art Deco and neoclassical styles, and to her right was the massive Acropolis, the city’s long-ago spiritual center. With a thrill she stared up the slope. She could see only a white crest of the spotlighted ruins high above. Then she noticed people were streaming past her, toward the entrance to the Acropolis park, which lay below and on which were the remains of what had been ancient Athens’s intellectual and cultural center. She could see bright lights in the Theater of Dionysus. There must be a concert or show of some kind, she decided. A crowd could be useful.

She explained where she would wait for him. “What do you look like?”

When he told her, she described her disguise.

“I’ll be there in only a few minutes,” he assured her.

CONTROLLING HIS frustration, Preston stood with his cell phone in his hand as he and two of his men scanned for Robin. They were in an alcove on Adrianou, Plaka’s main street, which was packed with tourist shops. She had phoned from the outdoor café across the way. They had searched the area and seen no sign of her, which told him either she had spotted them and was hiding, or she had moved on.

When his cell rang, he snapped it up. The caller was Irene, his NSA contact.

“Your person of interest has been talking on her cell again.” Irene sounded nervous. “The call ended about fifteen minutes ago. She was heading south. I can’t help you anymore, Preston. Something’s happened here. Everyone’s being watched. I had to get into my car and drive off the premises to phone you. I’m worried they’re going to investigate my NRO queries and searches.” The NRO was the National Reconnaissance Office, which designed, built, and operated U.S. recon satellites-and collected the data from them.

Inwardly he swore. “Give me the exact information. Everything you’ve learned. I’ll take it from here.”

55

THE AIR was warm, the stars bright overhead as Judd and Eva hurried up wide marble paving stones to the entrance of the Acropolis architectural park. Carrying their large duffel, he bought tickets, and they passed through an open gate to where a wide path climbed a gentle slope. Tall cypress and olive trees swayed in a light wind, spectral in the night. He could see an ancient amphitheater in an open area, a magnificent sight. Its rows of crumbled white stone benches rose up the hill in a semicircle, and for a moment he imagined what it must have been like two millennia ago, the vast crowds, the excitement in the air.

The theater’s base-the stage-was brightly illuminated by klieg lights. A woman in classical Greek dress stood before the large audience, which sat on blankets and cushions on the remains of the terraced rows. As she spoke into a microphone, a cluster of men and women in white robes and tunics cinched with colored braids waited at the side of the stage. A small camera crew was filming.

“Along here beneath the Acropolis,” she was telling her listeners, “are the ruins of the world’s first complex of buildings dedicated to the performing arts. This noble old theater dates back to before Alexander the Great. On this very stage immortal masterpieces were premiered-and drama and comedy were born.”

“Am I right that we’re looking at the Theater of Dionysus?” Judd asked Eva as they neared.

“Yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? When it was new, the walls, stone seating, and thrones were covered in marble and carved with satyrs and lions’ paws and gods and goddesses.”

Without being asked, she clasped her satchel to her side and slipped into the shadow of a tall marble block across the path from the rear of the open stage, and Judd climbed steps on the west side. The speaker continued, alternating her lecture in Greek and English.

Twenty terraces up, a woman was sitting alone at the edge, a shopping bag at her feet. She looked stiff, stressed. A couple with four children and more people sat in the same row, but close to the center. The stage lights did not reach this far, leaving only the illumination of the moon and stars to show the woman’s brown hair and dumpy figure. If he had not known she was Robin Miller, he would not have recognized her.

She slid over to make room for him. “Judd Ryder?” Her tone was strained.

He sat. “Hello, Robin. Ready to get out of Athens?”

She was staring down the hillside. “Who came with you?”

Now he knew one thing-Robin was smart. She had placed herself high and in the darkness deliberately to watch unseen anyone who arrived. He had purposefully not told her earlier about Eva, since they did not know how she would react to Charles’s wife-or that he had been the one who had killed Charles.

“My partner,” he said. “I’ll introduce you. She’s keeping watch.”

She nodded. “That’s okay. Let’s go.”

He led the way back down and then across the pathway to where Eva was waiting, her black hair and dark blue jacket and jeans hidden in the shadow beside the great marble block.

“Is The Book of Spies nearby?” he asked Robin.

“Yes. In a Metro station.”

Eva walked out to greet them, a welcoming smile on her face.

But Robin frowned and took a step backward. “You’re Eva Blake. Charles’s wife. Preston told me you were involved in Charles’s murder.” She stared angrily at Judd. “You said she was your partner.”

“She is,” Judd told her. “I’ll explain as we walk. Remember, we’re going to help you escape. That’s what matters.”

Robin’s face flushed as she glared at them. Then her eyes darted, and her muscles seemed to tense. Suddenly she turned, threw away her shopping bag, and rushed off toward the park’s entrance.

“I’ll handle this.” Eva ran after her.

Judd caught up with them. Robin was marching quickly along, two furious red spots on her cheeks, her chin held high. And he saw she had not dyed her hair but was instead wearing a wig-it had slipped, exposing the back of her shaved skull. He kept pace on the other side of her.

“I’m sorry about Charles, too,” Eva was saying soothingly. “No one wanted him to die. Were you in love with him?”

“What happened?” Robin snapped, not breaking her stride. “Did you kill him?”

“It was an accident,” Eva explained. “There was a struggle, and his gun went off. I never knew Charles to carry a gun, so that must’ve started after he left me. But he’d told me something important, something you should hear-he wanted the library to be found if anything happened to him. There was a message tattooed on his head, and it’s what sent us to Rome and then to Istanbul. I don’t want Charles’s legacy to be lost, and I’ll bet you don’t, either.”

Tears rolled down Robin’s cheeks. “You killed him.” She increased her furious pace.

As they exited through the park gates, Judd said, “They’re suspicious of you, aren’t they, Robin? Did they make you shave your head to see whether you had a tattoo, too?”

“Magus shaved it,” she blurted.

“Who’s Magus?” Judd asked instantly.

She shook her head, then tugged the wig back into place.

“Where exactly is The Book of Spies?” Judd said. “With the money we pay you, you can disappear. Start a new life. Find happiness again. Tell us where the book is, and we’ll get you out of here.”

“You lied to me! I’ve had enough of people lying to me. I was stupid to have believed you have the money or you’d give it to me anyway. Leave me alone. I’m not going to help you. Charles never loved you, Eva. Never!”

Moving at an increasingly fast clip, the three continued on. Robin’s body was rigid, her expression intransigent. Judd was beginning to think there was nothing they could say to persuade her to give them The Book of Spies.

“You may be right about Charles.” Eva moved closer to her as they entered the wide pedestrian boulevard of Dionysiou Areopagitou.

“Of course I’m right. I’ll bet you never loved him, either. And then you murdered him. I’m through working with liars and murderers!”

Just then the toe of Eva’s tennis shoe caught on a cobblestone. She stumbled into Robin, her hands sliding over her as she tried to stabilize herself.

Robin pushed her away. “I hate you.” She ran again.

They watched as she dodged pedestrians and disappeared into the crowd.

“What did you get?” Judd asked, knowing Eva had pulled her pickpocket routine.

“A billfold, a cell phone, and a key. She said The Book of Spies was in a Metro station, which means it’s probably in a locker. This looks like a locker key.” She held it up.

He took the key and read the number. “It does. But which station?”

“You said it was nearby,” she explained, “and she didn’t object. It’s got to be the Acropolis station. It’s only a couple of blocks away.”

56

PRESTON RECOGNIZED Robin Miller’s gait, the one aspect of the body most people forgot to disguise. He had noticed her as she had rushed down Dionysiou Areopagitou a half block from where she had ended her last cell call, but her hair and clothing had almost fooled him. Then as she passed, he had clearly seen her walk, the rhythmic shifts of her body, the short stride, the way she put weight on the outside of her soles.

He signaled Magus and Jerome, and all three ran after her.

Preston grabbed her arm. “We’ve missed you, Robin.”

Terror filled her eyes. “Let me go.” She tried to wrench free.

“Magus,” Preston said.

Magus took her other arm, and they moved her to the side of the pedestrian boulevard. She started to struggle.

“Stop it,” he ordered. “All we want is The Book of Spies. That isn’t so hard now, is it?”

“And then you’ll kill me.”

“For what reason? There’s nothing you can do to hurt us. You don’t know where the library is. In fact, you know very little, do you?”

Her eyebrows lifted. She seemed to understand what he really meant. “You’re right. I don’t know anything about the library. Who works there, who owns it.”

“Good girl.”

He told Jerome to stand lookout at the beginning of a drive between two apartment buildings.

“Why do we have to go in here?” She gazed worriedly back over her shoulder as they took her down the drive.

Ahead was a parking lot, well lit, but empty of people. There was no one at the windows above.

“You don’t want to be seen with us,” he said. “That way there’ll be no questions by anyone. You’re on your own now. No more baggage from the past, right?”

She looked up at him, seemingly confused by his being understanding.

“Where’s the book?” He put warmth into his tone. “Tell us, and we’ll leave you here. There’s only one other thing you have to do-give us a five-minute head start and go that way.” He nodded to a walk that skirted the rear of the buildings.

“You’re actually not planning to shoot me?”

“I’m sure you’ve figured out by now I’m a practical man. We’re in the middle of Athens. Dead bodies mean police questions. You’ll notice I haven’t unholstered my weapon.”

“You’ll try to find me later.”

“Why bother if I have the book?”

She peered at him a long time, then nodded agreement. “It’s in the Acropolis Metro station. I have the key to the locker.” She shook her arm, and he released it. As she slid a hand into her shirt pocket, a look of shock crossed her face.

Controlling his impatience, he said, “Maybe you put it into another pocket.”

Magus freed her other arm, and she frantically searched her trousers and then her other shirt pocket.

“It’s gone,” she said. “My billfold and cell phone are gone, too. I don’t see how all of them could’ve fallen out-”

“What else happened?” he asked instantly.

“Maybe Eva Blake or Judd Ryder took them somehow.” She looked away. “I met them. But I didn’t tell them anything. They don’t know the book is in a locker in the Acropolis station.”

With effort, he kept his voice calm, reassuring. “That’s good. You made a mistake, and then you corrected it by not giving more information. Where are they staying, and where are they going next?”

“I don’t know. I ran away from them.”

“That was smart, but then I’ve always admired your intelligence. I’ll bet you remember the locker number.”

“Of course.” She gave it to him.

“You’re certain that’s correct?”

“Of course I am.”

“As a reward, I have a little gift for you.” He smiled as her eyes widened. He took out a small blue bottle, flipped off the lid, and pressed the nozzle, spraying directly into her face.

She gasped and stepped away. Too late. He let her continue to walk, watching as she slowed and her knees buckled. He surveyed the parking lot and then the windows above. No one was in sight.

A fist against her chest, she sank to the ground, her oversize shirt billowing around her. Her legs spasmed. A quiet, unobtrusive death was one of the great advantages of the Rauwolfia serpentina derivative.

Glancing down the drive to Jerome, who nodded that all was well, Preston knelt over her, searching her clothes. He found a thick envelope inside her waistband and handed it up to Magus.

“Tell me what’s inside.” He continued to hunt but found nothing more.

Magus let out a low whistle. “She’s got one pack load of euros in here.”

Preston stood and took the envelope. “We’ve got to move fast. Watch for Judd Ryder and Eva Blake.”

THE ACROPOLIS Metro station was on Makrigianni Street, across from lively cafés and snack bars and next to the Acropolis Study Center. Scanning everywhere, Preston and his men rushed inside the sleek station and ran down an escalator. At the base, they hurried past casts of the Parthenon friezes and stopped at the electronic ticketing machines. Two more escalators down, and they found the lockers.

As a Metro train whined to a stop, Preston ran along the lockers, alternately studying the boarding passengers and reading locker numbers until he found the correct one. His men converged to stand on either side, blocking anyone from being able to see as he took out his knife and quickly jimmied the tall door open.

And stared inside. There was no black backpack. No Book of Spies. On the bottom was Robin’s roll-aboard, and on the shelf above lay her cell phone-open and turned on. Furious, he realized Ryder must have figured out they would use the cell to locate them. Ryder had The Book of Spies and was taunting him.

Preston grabbed the phone, slammed shut the locker, and turned. A bell rang, signaling the train’s doors were about to close.

“Run,” he ordered.

He and his men raced to different doors and leaped inside. Since they were underground, he could not call the other men he had brought to Athens and order them to watch the next stops. As the train pulled out, he noted his car was a little more than half full. Quickly he walked down the aisle, but he did not see Ryder or Blake. He spotted two backpacks-one was brown and the other green.

He checked Robin’s cell, hoping for Judd Ryder’s phone number. And swore. Ryder had wiped it clean. Blood pulsing with anger, he pushed through the door and entered the next car, determined to find them.

57

FIGHTING TENSION, Judd sat across the aisle and four rows back from Eva as the Metro sped north through the underground tunnel. He was alone in his seat, while she was sitting beside a boy of about thirteen, who wore a red-and-white striped Olympiakos soccer shirt.

They had seen Preston arrive at the lockers with two men. One of them, dark-haired and beefy, had walked up and down their car twice, eying passengers as if he knew exactly for whom he was searching. But besides having black hair, Eva’s face and hands were also darkened by makeup. Her eyes squinted, and a thin line of cotton slightly fattened her upper lip. Small changes could be transformational, and she now looked little like the sophisticated intellectual Judd had first seen in the British Museum. Besides his bleached hair and glasses, Judd had stuck folded cotton squares above his upper molars and had adopted a hangdog appearance.

At last the beefy man exited the car, but Preston entered, his tall muscular frame looming, his expression inscrutable. He gazed carefully at each passenger, walking slowly.

A stout woman in a black dress, her purse held firmly in both hands on her lap, spoke sharply to him in Greek. Ignoring her, he continued on, pausing at Eva’s row.

“Who are you looking for?” the boy asked Preston curiously in Greek-accented English.

Preston did not answer. He peered at the duffel bag under the youth’s legs but then turned to study an older couple bundled in trench coats. When he reached Judd, Judd was leaning his head against the cool glass window, his eyes heavy as he stared out into the monotonous tunnel. Finally Preston moved on again.

The men continued to walk through the car, slower each time, but they never seemed to identify Eva or him. Ten minutes later the Metro pulled into the Syntagma Square station, and Judd watched Eva lean toward the boy and whisper. He smiled and nodded. As the train stopped, they stood, and she preceded him out of the car. He was carrying Judd’s duffel.

Judd let the older couple and another passenger feed in, and then he left, too, keeping his place in the crowd.

Preston and his two men were standing at the exit, scrutinizing everyone again. As the train left the station, Eva and the boy chatted animatedly in Greek. Preston’s eyes flickered over them, then paused to stare a long time at Eva as they walked past. Judd found himself holding his breath.

But again Preston turned, and he checked the older couple in their body-covering trench coats. Finally he settled on Judd. Judd made no eye contact; it was a sure way to attract interest. Expression unchanged, Preston peered behind him, and with relief Judd stepped onto the escalator.

The station was as glossy and modern as the one at the Acropolis stop. It, too, was a museum, with ancient urns, perfume bottles, and bells on display in lighted glass cases. Judd hurried past them, following Eva and the boy up two more escalators and out into the city’s cooling night.

At the curb, Eva looked back at Judd through the crowd. Glancing carefully around, he nodded. She spoke again to the youth and then took the duffel bag from him. He walked away.

Watching a moment to make certain the boy was all right, Judd joined her at the taxi stand, and she handed over the bag.

“My God.” She beamed. “That was exhilarating.”

Her blue eyes were bright, and she chuckled. She looked very alive, as if she had hit the winning home run in the World Series. He suddenly realized how well she had handled events tonight, sliding unasked into the shadow of the marble block across from the Theater of Dionysus, not inflaming Robin further by admitting he had been the one who had shot Charles, and coming up with the idea to ask the Greek boy to help her onto the Metro train with the duffel with the excuse her back ached.

But then Eva had spent two years in a pickpocket gang. She knew what it was to set up and act in a movie, and what it was like to be under the constant threat of discovery. The two years in prison had taught her more-how to go deep inside herself to survive and, despite the circumstances, to take risks. Now she’d had her crisis of conscience and committed herself to the mission. He was not sure he liked what he saw now.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked hopefully.

Her face broke into a smile, and she laughed.

He had been scanning as they stood in line, the rumble of Athens’s wild traffic beside them, filling all three lanes. Eva tugged his sleeve just as he spotted Preston and his two men hurrying toward them from the Metro station. There was no hesitation-the men had pinpointed them. They were drawing their pistols.

“Come on.” Judd pushed past the two people ahead of them.

A taxi was pulling up. He yanked open the rear door, and Eva threw herself inside. He tossed in the duffel and dropped in next to her as she told the driver in Greek to leave quickly. It was a one-way street, so there was no way they could do a U-turn. They would have to drive past Preston.

“Get down,” Judd snapped as the vehicle rushed off.

They fell low. Shots rang out, and rounds slashed through the doors and roof. Metal and plastic sliced through the air. The driver swore loudly, and the car hurtled faster. More bullets cut through the taxi, and then there was no feel of acceleration. Judd looked up just in time to see the driver collapse silently onto his side, sprawling across the front seat.

“Jesus.”

“What’s happened?” Eva asked quickly.

The vehicle slowed. It wove from side to side. Horns honked, and drivers shouted as they swerved their cars to get out of the way. The cars behind were signaling, trying to pass.

“The driver’s been shot. Stay down,” Judd ordered.

Preston was racing along the curb after them, his two men on his heels. They would reach the taxi much too soon.

Judd snatched out his Beretta. “Keep my door open until I get to the driver’s side.”

Her eyes wide, Eva nodded.

He opened his door. Hunching, he sprinted along the still-moving cab. Rounds crashed through the door and bit into the pavement around his feet, exploding needle-sharp shards. Suddenly hot pain sliced across his side and burned up into his brain. He fought dizziness.

As he rounded the hood, he saw through the windshield Preston had jammed his gun into the open passenger window of a tall SUV four cars behind, all rolling slowly, unable to pass in the fast traffic in the other lane.

As the three men took over the big vehicle, Judd jerked open the driver’s door, and Eva closed the one in back. Still running, he shoved the downed taximan across the seat, causing a scalding pain to split up from his side. He gave his head a quick shake and dropped inside. There was an open stretch ahead. He floored the gas feed, his door slamming itself shut. He pressed his forearm against the gunshot wound in his side, trying to slow the blood.

“Is he alive?” Eva leaned over the front seat.

“Get down, dammit.”

Behind them, one of Preston’s men had his pistol out the window of the hijacked SUV, aiming over the roofs of the vehicles between them. There was a vegetable truck in the other lane. Judd accelerated, overtaking it. He signaled. The truck continued its lumbering speed. He spun the steering wheel, forcing the taxi’s nose into the lane in front of the truck. The truck’s horn blasted. He heard a loud curse, but the truck gave way, and he slid the taxi into the slot just as the traffic light turned red. There were cars between him and it. No way to run the red light, and Preston’s SUV was coming up swiftly on the right.

“Grab the duffel. We’ve got to get out of here. My side of the cab.”

With the taxi still rolling, they stepped out and ran through the traffic. Cars swerved. More horns honked. As they reached the sidewalk, Judd tried to take the duffel.

But Eva held on to it, staring at his bloody jacket. “You’re wounded.” She looked around quickly. “I know where we are. This way.”

He holstered his Beretta, pressed his arm against the wound again, and followed as she moved swiftly among pedestrians. The noise of idling engines filled his head. Stores were alight, shoppers showing through the windows.

“Preston’s coming,” he told her.

She hurried inside a large store selling casual clothes. Racks and stacks of women’s jeans, shirts, and dresses marched back deep into the building. A saleswoman greeted them in English. Eva said hello and kept walking. Judd felt the eyes of the clerks looking after them.

As the stove’s front door opened and Preston and his men entered, Eva led Judd into a hallway at the rear. They ran past changing rooms. She turned a doorknob, and they were out again in the night, this time in a cobbled alleyway where trash cans and empty packing boxes were stacked against the walls.

Running, they passed doors.

“Open this one,” she told him. “I’ll do the next.” She leaned over and snatched up two pieces of broken cobblestone. “Prop the door.”

His door led into some kind a restaurant, the spicy odor of sauteeing garlic wafting out. He dropped the rock, leaving the door ajar. And met her as she nicked her rock into place. Without a word she ran again and opened a third door. They rushed inside to a short corridor where there were bathrooms. The noise of voices and clinking glasses assaulted them. They were in a bar.

Bolting the door, she took a deep breath. “How badly are you hurt?” She looked up at him, her face full of worry.

“I think it’s superficial.”

“I hope like hell you’re right.”

As they walked quickly into the long, crowded room, he chuckled. “Where did you learn a distraction technique like that with the doors?”

She smiled at the bartender as they passed. “A long time ago, in a city far, far away, to paraphrase Star Trek.”

“In other words L.A. We need to make sure one of those killers isn’t posted on the sidewalk.”

His hand inside his jacket on the hilt of his pistol, he stepped outside first, looking through the pedestrians. She stood behind him in the doorway.

“Looks good.” He felt his heart rate decelerate.

“I’ll get us a taxi,” she told him.

He let her do it.

58

TUCKER ANDERSEN paced the room in the Hotel Hecate. Judd had left an envelope containing the card key at the front desk for him. After checking in to a room for himself, he had come here to theirs. Waiting two hours, he had been reading Charles Sherback’s notebook. When he heard the click of a card key in the lock, he pulled out his Browning, slipped into the bathroom, and stood behind the door.

Watching through the crack, he saw the door open slowly and the head of a bleached-blond man appear, gray eyes surveying the room.

Tucker stepped out. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Sightseeing.” Carrying a paper sack from a pharmacy, Judd walked in, his gait easy. But there was a sea of blood down the side of his brown jacket.

Eva slipped in behind him and closed and bolted the door. “Glad you’re here, Tucker. We’ve had a few problems. Preston shot Judd, but we got The Book of Spies. Robin Miller had it stored in a Metro locker.”

She set a large black duffel bag on the table, then took the sack from Judd and dumped out bandages and other supplies. The aspirin and over-the-counter painkillers had been opened.

“That’s very good,” Tucker said. “Congratulations. Don’t lie down, Judd. Let’s have a look at your side.”

As Judd removed his jacket and peeled off his polo shirt, Tucker took in Eva’s black hair and darkened skin and peered from one to the other and back again, assessing the atmosphere. They radiated tired urgency-and they had become a close team.

As soon as Judd’s torso was exposed, Tucker and Eva converged. The injury was a raw red gash through the fleshy part of his waist-long, a good half inch deep, and weeping blood.

“You got lucky, Judd.” Tucker saw Eva head for the medical supplies on the table. “Have you ever cleaned and sewn a wound?” he asked her.

She turned. “No.”

“Okay. Judd, take off your jeans and come into the bathroom. Let’s get started.” He wondered whether Eva would turn out to be squeamish.

He grabbed sterile latex gloves, sterile cotton, anesthetic spray, and antibiotic soap. In the bathroom, he told Judd to sit straddling the edge of the tub. As Eva watched, he put on the gloves, sprayed on the anesthetic, waited, then squirted the soap inside and around the gash, patting and rubbing gently. Judd made no sound, although Tucker knew it must hurt like hell. He poured glasses of water over the injury, washing it for three minutes. Then he dried Judd’s side with cotton and his leg with a towel. He glanced up at Eva. She was following intently.

When they returned to the room, Judd sat on a chair and swallowed more painkillers. His face was pale. Tucker sprayed on more anesthetic, found the right size needle from the supplies, and held it over the flame of a match. After threading fishing line into it, he ran the antibiotic cream over it and laid a thick line of cream inside the wound.

“Time for more pain,” he warned.

Judd nodded. “Do your worst.”

“The idea is to sew as far away from the cut as the injury is deep,” he told Eva. “Then you cut the line and tie a knot every quarter inch.”

He heard small noises in Judd’s throat as he worked, but Judd did not move. When he finished, the younger spy’s face dripped sweat.

Judd sighed deeply and looked up at Eva. She smiled at him.

Tucker taped on a thick sterile bandage. “Go lie down,” he ordered.

Judd did, stretching out and propping up his head on pillows. Eva took the quilt off her bed and covered him.

“You look comfortable,” she said.

“I’m enjoying myself.” He grinned, but his sweaty skin was pasty.

“Good,” Tucker said. “Let’s get to business. Report.”

Going to the duffel bag, Eva described Robin’s phone call, Judd’s meeting her at the Theater of Dionysus, and Robin’s running off.

“Eva got the key to the Metro locker from Robin.” Judd gave Eva a proud glance. “She pickpocketed her, did it so well Robin didn’t have a clue.”

“What happened to Robin?”

“We don’t know.” Eva opened the duffel. “She wasn’t with Preston when he arrived at the Metro with three men.”

“I suspect once he got the information from her about where she’d stashed Spies, he killed her,” Judd said.

They were silent a moment.

“A nice Greek boy was helping me with the duffel on the Metro,” Eva said. “Judd and I were split up, and the ride turned out to be safe. After that the men followed us out. We were escaping when Judd was shot. I’m not sure how they identified us.”

“I doubt it was electronically,” Judd said.

“He’s right. My cell phone’s gone, and there’s no way Preston could’ve bugged either of us. He was never close enough.”

“Training of some kind,” Tucker decided.

Eva opened the bag and with both hands lifted out a foam-covered bundle. “This is The Book of Spies.” She carried it to her bed and removed layers of foam. “Robin told us the library was on a private island, only one other island visible in the far distance. Three buildings, tennis courts, a swimming pool, and a helipad. She was flown from Athens with a hood on, but at least that gives us a radius. The problem is it’s a big radius. The island could be anywhere from the Black Sea to the Aegean, Ionian, or Mediterranean seas. And there’s a vast number of islands; Greece has more than two thousand, and many are private. The other piece of information you should know is tomorrow night is the library’s annual banquet, so there’ll be a lot of security on the island, wherever it is.”

She went into the bathroom and washed her hands.

Moving slowly, Judd sat up on the edge of the bed to watch as she unwrapped transparent polyethylene sheeting. His color was returning to normal, and a sense of hope infused the room. Tucker joined him, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. At last only the archival polyester film remained. The golden cover of the illuminated manuscript shone through.

Eva peeled back the film. “Ah,” she breathed.

They stared, silenced by the dramatic artistry of the softly glowing gold, the pearl dagger, the ruby drop of blood, the emerald border. The first time Tucker had seen the book, he had been bowled over. He was still awed.

“I can’t believe you took off one of the emeralds so you could bug the book, Tucker,” Eva scolded.

“I’ve still got it. We can glue it back on.”

“It’s a desecration. If the bug hadn’t helped us find the book, I’d really be mad.” But she smiled.

He found himself smiling back. “Being a heathen goes with the job.”

Eva sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the men, her back to them, facing the book. “Tell me, oh Book of Spies, where inside you is the secret to the Library of Gold?” She turned the pages slowly.

They studied the progression of extravagant pictures, beautiful Cyrillic letters, stunning borders. As time passed, Tucker stood up and stretched, then sat again to focus. More pages turned until at last they reached the end of the book-four hundred parchment pages. There was nothing unusual, no contemporary writing, no sign the book had been tampered with at all.

Tucker paced. “I was reading Charles’s notebook before you got here, hoping he’d left the answer there.”

“I know. Both of us have studied it, too.” Eva stood up and went to Judd’s jeans, fishing out a billfold. “This is Robin’s. Maybe she was lying to us about not knowing where the library is.”

“I’m going to call NSA,” Judd announced. “Hand me my mobile please, Eva.”

Eva reached into his jacket pocket and carried it and the billfold to the bed. As Judd phoned and gave a description of the island, she spread out the billfold’s contents-euros, a photo of Charles, and a photo of Edinburgh. Tucker and she inspected everything closely but found nothing useful.

Judd ended the call. “They’ll get back to me as soon as they have some information.”

“How are you feeling, Judd?” she asked.

“Better. Definitely better,” Judd said. “How about another hit of pain pills?”

Shaking his head at Judd’s lie, Tucker got them for him. “I’m going to order food. We need to eat. It’ll help us to think.”

“I’m hungry, too,” Eva said. “I’d love a bottle of retsina with dinner. I’ll take my shower now.” She studied Judd a moment then went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Tucker picked up the phone. “What do you want to eat?”

“Anything. Just order.”

As Tucker did, Judd closed the book and examined the binding and spine. At last he shook his head and set it back down. Then he lay on the bed again, pulling the quilt over him.

“Good thing Eva’s with us,” he said. “She knows what to look for.”

“How’s everything going between you two?”

“Fine.”

“You like Eva.”

“Not the way you mean. Don’t worry. No fraternizing.”

Tucker thought about how he had met his own wife. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I won’t let it interfere with the job.” His expression toughened. “They killed Dad.”

“I remember. I also know you lost a woman who was very important to you in Iraq. You almost got busted out of the army for going after her killer.”

Judd gazed evenly at him. “That was a long time ago.”

“Was it?”

The bathroom door opened, and Eva walked out, so clean she glistened. Her cobalt blue eyes seemed brighter, and her lanky frame more curvaceous. She exuded sexuality but seemed unaware of it.

“Is dinner here yet? I’m starving.” She gazed happily at both men.

Judd looked away.

LATER, AT the table beside the radiator, they ate braised cuttlefish fresh from the docks at Piraeus, the city’s seaport a few miles away, accompanied by mushroom pilaf, grilled red and green peppers, and fiery kopanistopita, filo triangles stuffed with spicy cheese. The wine was retsina, as Eva had requested.

“Tastes like pine resin.” Tucker rotated the glass in his hand, inspecting the deep red color.

“It’s the wine of Greece,” she said. “I haven’t had any this good in years. The reason for the name and the taste is the ancient Greeks knew air was the enemy of wine, so they used pine resin to seal the tops of the amphorae and even added it to the wine itself.”

“I like it, too.” But Judd had hardly touched his. He turned to Tucker. “What’s the situation in Washington?”

Tucker put down his fork. “I talked to Gloria before I took off from Baltimore. The fellow who tried to wipe me is in Catapult’s basement. She managed to get him downstairs without anyone’s seeing. She’s the only one who knows what’s going on.”

“Thank God for Gloria,” Judd said. “Eva, let’s talk about Charles, about what he told you in London. Maybe he gave you another clue to where the Library of Gold is, but you just didn’t recognize it at the time.”

She repeated their conversation, and the two men listened closely. At last they sat back.

Tucker shook his head. “Nothing.”

Continuing to analyze, they finished dinner. Afterward, Eva sat on her bed, again going through The Book of Spies. NSA called Judd and gave him a list of four islands in the Ionian, Aegean, and Mediterranean seas that met or were close to Robin’s description. But which of the four?

As they were puzzling over the list, Judd’s mobile rang. They watched as he snapped it up.

“Hello, Bash. What’s happened?” Judd’s square face grew grim as he listened to the Catapult man in Rome. Then: “Stay on it. Let me know as soon as you learn anything.”

Tucker and Eva were silent. It was obvious the news was bad.

When he ended the connection, Judd told them, “Yitzhak and Roberto are missing. Bash called every morning in case they needed anything, but they didn’t answer today. He went over to their flat. It’d been torn apart, searched. At least there wasn’t any blood. He talked to the neighbors. One saw Yitzhak and Roberto walking away with two men who fit the description of two of the janitors who were outside Yitzhak’s house when the Charboniers attacked us. Then Bash checked with the university where Yitzhak is a professor. The department secretary told him he had phoned yesterday for her to find a teaching replacement because he was going out of town. She had a package for him from the Vatican Library, so she sent it with a student. Yitzhak met him outside a trattoria. That’s the last time anyone from the university saw him.”

“No,” Eva said.

“Jesus.” Tucker sat back in his chair. “The Library of Gold people have them.”

59

THE EVENING was just beginning. It was only ten o’clock, but Alexander’s was already packed with patrons. The leather bar stools were filled, and people stood behind, drinking. Voted by Forbes magazine the best hotel bar in the world, Alexander’s boasted marble-topped tables, beach-umbrella palms, and an eighteenth-century tapestry of victorious Alexander the Great, hanging across the wall behind the long bar. Of course the clientele was the best in the city and from abroad. The aroma of rich liquors and designer perfumes scented the air

Martin Chapman was drinking Loch Dhu, the only black whiskey with a mellow charcoal aftertaste. He savored the rich flavor, felt the heat. After dinner in Churchill’s with his wife and Keith and Cecilia Dunbar-investors in shopping malls Chapman & Associates was building in Moscow-the four had moved to a central spot in the bar where they could be seen. Chapman estimated some $30 billion was sitting around their table alone.

“Ah, no,” Keith was saying. “The Grand Caymans are perhaps fine for the untutored. But I far prefer Liechtenstein for my money.”

“What about Britain’s Channel Islands?” Shelly asked with a glance at Chapman, showing him she knew a thing or two herself.

But as Keith launched into an explanation, Chapman’s cell phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and saw Preston was calling. Excusing himself, he wound off through the crowd, feeling Shelly’s dark look on his back.

“Yes?” he answered, hoping for good news.

“I’m outside the hotel, sir. I’ll be waiting.”

The connection went dead. Chapman’s lungs tightened, and he marched through the lobby. The massive front doors opened, and he hurried out and down the steps. The dark night air enveloped him. Preston was across the street, in the plaza.

“How bad is it?” Chapman asked as he joined him.

Preston showed no signs of a fight-his clothes neat, his hair combed, his face and hands clean-but he radiated disgust as he stood between pools of lamplight. They walked off together.

“It’s not an entire disaster,” Preston said. “I terminated Robin Miller with the Rauwolfia spray. I thought you’d enjoy that.”

The drug was a derivative of Rauwolfia serpentina, developed at Bucknell Technologies under Jonathan Ryder. It depressed the central nervous system and killed in seconds. Vanishing from the body in minutes, it was named for Leonhard Rauwolf, a sixteenth-century German botanist whose notes Jonathan had discovered in one of the Library of Gold’s illuminated manuscripts on trees, plants, and herbs. Preston was right. It was appropriate one of Jonathan’s creations had been the instrument of a successful step in a business deal he had tried to stop.

“The problem is we didn’t get The Book of Spies.” Preston’s lips thinned as he described what had happened. “I managed to wound Judd Ryder.”

“How did you identify Eva Blake?” Chapman asked.

“At first I didn’t. Then when the Metro stopped, she passed me at the exit, and I thought I recognized her walk from when I studied her in L.A. I watched from the window as she went outside. She took a duffel bag big enough to hold The Book of Spies from the kid who’d been sitting next to her, and then a man met her-he was the right size and age to be Ryder.” He filled in more details.

Chapman’s mind worked furiously. “In Istanbul you found out from Yakimovich that the old librarian wrote the library’s location in the book. As long as the book’s in circulation, we could have serious trouble. And God knows whether there are other clues out there somewhere. We can’t take the chance Ryder, Blake, or someone else will find the library. Phone Carolyn Magura to get ready. How long will it take to move the library?”

Ten years ago the book club had decided that electronic monitoring and international communications were advancing so rapidly that discovery of the island could become a problem. It was time to find a backup home. A remote area in the Swiss Alps on a glacier-fed lake north of Gimmelwald had been perfect. The place had been ready for years, managed by a skeleton crew.

“Yes, sir. I’ll get everything ready,” Preston said. “Figure a day and a half.”

“Tomorrow night’s banquet will be our last on the island. A fitting end to a good long run. Plan to move out the next morning.” For a moment nostalgia swept through him. Then worry returned. “What about the Carnivore. Have you found him?”

“Mr. Lindström’s computer chief hasn’t been able to track him.”

“Christ. Has your man in Washington eliminated Tucker Andersen yet?”

Preston paused. “Both have vanished. We’re looking for them.”

Chapman controlled his temper. “You do that. I’m going to move against Catapult. We can’t afford to let the situation in Washington get any worse than it is.”

60

Washington, D.C.

IT HAD been a long day at Catapult, and Gloria Feit was clearing her desk to leave. The usual office chatter sounded from the corridors. As she folded her reading glasses, she noticed a soft sound as the door behind her opened. She turned.

“I need to see you, Gloria.” Hudson Canon’s bulldog face vanished back inside his office.

With a quiver of uneasiness, she walked after him.

“Close the door and sit down.” He was already settled behind his desk, his big hands splayed on top.

She thought for a moment about the man in the basement who had tried to erase Tucker, but she had taken the spare keys to the door from the lockbox and they were safely in her purse. There was no way Canon or anyone else knew the man was down there. He would not talk, but he was eating like an elephant.

She settled herself into one of the chairs facing the desk, crossed her legs casually, and put a pleasant smile on her face.

“What can I do for you, boss?”

“Where’s Tucker?” The question was abrupt, the tone full of authority.

She gave a little frown. “He hasn’t returned. That’s all I know.”

“When he called in, what did he say?”

That took her aback. How did Canon know Tucker had phoned from the grocery store to have her pick up his attacker, and later from the Baltimore airport? Then she realized he could have checked Catapult’s automated phone logs.

“He asked whether I wanted a sandwich from Capitol City market,” she lied. “I told him no. He called a second time, but I don’t know from where. He asked if there were any important messages for him. There weren’t. That was the last I heard. Are you worried something’s happened to him? I don’t think you need to be. He would’ve told me if he was in trouble and needed backup.”

He leaned forward. “What’s he up to?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Is it more of this nonsense about the Library of Gold?”

“Well,” she said carefully, “it is the operation he’s focused on. But it’s not the only one he’s managing, of course.”

“That operation is over. You and I both know that that’s what he’s working on. He’s disobeying a direct order.”

The force of his intensity shook her. “I haven’t heard anything about any of that.”

“So Tucker didn’t tell you he had a deadline. Now you’re informed. It’s your duty to help find him. The Senate subcommittee on intelligence is investigating waste in the CIA. They’re meeting tomorrow. I had to tell Matt about Tucker. It’s minor in some ways, but it’s the sort of thing they’re looking into. It won’t be good for Tucker. He needs to report in.”

Matt Kelley, head of the Clandestine Service, was an old friend of Tucker’s. It seemed impossible he would report or reprimand Tucker for something so small.

“It’s less than minor,” Gloria insisted. “My God, if we held our breath over every incident like this with one of our officers, we’d all die of asphyxiation. We have to rely on their being self-starters, entrepreneurial.”

Canon shook his big head. “One of the senators knows about it. She sits on the subcommittee. She’s got a bone between her teeth, and she’s not letting go. She wants Tucker.”

“How did she hear?” she asked, shocked.

“God knows,” he snapped back. “But that’s the situation. We don’t want Tucker to be burned. Where is he? What’s he doing?”

She was silent, remembering her long history with the spymaster. She had always trusted him, and he had always trusted her. And all the evidence pointed to Hudson Canon’s being dirty. Still, he did not sound dirty.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Hudson. If I knew where Tucker was, I’d say so.”

He stared. “You’d damn well better tell me if you hear anything. Go home and think. Think hard. We’ve got to find Tucker.”

HUDSON CANON stood in front of the mirror in his office, adjusting his tie. His face seemed pale. He slapped both cheeks. When the color returned, he cracked open his door. Gloria was gone. Good. He marched down the corridor, stopping in offices, asking whether anyone had had contact with Tucker or knew where he was. All claimed ignorance. Finally he went into Tucker’s office and closed the door. He searched the desk and the file cabinets. In the bottom drawer, he found a bottle of whiskey. He opened it and drank deeply. At least he had uncovered something useful.

Wiping his mouth, he went down the corridor again, repeating his questions and again getting nothing. Then he stepped inside the communications center and stopped at every desk until he reached Debi Watson.

“Where’s Tucker?” he asked her.

She peered up, her large eyes wide. “I don’t know, suh.”

“When’s the last time you talked with him?”

“Yesterday. It was just the usual instructions.”

He fought impatience. “What were they?”

“To track a cell phone number. I turned it over to NSA.”

“Call NSA.”

Quickly she picked up her phone and dialed.

“I’ll take that.” He snapped the phone from her hands. “This is Hudson Canon. Tell me exactly what you’ve been doing for Tucker Andersen.”

“Just a minute. Let me get into that file.” The man on the other end of the line paused. “All right, here it is. We traced a cell phone number for him. It was last turned on in the Acropolis Metro station in Athens. I reported the information to Judd Ryder. Then I got a call to locate an island for them. I found four.”

An island? That was something Canon knew nothing about. Still, he felt a moment of relief. At least he had something to tell Reinhardt Gruen: Judd Ryder was in Athens and had received information directly from NSA. “You obviously have Tucker Andersen’s and Judd Ryder’s mobile numbers. I need to know exactly where both are.”

“I’ll have to get back to you. I’ve got to go through NRO, you know, and if Ryder and Andersen are using secure mobiles, it’ll take some time.”

Canon gave him his number. “As soon as you get the information, call me immediately. And I mean immediately.”

61

Athens, Greece

DAZZLING MORNING sunlight illuminated the quiet hotel room. As Judd slept, Eva lay back down on her bed, dressed again in her jeans and green shirt. Tense, she threw her arms above her head and stared out the window as a redtail hawk circled lazily against the blue sky. She’d had a restless night, awaking and drowsing, then awaking again, haunted by a sense she already knew where in The Book of Spies the librarian had likely written the Library of Gold’s location-if she could just figure it out.

“How long have you been awake?”

She turned her head. Judd was staring at her, gray eyes sleepy, bleached hair messy. She studied him for any signs of fever.

“Not sure. An hour maybe. How are feeling?” She handed him aspirin, painkillers, and a glass of water.

“Much better. You’ve been thinking.” He propped himself up on an elbow and took the medication.

“Yes. About where in Spies the librarian would’ve left a message. I’ve been going over everything Charles told me again and again, and what I remembered from his notebook. I know I’m close to the answer.”

He was silent. “Too bad Charles didn’t leave a different clue.”

She frowned. “Say that again.”

“Too bad Charles didn’t leave a-”

“Different clue. That’s it.” She sat up excitedly. “I was looking for what we hadn’t used before. Big mistake.” She hurried to the big Book of Spies, which lay closed on the table.

“What are you talking about?” In his T-shirt and shorts, Judd pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

“The reason we shaved Charles’s head was the story about Histiaeus and the slave messenger. So maybe it wasn’t a clue just to check Charles’s scalp; maybe it’s where we’re supposed to look inside Spies, too. I know I saw the story here somewhere.”

She turned pages quickly. Finally, in the middle of the big book, she found the tale on a single page as ornate as the others, decorated with Persian and Greek soldiers along the outside margin. Black Cyrillic letters filled the rest of the space, the text block recounting the ancient narrative.

“I don’t see anything unusual.” Judd stared.

“Me neither. I’m going to translate the story quickly to myself.” As she read, it was soon clear the recounting was much as Herodotus had chronicled it centuries before. Finished, she sat back.

“Nothing?”

She shook her head, then picked up the book. “I need light.”

They sat on the side of her bed, where sunlight streamed through the window. Holding the book open on her lap, she leaned close. In her life as a curator she had learned an old adage was true-the devil was in the details. Now that she had an overview, she studied the spaces between the letters and words and the brushstrokes. When nothing struck her, she moved on to the paintings of soldiers.

She sat up straight. “I think I’ve found it. Look at these, Judd.” She pointed to tiny letters beneath some of the colors.

He leaned close. “They’re almost invisible.”

“They’re meant not to be noticed. They stand for the Latin words the artist who painted them was instructed to use to fill in the line drawings. This v means viridis, or green. So the robe on the slave is painted various shades of green. The r is for ruber, or red-the apples on that tree behind him. And of course the sky is a, azure, for blue.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Then what do lat and long and the numbers with each mean?”

She grinned. “That’s the same question I asked myself. In the first place, I’ve never known anything like three or four letters strung together to indicate a color on a manuscript page. In the second place, neither is a Latin word.”

He grinned back. “Since we’re looking for the location of the island, I’m guessing they’re abbreviations. Add in the fact there are numbers-latitude and longitude.”

“As Archimedes said, eureka!”

He grabbed his mobile and activated it. “This is where being online gets really useful. Read what you have to me, and we’ll see whether we’re right.”

He lowered the mobile so she could watch the screen. As he tapped the keyboard, Google’s world map appeared, shifted, then shifted again, shrinking to the south Aegean Sea.

His forehead knitted. “Nothing. No island. No atoll. Not even a pile of rocks.”

She felt a chill. “Try again.” She gave him the digits, one at a time.

He entered each carefully. Again the map zeroed in on empty sea. Her shoulders slumped. He tried other public domain maps. The only sound in the room was the clicking of the keyboard. But each map showed the same disheartening results.

They were silent.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she insisted. “The easiest, most direct explanation for the abbreviations and numbers in the book is they’re meridian points. Even if those are old maps, they should show an island.”

He stared at her. “Not true. By God, if I’m right, it’s a real display of the power of the book club.” Again he tapped the keyboard. “Because of terrorism, the government mandated Google and other online map services not show certain places in the world. Sometimes it was a government facility. Other times it was an ‘area of interest’ that was clandestine for one reason or another. Private companies doing defense work could ask the government to make spots off-limits, too.”

“How could the book club get the government to hide their island?”

“An inside source, or maybe someone they bribed. Let’s check this.”

He called up the text message he had received yesterday from NSA, and they read the list of islands that had come close to fitting Robin’s description.

“My God,” Eva breathed as they stared. “One of the islands has the same coordinates as the book has.”

Relieved excitement rushed through her. She flung her arms around Judd’s neck, and he hugged her tight. Feeling the steady beat of his heart, his breath spicy against her ear, she lingered for a moment.

Then pushed away. “You’d better call Tucker.”

The spymaster arrived in minutes, wearing the same rumpled chinos, button-down blue shirt, and sports jacket from the day before. Eva saw the lines on his face were deeper, and the large eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. But his light brown mustache and gray beard were neat, and he radiated hyper alertness.

“You’ve found it?” he said as he bolted the door behind him.

“Damn right she did.” Judd pointed at Eva.

She smiled, pleased. “Took me a while, though.”

They sat around the table, and she explained how they had discovered the answer.

“I’ll get back in touch with NSA for the latest satellite photos and data about the island,” Judd said brusquely. “Eva, is your laptop still working, or did it get doused when we were on the yacht?”

“It was in the main pocket of my satchel, so it’s fine.”

“Good. I’ll forward what NSA sends to it.”

“Does the island have a name?” Tucker asked.

“Just a number,” Judd told him.

“Do it,” Tucker ordered. “Now.”

62

Khost Province, Afghanistan

AFTER A large breakfast, Syed Ullah walked out to the front porch of the redbrick villa where he, his wife, and remaining children and grandchildren lived with the wives and children of his four brothers, all of whom had died fighting the Soviets, the Taliban, al-Qaeda, or local clans and tribes.

Restored from rubble on land his family had long owned, the sprawling villa stood two stories above the hard-packed earth. A satellite uplink dish was behind it next to a rusty Soviet T-55 tank. There was a vegetable garden to one side, with apple, peach, and mulberry trees just as there had been when he was a child. He had planted everything in the last few years. The young trees were like the future, he had told his youngest and last remaining son-strong, but they must be protected.

Wearing turbans and wraparound sunglasses, his gunmen prowled around the rebuilt stone wall that surrounded the expansive property. A dozen tribal elders-striking old men with high-bridged noses and the beards of patriarchs-were lining up in front of the porch to pay their respects. At fifty-four, Ullah had fought off and killed his rivals for this position, but that was the way it had been for decades. Men had little food for their bellies but plenty of rounds for their guns. He could hardly remember when it was otherwise.

The warlord sat down on his tall-backed wood chair on his brick front porch. Adjusting his girth, he nibbled sugared almonds as he greeted the elders courteously, accepted their respectful sentiments, adjudicated neighbor disputes, and assured them of his protection. These were men with large families and sons and grandsons and great grandsons whom he needed.

“It is tomorrow night?” the last elder said. There was impatience on his leathery face, indicating he had expected someone to have asked earlier.

“Tonight,” Ullah corrected him, then he addressed the others. “Stay in your houses with your wives. Your sons know what to do.”

And then they were gone, scattering the chickens and marching off into the mountains and down toward the town of some three thousand. In the hills he could see a small U.S. army patrol driving along a dirt road in two armored HMMWVs-Humvees-painted in camouflage colors. A donkey with a high bundle was being led down a treacherous path.

The warlord stood up, a giant of a man, burly and strong, with a fierce face that could easily break into a smile. But that was the strength of the Pashtun-resilience. He took great pride in his heritage of warriors, poets, heroes, jokesters, and warm-hearted hosts. They loved the land and their families. Centuries of being conquered and occupied had changed nothing, only hardening their devotion. His devotion. His family must survive, after that his clan, and then his tribe.

He studied the vast sweep of rugged mountains, where snow glistened on the high slopes. Serpentine ribbons of smoke curled up from houses in the distance, mostly made of mud bricks with thatched roofs. A maze of smoke tendrils rose over the town, where many of the buildings had been pulverized by fighting and raids. Khost province was a crossroads of trade and smuggling, and in the crosshairs of the Taliban and al-Qaeda, who sneaked in from North Waziristan directly across the border in Pakistan. They came under the cover of night to recruit, do business, and murder collaborators, often local police.

On the far side of the town was America’s secret and highly secure forward base, painted in camouflage colors and draped with camouflage netting to make it invisible from above and difficult to see from the land. No smoke trailed upward, since a huge generator gave them all the power they needed.

Lifting his head, Ullah sniffed. He could smell mutton, hearty and sweet, cooking in the villa’s kitchen. A good lunch. Since he had taken control in this war-ravaged area, he and his family ate well, and if it were not for Martin Chapman, he would have even more funds at his disposal-the overseas account Chapman had frozen. Until the poppy harvests in the autumn, he had little income from opium and heroin. He needed Chapman to release his money, and that meant tonight his men would put on the U.S. Army uniforms Chapman had supplied and eliminate about a hundred locals from the town and nearby villages, chosen because of their opposition to him, and recorded by the cameras of friendly tribal newsmen from Pakistan. Finally he would have his money plus Chapman’s payment for buying the land.

Just then the two army Humvees veered toward his villa. His guards turned and lifted their heads, watching, too.

The warlord called into the house for tea and paced along the porch. As the tea arrived on an enameled tray, he sat in his chair.

The Humvees roared into the compound and stopped in a cloud of white dust. Soldiers sat behind the machine guns mounted on each vehicle, their helmets low against the morning sun, their eyes hidden behind black sunglasses.

The forward base’s commander, Capt. Samuel Daradar, jumped down from the passenger seat of the lead vehicle and strode toward him, taking off his cap and running his arm across his forehead.

“Pe kher ragle.” Ullah did not stand, but he welcomed him.

“Mr. Ullah, good to see you,” Captain Daradar answered in Pashto as he climbed the steps. “You are well?” In his early thirties, he had golden skin, clear black eyes, and a sober expression.

“Yes, thanks to Allah’s blessings. You will honor me by joining me for tea?”

“Of course. I appreciate your hospitality.”

AS HIS men waited in the Humvees, Sam Daradar took the other chair, the seat and back lower than the warlord’s. It was as if he were sitting next to a king on a throne. He would have found Ullah’s little reminders of power amusing, except each was a deadly signal of the complex weave of loyalties and vendettas among Pashtun tribes, and that Afghans in general were often far more antiforeign than the West was capable of understanding.

“You are patrolling,” the warlord said, showing benign interest. “Have you found anything?” He poured tea into cups on the wood table between them.

“Nothing but the wind, the sky, and the earth.” Sam gave a short smile.

“Spoken like a true Pashtun. I will never understand why your family moved to the United States.”

“We have our wide-open spaces, too. Visit me in Arizona sometime. I’ll show you the Grand Canyon.” The captain sipped tea. “I got an update today I thought you’d like to hear. Since you helped us oust the Taliban and al-Qaeda, there are two thousand new clinics and schools across the country, jobs are being created constantly, and the bazaar in Khost is completely rebuilt. Nearly seven million children have been educated through primary school, the new central bank is solid, and the currency is stable.”

“It is all good,” Ullah said. “I am pleased.” He smiled, showing a row of thick white teeth. “Still, there are many problems. Look around you. Such poverty. My people go hungry. It is the corruption in Kabul. No one can solve that.”

It was also Ullah’s corruption, but Sam was not about to say that. Developing countries tended to have relatively effective central banks and armies but corrupt and despised police forces, and Afghanistan was no exception. Corruption was also why it was easier to build roads than to create law and order, easier to build a school than a state. No amount of education could help a judge faced with drug kingpins prepared to murder his family. It was almost impossible for outsiders to reform this kind of system, and although Ullah liked to think of himself as operating independently from Kabul, he was part of a very broken system.

“I’m concerned about rumors there are Taliban here today,” Sam told him.

“Ah, so that is why I have been honored.”

“And that some sort of action is in the works, with or without the Taliban.”

The Taliban were mostly Pashtuns, and both, like al-Qaeda, were Sunni Muslims. In a country where men with guns reinvented themselves in loyalty to every new power that came along, it was inevitable former Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters were in their ranks. Even Ullah had once pronounced himself Taliban-until the Taliban had outlawed the drug trade when they took over the country. After that, they were his enemy.

“It is Pakistan’ fault,” the warlord announced. “They should keep the Taliban from crossing the border. They invented them.”

“I agree, but neither Pakistan or Afghanistan is succeeding,” Sam said mildly. “I know you want nothing but the best for your people. Tell me what’s going on.”

Ullah’s heavy black brows lifted, and his broad mustache twitched. A look of complete innocence crossed his face.

“I have heard nothing,” the warlord said. “You can be certain I will call if I receive even a rumor. Would you like more tea?”

THE MEN in the town mosque stood and bowed and stood again, finishing noon prayers. A sense of reverence filled the hall, making Ullah proud. It was his mosque-he had paid for every block and tile.

But then the mullah in his white turban and young face with the neatly trimmed beard commanded all to be seated. They settled themselves on their prayer rugs. Ullah sighed and lowered himself, crossing his legs.

Holding a Koran between his hands, the mullah stood before them, his long black robe flowing. “When the Prophet and his companions went to jihad, they carried black flags because war is not a good thing. When we go to jihad today, it should not be because we want to fight, but because we are compelled to fight for the sake of Islam, and for the freedom of Afghanistan. Still, that is the role of the army and the police-not of private citizens.”

Ullah adjusted his backside, inwardly groaning.

“There is only one Allah, and our life on Earth is to serve Him alone,” the mullah continued. He stared at Ullah. “But the human is weak, and unwise mullahs with wrong ideas have disobeyed the Koran’s laws and sent people onto dangerous paths. This fighting among Muslims and against the West is about power, not about Allah. He does not want our people to be killing. Long ago the Muslim world was under attack in a crusade by Christians who wanted to make all of Islam vanish from the planet. Jihad was about survival then, a last resort. Allah teaches us the greatest jihad is the struggle within each of us for the soul, the jihad of the heart. The heart is a holy place, and we must always take care never to hurt one another.”

When the sermon finished, Ullah pointedly ignored the mullah, picked up his AK-47, and strode toward the door, his two guards close behind. The mullah was new and very young, he told himself with disgust. He had a lot to learn about what the Koran really said.

Ahead of him, the forward base’s commander, Sam Daradar, was leaving, too. The military man must have arrived late and stayed in the back. Ullah slowed, waiting for him to get far ahead. Then he went out to the doorstep and watched Daradar climb into a Humvee. They exchanged nods and smiled.

Ullah waited impatiently as one of his men ran for the car. But when the silver Toyota Land Cruiser arrived, he noticed a strange expression on his driver’s face.

Frowning, he climbed into the passenger seat, and the remaining guard got into the rear, immediately making a small sound deep in his throat. Quickly Ullah turned. Lying on the floor was Sher Chandar, his black Taliban turban beside him, his shalwar kameez and vest spread around him like the wings of the angel of death.

“Drive,” the Taliban leader ordered.

“I should have killed you a long time ago,” Ullah rumbled.

As the vehicle sped down the street, bouncing over potholes, Chandar laughed and gave directions. The street became a dirt road and then a trail that took them up the slopes away from Ullah’s villa. When they dropped over the other side, out of sight of the town and the military base and the villa, Chandar sat up, looked around at the bare foothills, and gave more directions.

They circled back around to the rear of Ullah’s property and at last lurched down into a deep canyon where a small stream fed a big stand of cypress and pine trees. Uneasiness swept through the warlord-here in this woods was where his men were to gather tonight.

Chandar ordered them to drive into the trees and stop the Toyota beside the American crates, covered with dark tarps. A half-dozen men in black turbans seemed to melt out from among the greenery, pointing assault rifles. Chandar’s men.

“Kill the engine.” When silence enveloped them, Chandar gestured at the mound of crates. “A gift for the Taliban?”

Ullah said nothing.

“There is a change in plans,” Chandar told him. “I know what you were going to do tonight. You will not kill the villagers-some of them are Taliban. Instead your men will put on the American uniforms and arm themselves with the American weapons as they expect to do. Once they are disguised they will be able to get inside the military base. And then they will kill all of the infidels.”

Ullah’s throat went dry. “It cannot be done.”

Chandar chuckled. “You have a greater imagination than that. Your Pakistani journalists will record it from a distance. They will think the Americans are at war with each other in a tribal blood feud as we have here. With that you will have the publicity you need to get the base closed down. That is what you want, is it not?”

Ullah silently cursed.

“These American infidels do not have Allah’s blessing,” Chandar continued. “We have worked with you these past few years. You have made accommodations. We have made accommodations. If word were to reach Kabul of our arrangement…”

He left the sentence unfinished, but Ullah immediately understood the threat. As weak as the Kabul government was, it still had teeth. If enough troops were dispatched here, he and his family could be erased from the earth.

“The Americans will investigate,” Ullah argued. “Instead, I offer a compromise. I will leave unharmed any villagers you wish.”

“Not good enough. We want the American soldiers dead. The order comes straight from South Waziristan.” In other words, al-Qaeda.

Ullah glanced over his shoulder at Chandar’s stony face. Then his gaze swept the six armed men whose rifles pointed unwaveringly at him.

The problem was, if he had killed Chandar when he’d had the chance, another would have taken his place and come to murder him. There was no way he could win this fight. Having decided that, he felt a moment of relief. Chandar’s plan could actually work.

“I will do as you wish if you agree to help me later,” he decided. “Americans are going to buy the military base property from me and start a business. I do not know exactly what yet. I will need you to agree to their safety.”

“At a good price.”

Ullah smiled. “Of course. A good price.”

Their business concluded, the Taliban leader got out and joined his men in the grove. And then they vanished.

“Home,” Ullah commanded.

In his mind he could smell again the sweet aroma of mutton roasting in the kitchen. He was beginning to like the new plan, which meant he would be able to enjoy a good lunch.

As they circled back toward the villa, his satellite phone rang. He answered and heard Martin Chapman’s voice. He greeted him in Pashto.

“Are you on schedule?” Chapman asked.

“Of course,” the warlord assured him easily, thinking of the infidels who would die. “It will be a fine night, all to Allah’s glory.”

63

Athens, Greece

AS A fresh breeze blew in through the window, Judd sat with Eva and Tucker at the table in the hotel room, her laptop open before them. They were studying NSA’s photos and geographical information about the unnamed island that might house the Library of Gold.

There were rocky outcroppings, wide valleys, and rolling hills. The island was ten square miles of beautiful wilderness, except for orchards and a flat-topped mesa on the south side on which stood the three buildings Robin had described.

“The library could be in the big building,” Eva said. “But if there are twenty people living there year-round, where are they housed? It doesn’t seem large enough.”

Judd ran through the small photos on the screen until he found three pictures showing the mesa at a slant. Working quickly, he grew the images, choosing the best. The resolution was excellent, zeroing down to six inches. All had been taken just an hour earlier.

“Four stories underground,” Tucker announced. “That answers one question. Too bad the glass is darkened. No way to see inside.”

“Now it makes sense. I’ll bet the library is down there somewhere,” Eva said. “That would be optimum for keeping out sunlight and controlling for humidity, temperature, and so forth.”

They had already seen armed guards patrolling in Jeeps-thirty men, two in each vehicle-on the dirt roads that ribbonned the island and gave access to remote areas. Judd focused on one pair.

“M4 assault rifles. They’re not there to play games. Do you recognize anyone, Tucker?” He showed him photo after photo.

“No, all strangers,” Tucker said. “Check one of the beaches. Let’s see what other kinds of security the island has.”

Judd clicked a photo, making it bigger and bigger. “There are your security cameras, Tucker. And look-movement- and heat-sensing monitors.”

“Swell.”

“We saw squirrels and birds. Wouldn’t they set off the monitors’ alarms?” Eva asked.

“The system can be programmed to ignore wildlife,” Judd explained.

They analyzed the other beaches and the cliffs around the island, finding the same tight protection everywhere.

“It’s a fortress.” Eva’s voice was discouraged.

Judd focused on the wharf, where a cargo ship was docked. Men were carrying boxes onto it.

“They’re loading something.” Eva stared. “I wonder what that means.”

“Did either of you see any guard dogs?” Judd adjusted himself in his chair, pushing from his mind the aching gunshot wound in his side.

Both shook their heads.

“At least we have that. Okay, so let’s focus on the cliff beneath the compound.”

They studied the photos.

“Very steep,” Tucker said. “At least five hundred feet high, I’d say. It’d be impossible to dodge the cameras and monitors if we tried to climb it.”

“You’re right. Let’s check the top of the mesa.”

Judd enlarged more photos, showing the swimming pool, a picnic area, and a satellite dish. A gardener was watering plants on an outdoor patio, and a woman was setting out buckets of balls on the tennis courts. Two dirt roads coming from the east and west converged north of the complex and became a two-car cement driveway that ran south, passing the satellite dish and descending under the east side of the main house. There on the flat area beside the house stood a mountain of boxes and crates. Men were loading them into a van. Following the drive east, Judd saw it curved not only north but south, to the wharf.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. He chose photos of the buildings’ exteriors.

“No monitors,” Tucker said. “They probably figured no one was ever going to get close enough to be a threat. Zero in on the ground-floor windows of the big house.”

Judd did. The windows extended across and around the building, showcasing the ocean view. Tall glass panels were open to the air. They could see two middle-age women in white skirts and blouses walking across the main room inside, carrying drinks on trays.

“No sign of Preston,” Judd said. “Or Yitzhak and Roberto.” Then he noticed more boxes against the back.

He enlarged the photos, homing in. The stack was so tall and wide it looked like a wall. Beside it, pieces of furniture waited, covered with sheets.

Tucker leaned close. “My God, they’re packing up and moving out. Crap.”

“They could be gone tomorrow,” Judd agreed. “We could lose the Library of Gold.”

A worried hush filled the room.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Eva observed. “There are a lot more guards than Robin told us. We saw thirty in the Jeeps alone.”

“She said tonight was the annual banquet,” Judd reminded her. “She expected more security, but you’re right-this is getting increasingly dangerous. Yitzhak and Roberto may be hostages, so we’ve got to save them as well as figure out who’s behind Dad’s murder and what the Library of Gold has to do with terrorism. Whatever it is, Dad must’ve felt it was imminent. And now we’ve got the pressure of the library’s being moved. If we don’t go in soon, we might never find it again.”

“Can we call in Catapult for help?” Eva asked Tucker. “How about Langley?”

The spymaster drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Hudson Canon is likely working for the other side, so we don’t want him to discover where we are and what we’re up to. It’s safest to tell no one. But I have a partial solution: There’s a small U.S. naval base at Souda Bay, on Crete. It’s not far from the island. If we don’t have any of our paramilitary teams stationed there now, Gloria should be able to stay out of Hudson’s way long enough to pull some strings to get a couple sent over for short-term duty.”

Judd nodded. “I like that. We can use some help.”

Tucker took out his mobile and turned it on. Then he dialed. “Gloria isn’t answering,” he told them. Then into the phone: “This is Tucker. Call me as soon as you get my message.”

Judd stared at his watch and frowned. “Gloria knows the operation’s gone hot. Shouldn’t she answer no matter what? For Chrissakes, she must be home in bed. It’s the middle of the night there. Surely the call would’ve awakened her.”

“Not if she’s deactivated her mobile,” Tucker reminded him. “I’m going to check my e-mail.”

Judd looked for e-mail on his mobile, too. Then he checked for messages. “Nothing.”

“Take a gander at this,” Tucker said grimly and turned the screen so Judd and Eva could read.

Canon is hunting you. I talked to Debi, who told me he has NSA tracking Judd’s and your mobiles. I’m sending this from a new Black-Berry. No encoding. I’m going to toss it. You’re on your own. Get rid of those mobiles! Sorry.

Shock filled the room.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” Judd jumped to his feet.

Eva opened the duffel and threw things inside.

“I’ll be back with my stuff.” Tucker ran out the door.

In minutes they were packed. As Judd opened the window and peered down, Tucker stuck his head inside the door.

“Give me your mobile.”

Judd tossed it. “What are you-”

But Tucker had vanished.

Judd zipped the duffel. “I’ll go first,” he told Eva.

Slinging it over his shoulder, he crawled out onto the ledge. A warm wind whistled past. They were five stories above a driveway that resembled a narrow alley. On the other side stood another hotel, brick and as tall as theirs. Sunlight filtered down between, leaving half the drive in shadow.

“Come on, Eva.” He reached a hand inside the window and felt her firm grip.

Her shoulder satchel hanging across her back, she gingerly crawled out onto the ledge beside him.

She looked around. “Thank God there’s a fire escape. After London, I can now claim to have experience.”

“I’m here,” Tucker announced from inside, behind their legs.

They moved aside, and he pulled himself out onto the ledge. “My room faces the hotel’s rear, and there was a bus with luggage on top getting ready to leave. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. I threw the mobiles onto it. Now they’ll have a moving target to follow. Canon’s probably having NSA live-tracking our mobiles.”

“That could buy us some time,” Judd agreed.

He swung a foot onto the metal rung and started down. He felt the fire escape wobble as Eva, then Tucker, followed him. He looked back up to check on them.

“So how are we going to get on the island?” Eva asked.

“Can you parachute?” Tucker replied.

“Who, me?”

“I thought not. The safest way is to go in at night with black parachutes and gear. I have a former colleague in town who can help with that. I’m hoping the Library of Gold banquet will be a good distraction to cover us, since it looks as if we’re going into the serpent’s mouth without hope of backup.”

Judd felt a chill. “We can’t take you with us,” he told Eva. “You’re not trained. Too damn dangerous.”

“You’re not leaving me behind.” Her eyes glinted. “I’ll parachute in with one of you. You may need what I know about the library.”

Tucker made a decision. “She’s right. This is too important to fuck up.”

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

“Shit,” Eva muttered behind him.

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

Judd whispered over his shoulder, “We’re going to join our mobiles.”

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

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

“Let’s go!” Judd leaped, landing hard on two flat canvas suitcases.

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

“Are you all right?” Judd asked immediately.

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

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

“Himself,” Judd said. “That asshole Preston.”

“Oh, hell,” Eva said. “What do we do now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” Judd asked.

“I’m not that old, Judson.”

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

“But he is old,” Eva worried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you erase Preston?” Judd said.

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

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

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

64

The Isle of Pericles

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn disappointing we won’t have a librarian tonight,” Brian Collum said as he adjusted his sunglasses.

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

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

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

“Yes, Marty. It’s your problem.” Reinhardt Gruen deadpanned.

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

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

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

“Damn, I’m going to miss this place,” Collum said.

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

“We knew this day would come,” Chapman reminded them.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a short-timer?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapman nodded. “Any problems on the island?”

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

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

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

Chapman gestured. “Is that what happened to your face?”

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

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

65

Langley, Virginia

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

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

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

His secretary looked up from her desk. “He’s expecting you.”

When Gloria tapped on the door, a strong voice answered, “Come in.”

As she walked into his spacious room of books, family photographs, and framed CIA awards, Matt rose from behind his expansive desk, smiling. A tall man with a warm, lined face, he had looked like the perfect spy in his day, nondescript, dowdy, almost invisible. Now slightly more public, he was able to show his taste. Today he was dressed in a sleek tailored suit and a cuffed white shirt. With his angular face and the hint of predatoriness he once relied upon, he looked as if he had just stepped off the fashion page of a men’s magazine.

They shook hands. “Good to see you, Gloria. It’s been a while. How’s Ted?”

He gestured, and they sat at the coffee table in the distant end of his office. He chose a leather armchair, and she took the sofa.

They exchanged family information for only a minute, then Matt got down to business. “You’ve got a situation. What is it?”

“Did you close down the Library of Gold operation?” she asked.

“Yes. Tucker’s got a burr under his saddle, that’s all.”

“Would Hudson ordinarily have brought you in on the decision?”

“Of course not. But it was a pet project of Cathy’s, and he wanted to make certain I’d be on board.” He frowned. “Your point?”

“What would you say if I told you I’m beginning to think Cathy’s car accident was no accident?”

Matt went rigid. “Fill me in.”

For the next half hour Gloria described the events she knew about or had learned earlier this morning by going through Tucker’s and Cathy’s e-mails and notes. “After Tucker left Catapult, I got a call from him. He’d just captured a janitor at Capitol City market. While I collected the janitor, Tucker left to join Ryder and Blake in Athens.”

“You believe Hudson alerted someone. That’s why the janitor was there to do a wet job on Tucker.”

“Yes.”

Matt thought about it. “It’s flimsy evidence against Hudson at best. Janitors could’ve been taking turns, waiting outside Catapult for days for Tucker to appear.”

“But how did the book club people find Ryder and Blake in Istanbul? Tucker believed the only explanation was someone inside Catapult told them. The one person who knew was Hudson Canon.”

“That damns Hudson-but only if Tucker is right.” Matt changed the subject. “That’s a hell of a thing to do, Gloria. Christ. Sticking the janitor down in the basement on your own authority.”

She lifted her chin. “We’ve got a mole inside Catapult. The operation has to be protected. The guy’s fine. I’ve got his hands and legs cuffed to a heavy chair. He gets three squares a day, better than a lot of people in the world.”

“A desk job hasn’t changed you a damn bit.” He sighed. “All right, I want the janitor.” He picked up the phone on the coffee table, then glanced at her. “I’m going to have to tell Hudson. He could still be innocent.”

Her throat tightened. “ ‘Flimsy evidence.’ I understand.”

He dialed. “Hello, Hudson. This is Matt. Gloria’s sitting with me in my office. She tells me she’s got a two-legged source secured in Catapult’s cellar.” He moved the phone from his ear, and Gloria heard a stream of loud oaths. Then he continued. “We’ll worry about disciplining her later. The man’s a janitor. Tucker was his target. We need to question him. Have two of your people bring him to Langley. I want him here immediately.”

“Tell him I left the keys to the basement on my desk,” Gloria said.

Matt sighed and said into the phone, “The keys are on her desk. We should talk. I want you to come with them. I’ll be in my office.”

“We need to help Tucker,” Gloria said as soon as he had ended the connection. “I checked with Catapult’s com center and found out Blake, Ryder, and he have been looking into a privately owned Aegean island. My guess is that that’s where the Library of Gold is hidden, which means they’re going to be heading for it soon. Maybe they’re already on their way. Judging by all the deaths so far, it’s going to be a very dangerous insertion. But we’ve got a naval base on Crete. We could send fast-rope teams from there.” She peered at her watch. It was nearly six P.M. in Greece.

But Matt was not going to be hurried. “You could be right. Still, first things first-Hudson and the janitor. If Hudson is the mole, then he’s got a handler. The handler could have the information we need. Look at it this way: Maybe Tucker isn’t planning to go to the island. Maybe it’s the wrong island, or something might’ve happened to change his mind altogether. Do you have a way to reach him?”

She shook her head anxiously. “I’m hoping the janitor or Hudson knows more than I do. If not, unless Tucker decides to risk phoning or e-mailing me, he and the others are hanging in the wind.”

“I’m sorry about that. But there’s no way I’m invading a private island in Greece’s territory unless I’ve got something concrete to go on. The last thing Langley needs is an international incident. We’ll just have to trust Tucker’s good sense-and his luck.”

Washington, D.C.

HUDSON CANON could hardly breathe. He turned away from his desk, leaned over, and pounded a fist into his palm. Gritting his teeth, he threw his head back and kept pounding. Eventually the fear eased. Sitting upright, he took long, deep breaths.

Then he phoned Reinhardt Gruen. “We’ve got a problem.” He described the phone call from Matt Kelley at Langley. “What does your janitor know?” Then, demanding: “Does he know about me?”

There was a long pause. With relief he heard a soothing calmness in Gruen’s voice: “It is not the end of the world, my friend,” the German told him. “The assassin was hired anonymously. He has no way to track either us or you. Do as your chief says. Go with the janitor and your people to Langley and act like the great spy chief you are. You are safe.”

Isle of Pericles

FURIOUS ABOUT the botched handling of the situation in Washington, Reinhardt Gruen snapped out a hand with his cell phone. The Isle of Pericles attendant instantly took it and replaced it with a thick towel. Drying himself, Gruen stalked away from the swimming pool.

“Giving up so soon?” Brian Collum challenged from behind. “One more race. What do you say, Reinhardt? Come on, man. Come on!”

Damn Americans, Gruen muttered under his breath. “Hold onto your trunks. I will return.”

He found Martin Chapman sitting behind his desk in his office, surrounded by pedestals on which stood classic marble statues he had collected in Greece. Lined up before him were the library’s four translators, two men and two women, dressed in tuxedos to help serve at the banquet. All scholars, they were graying and had the hunched shoulders of those who spent long hours poring over books. Their expertise was critical to the book club’s ability to use and enjoy the library, and as such, each was treated with a certain amount of deference. That was even more true of the librarians-unless their loyalty was in question.

Gruen put a smile on his face. “I see you are plotting with our great translators, Martin. Are you by any chance finished? I would like to have a word with you.”

Chapman laid two sheets of paper on his desk, then placed a hand possessively on them. “Yes, they’ve just finished a job for me, and they’ve given me a good report. The library’s records are already on the boat. As soon as the banquet is over, they’ll pack their personal things. They’ll be ready to go at daybreak.”

“Good, good.” Gruen stepped aside to let the translators leave. When the door closed, he scowled. “I just received a call from Hudson Canon in Washington.” He fell into a leather chair. “The janitor Preston sent is locked up at Catapult and will soon be on his way to Langley. Canon has been ordered to go with them. I told him he had no exposure and calmed him down. What is the truth?”

Chapman grimaced. “The janitor knows Preston hired him. Goddammit all to hell. When will this end!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “We’ll handle Andersen, Ryder, and Blake if they manage to reach the island. But we can’t let either the janitor or Canon get to Langley.” He snatched the phone from his desk and punched in numbers. “Preston, I need you. Now!”

Washington, D.C.

THE MORNING traffic was thick as Michael Hawthorne drove Catapult’s only armored van out of the city and onto the bridge across the Potomac. Hudson Canon sat beside him, arms crossed, fighting nerves as he planned what he would say to Matt. In the rear seat was the shackled janitor, while next to him Brandon Ohr kept guard with an assault rifle. The two young covert officers had been happy to get away from their desks at Catapult even for such a small assignment.

“I heard Debi has a new boyfriend,” Michael was saying.

“She ever level that killer gaze on you?” Brandon said. “My God, that woman has balls.”

“Agreed. What a turn-on-” He stopped. “Do you see what I see?” He stared into his rearview mirror.

“I’ve been watching it. A black Volvo, heavy as a tank. It’s just closed in. Pull out.” Ohr spoke in the usual neutral tones of the professional spy when facing potential trouble.

Canon’s head spun around and he peered through the back window. The Volvo was right behind, its front bumper only ten feet distant. On one side of them was speeding traffic, while on the other the guardrail rushed past-and far below was the fast-moving Potomac River.

Without activating his turn signal, Hawthorne gave a sharp yank to the steering wheel, driving the van away and into the safety of the inner lane.

But suddenly a loud horn gave a long blast. A behemoth truck was rushing up on them, preparing to pass, its big cab high above. Instantly, Hawthorne accelerated, pushing their van into the open space ahead, catching up with the red pickup that had preceded them onto the bridge. Canon saw if they could get clear, Hawthorne could move the van into the inner lane and outrun the big truck.

But almost instantly red taillights flashed and held. The pickup was slowing. And the truck was keeping pace, while the Volvo was locked on their tail.

As Ohr lowered his window and raised his assault rifle, Canon snapped to Hawthorne: “They’ve got us trapped. I don’t care what you do, but get us out of here!”

Before Hawthorne could respond, the big cab of the truck slammed into the van’s side. The van yawed. Canon was thrown against his seat belt, then deep into the hard seat. Gripping his windowsill with one hand, Ohr let out a long blast from the assault rifle, ripping through the passenger door of the towering truck cab. Immediately Hawthorne floored the gas pedal and rammed the rear of the pickup.

Too late. The cab smashed again into their van and held. Hawthorne fought the steering wheel, trying to push back. But by inches, then by feet, the van was pushed to the side. Canon’s throat went dry as he peered over into the water.

There was the screech of metal against metal as the van crashed along the guardrail. Sparks exploded past his window. The truck nudged the van one last time, and suddenly they smashed through the rail and sailed off into the air. Canon’s heart thundered. He screamed, and the van dove headfirst into the Potomac.

66

The Isle of Pericles

DRENCHED IN moonlight, the Library of Gold’s private island rose suddenly from the dark sea, its high craggy ridges pale, its deep valleys eerily shadowed. Judd was studying it from the window of the Cessna Super Cargomaster piloted by Tucker’s friend Haris Naxos. Night lights off, the craft was circling and would soon climb to jump altitude: ten thousand feet.

Time had run out, and they were going in without backup. All were hyper alert and not talking about the danger.

“There’s the orange grove and the landing spot we picked,” Eva said.

Eva and Judd were sitting together in seats that stretched along the cargo bin’s side walls. Like Tucker, who was in the copilot’s seat, they wore black jumpsuits and helmets. Infrared goggles dangled from their necks, and black grease covered their faces. They had come prepared not only with their pistols, which were holstered to their waists, but Judd and Tucker had grenades and mini Uzis lashed to their legs. Tucker wore a parachute pack on his back, while Judd had a larger one, holding a bigger canopy that would support both his and Eva’s weight. The two men had additional packs containing supplies. Eva carried nothing on her back, since she would be strapped to Judd.

Judd nodded. “Yes, it should work well.” He was loaded with painkillers and feeling only a dull ache in his side.

They had been observing the headlights of Jeeps roaming over the island, looking for patterns. One had driven past the orange grove. Now, a half hour later, another passed.

“How’s the air clarity seem to you, Haris?” Tucker asked as the plane climbed.

“It is no change. Looks good for you to land.” Haris Naxos was gray-haired, angular, and tough-looking; he still did occasional contract work. “You are no spring rooster, Tucker. Night jumping is dangerous. Be careful.”

“I know. There are old jumpers and bold jumpers, but there are no old, bold jumpers.”

Haris laughed, but no one else did. As usual Judd was planning what he would do if the chutes did not deploy, the lines became tangled, all the myriad events that could go wrong.

After a while, Haris asked, “You remember everything I told you, Eva?” He had given her a half hour of instructions and walked her through a video of tandem skydiving, at his hangar in the Athens airport. He owned a parachuting and plane rental business.

“There’s no way I’m going to forget anything.” A fleck of nervousness was in her voice.

“Excellent. Then I make the announcement-we are at jump altitude, and we are approaching the drop zone.”

Judd and Eva stood up in the plane. She turned around, and he snapped their straps together and tightened his, then hers until her back was secure against his chest. Her body was tense. Her rose-water scent filled his mind. Quickly he dismissed it.

“Okay?” he asked curtly.

“Okay.”

As they put on goggles, Tucker crawled into the rear cargo area. “I’ll open the door.”

He was moving agilely, his expression focused. As Judd and Eva hung onto the ceiling straps, he unlocked the door, swung the handle, and pushed. Cold air blasted in.

Turning on the visual altimeter that was secured inside his helmet, the reader in easy peripheral view, Judd positioned Eva so they were facing the cockpit. Their right sides were inches from the black void.

“Go!” the pilot shouted.

“Try to enjoy it, Eva,” Judd whispered.

Before she could speak, he rolled them out of the plane. Abruptly they were in free fall, soaring at speeds in excess of a hundred sixty miles an hour, their arms and legs extended together like wings. The silky air enveloped him, and there was no sense of falling-air resistence gave a feeling of weight and direction. Checking their orientation over the island, he reveled in the exhilaration of complete freedom.

“This is one of those rare moments when you know what it’s like to be a bird in flight,” he told her. “We can do anything a bird can do-except go back up.”

As Tucker jumped out of the plane, Judd repositioned Eva until they were sitting in a ball in the air. He somersaulted her, then straightened her out again, rolling them onto their sides, their backs, and around again, spinning freely. He felt her tense more, and then she gave a joyful laugh.

Returning them to a normal descent, he reached behind and threw out the drogue parachute, lines and small canopy black against the stars. All was well so far. The drogue slowed their free-fall speed from two people to that of a single skydiver. He saw Tucker was nodding, indicating his equipment was working properly, too.

At twenty-five hundred feet, Judd pulled a toggle, and the deployment bag fell out and released the main canopy-a black ram-air parachute. It caught the wind and spread out into the shape of a large cupped wedge. There were a few seconds of intense deceleration, and then they were skydiving at about twelve miles an hour. He studied the area beneath them. Noted the forest of citrus trees, the open space of weeds and boulders awash in shades of green through his infrared goggles, and the long ravine to the south. A Jeep was just passing the trees, so they had about a half hour until the next one arrived. Their biggest immediate risk was broken ankles, assuming they missed the trees and boulders.

As they continued to soar horizontally, lower and lower, he tugged on the lines, directing their flight. So far no more headlights showed near the drop zone.

At one hundred feet, he felt a huge downdraft, and it seemed as if they were heading into a black-green hole. Again Eva tensed. He drew on the lines, controlling their direction and silently gliding, gliding. Satisfied, he used his body to push Eva upright and his knees to angle her knees into a crouch. They swept between tall boulders and landed hard, stumbling to a stop just before they reached the road that skirted the trees. He could feel her heaving for air.

“You did it.” He unsnapped the straps that joined them. “Good job. Now let’s get the hell out of the way.”

He released the drogue and ram-air chutes, and they hurried off. As they gathered the canopies, Tucker slid in low. He yanked his lines, barely missing a shoulder-high boulder. Knees bent, he landed and staggered, finally catching his balance.

Standing stationary, he lifted his head. “Screw you, Haris. This old rooster still has a hell of a lot of life left in him.” Then he smiled and collected his chutes.

“Everything went right,” Eva said excitedly. “The parachutes opened. No one broke a leg. I could get used to this.”

Then a bird called from the trees. There was rustling in the grove-fast movement.

“Shit.” Judd pulled out his Beretta. “They were waiting for us. Run!”

Weapons in hands, they tore south across the hard earth toward the ravine. Judd glanced behind and saw six men dressed in black swarming out of the trees, aiming M4 assault rifles. They had night-vision goggles. Shooting as they ran, the men poured out fusillades of rounds. The bullets whined and bit into earth and rocks. Tucker grunted. A round clipped Judd’s ear. All three fell flat. Judd pointed, and Eva scuttled into the shelter of a tall rock formation. Judd and Tucker followed.

From the southwest, a Jeep’s headlights came to life, and the vehicle rushed along the road toward them. The air reverberated with the noise of feet pounding and the engine’s growl.

“Christ,” Tucker grumbled. “I hate being ambushed.”

“Are you hit?” Judd gazed at Tucker, then checked Eva’s blackened face, saw the tightness of her mouth. She seemed all right.

Tucker shook his head. “I’m fine. That’s a cute cut on your ear, Judd. Glad they didn’t take your brains. The ravine isn’t far. Eva, we’ll cover you. As soon as we start shooting, stay low and run like hell. Can you do that?”

“Of course.” She crouched.

The two men took either side of the rocky mound. Judd peered at Tucker. He nodded. They edged out, firing automatic bursts from their Uzis.

AS THE ear-bleeding gunfire continued behind her, Eva reached the ravine and dropped quickly at the edge, legs dangling over. From the NSA photos, they had calculated it averaged ten feet deep. It led around and down toward the compound. The shadows were a thick green. Only the top of her side of the nearly vertical slope was slightly illuminated, showing raw dirt, weeds, and rocks. Gripping her S &W in both hands the way Judd had showed her, in seconds she was plummeting down on her back into the abyss.

But as she slid deep into the green darkness her gaze was attracted to a boulder across from her at the bottom. Then she saw a small movement there, an arm. A man was squatting to make himself small. Fear started to take over her mind. She repressed it and aimed her pistol. Suddenly there was movement to her right. And she swung the gun, a mistake she realized instantly. A foot slashed through the air. Her pistol flew, and two very strong men were on her.

THE JEEP was just a thousand feet away. Judd saw one man in it, driving. For some reason the man stopped the vehicle, engine still running, and leaned across and opened the passenger door.

Eva had deployed safely, so Judd gestured at Tucker. Tucker grimaced and looked as if he were going to argue. Then he leaped up and ran.

Judd leaned out again and shot three bursts. They had managed to take down one man, and the others were lying flat, shooting whenever they thought they had a target and sometimes when they did not.

Before the guards had time to return fire, Judd sprinted, and Tucker vanished down the ravine. Judd did not look, just jumped and let his heels act as inefficient brakes as he slipped and careened down the steep incline into heavy green soup.

Tucker’s head was rotating. “Where is she?”

“Eva,” Judd called in a low voice.

There was no answer, but there was a yell from above.

“They’re coming,” Tucker said. “Let’s move.”

“Not without Eva. Eva!” Judd shouted.

“Dammit, son. They’ve probably got her. She’d be waiting otherwise. Maybe that’s why the Jeep stopped with its door open-to pick up her and whoever captured her. You’re not going to do her any good if you get caught or killed. Move.”

Judd said nothing. Instead he turned to go down the ravine to the Jeep. To Eva.

But Tucker slammed the back of his helmet. “Dammit, Judson. The other direction.”

Judd shook his head to clear it, then ripped off the helmet. They ran southeast, toward the compound. Tucker pulled off his helmet, and both replenished their ammo. The ravine was uneven, filled with rocks slowing their progress.

“This isn’t working,” Judd said, listening to the noise of the feet running along the top of the ravine, overtaking them. “We need to get rid of the bastards. You go. I’ll handle them.”

From a trouser loop, he unhooked a frag grenade and held it in his right hand. Tucker saw it and accelerated, while Judd slid low into the deep shadows on the ravine’s north side.

He waited motionless as the guards approached.

“They’re heading to the house,” a confident bass voice said.

Radio or walkie-talkie, Judd thought.

“Sure,” the man continued. “No problem. We’ll get them.”

They were almost above him. Judd inhaled, exhaled, pulled the safety pin with his left hand, rolled the grenade over the crest, and sprinted, his boots hitting rocks so fast his speed kept him upright. White light flashed. The explosion thundered. As dirt rained down, he caught up with Tucker, who had hiked himself up the side and was peering back.

“No one’s upright,” Tucker reported. “They’ve got to have some serious injuries. That’ll keep them busy.”

They jogged off, but Judd saw Tucker was tiring. Judd slowed them to a fast walk and took out the reader that followed the tracker in Eva’s ankle bracelet.

“She’s in the compound already. Looks as if she’s a couple of levels down under the main house.” He gazed at Tucker. “Did you see any Jeeps anywhere near us?”

“Nary a one.”

“Too bad. I was hoping we could grab one. Okay, Plan B. When we get closer to the compound, I’ve got an idea how to get us inside.”

“It’d better be a damn good one,” Tucker said. “They sure as hell are going to be ready for us.”

67

THE BOOK club was about to start the third course. In their tailored tuxedos, with pistols holstered underneath, the men lounged around the great oval table in the spacious Library of Gold, firm in their knowledge the intruders would be killed if not by the guards, then certainly by them.

As they talked, their gazes kept returning to the magnificent illuminated manuscripts that blanketed the walls from marble floor to cove ceiling. Row after row of gold covers faced out, their hand-hammered faces reverberating with light that echoed from wall to wall and across the table like visual music. From dark, rich colors to soft pastels, the jewels and gems glittered and beckoned. The entire room seemed cast in a magical glow. Being here was always a visceral experience, and Martin Chapman sighed with contentment.

“Gentlemen, you have before you two exquisite Montrachet dry white wines,” the sommelier explained in a thick French accent. “One is Domaine Leflaive, and the other Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. You will be possessed by their thrill factor-the hallmark of splendor in wine.” A muscular man with the usual snooty expression of a top wine steward, he disappeared back against the books near the door, where his bureau of wine bottles stood.

Chapman was enjoying himself, absorbing the library’s intoxicating blend of physicality, knowledge, history, and privilege. As the tall candles flickered, he cut into his Maine lobster with grilled portobello mushrooms and fig sauce and chewed slowly, savoring the ambrosial flavors. Taking a mouthful of one of the whites, he held it against his palate. With a rush of pleasure, he swallowed.

“I disagree,” Thomas Randklev was saying. “Take Freud-he told his doctor collecting old objects, including books, was for him an addiction second in intensity only to nicotine.”

“There’s another side to it,” Brian Collum said. “We’re the only species capable of contemplating our own deaths, so of course we need something larger than ourselves to make the knowledge tolerable. As Freud would say, it’s the price for our highly developed frontal lobes-and the glue that holds us together.”

“I’m glad it’s not just about money.” Petr Klok grinned.

Laughter echoed from around the table.

The truth was, Chapman thought to himself, all of them had started as great readers, and if life had been otherwise, each would perhaps have taken a different path. For himself, he had accomplished far more than he had ever dreamed as a boy.

“I have one for you,” Carl Lindström challenged. “ ‘When you give someone a book, you don’t give him just paper, ink, and glue, you give him the possibility of a whole new life.’ Who wrote that?”

“Christopher Morley,” Maurice Dresser said instantly. “And John Hill Burton argued that a great library couldn’t be constructed; it was the growth of ages. As the Library of Gold is”-the seventy-five-year-old pointed at himself-“and I am.”

The group chuckled, and Chapman felt his pager vibrate against his chest. He checked-Preston. Annoyed, he excused himself as the conversation moved on to assessing the two ethereal white burgundies. As he left, the sommelier was called over to join the debate.

Chapman entered the first of the two elevators. It rose silently, a solid capsule, but then, all of the underground stories were atomic bomb-hardened bunkers. On the highest belowground floor, he stepped out into the porcelain, steel, and granite of the kitchen. A hallway extended beyond it, where doors opened onto offices and storage. Farther was the enormous garage.

Gazing around, he inhaled the mouthwatering aromas of searing medallions of springbok, gazelle from South Africa. The chefs de cuisine, in their tall white hats, were barking orders in French as they prepared the course. The sous-chefs, chefs de partie, and waiters chosen from the library staff scurried.

Preston had a harried expression as he turned from the kitchen and met Chapman at the elevator.

“You need to talk to them, sir,” Preston said.

“Are they still in my office?”

“Yes. Three men are watching them.”

As they rode the elevator down to the third level, he asked, “What’s the latest with Ryder and Andersen?” Chapman knew they had killed two of the guards and badly injured four. Preston had sent out additional men on foot to find them.

“I’ve increased the security around the compound. Everyone’s on high alert.”

“They’d damn well better be.”

The elevator door opened, and they walked out into the sitting area where the staff gathered for informal meetings. As expected it was deserted, since everyone was working. The doors along the hall were for offices, while the last one enclosed a gym with the latest cardio and Pilates equipment.

Preston pushed open the door to Chapman’s office and stepped back.

Chapman marched past toward a frozen tableau of defiance. Motionless and angry, Eva Blake and Yitzhak Law were roped to chairs, their hands tied behind them. Blake was still in her skydiving jumpsuit, her face blackened. Neither seemed to recognize him, but then, it was doubtful they would know his world.

He ignored the guards and pulled up a chair in front of Blake and Law. “I’ll make this easy. I’ve had the translators draw up a list of potential sources for the questions the book club will be asking during our tournament tonight. Since we have texts in the library that have been lost for centuries, there’s no way you’d know their contents. Others you’ll know already of course. Your job is to try to figure out the correct book for each question. You’ll be given a chart showing where all of the illuminated manuscripts are shelved, and a few descriptive sentences about each. If you get all of the book club’s questions correct, I’ll let you live. That’s called incentive.”

They glanced at each other, then returned stony gazes to him.

Chapman looked back at Preston. “Bring in Cavaletti.” He sank back in his chair, furious about the dinner he was missing.

In seconds Roberto Cavaletti was shoved into the room. “Yitzhak, Eva,” he said. The small man was disheveled, his bearded face drawn.

Before anyone could say more, Chapman ordered, “Hit him, Preston.”

As Law and Blake shouted and pulled against their ropes, Cavaletti cringed, and Preston rabbit-punched his cheek, connecting with a solid thump.

Cavaletti grabbed his face with a trembling hand, staggered, and fell to his knees.

“You bastard!” Blake yelled.

The professor’s face paled. “You’re monsters.”

“Rethink this,” Chapman snapped. “There are two of you. Together you have a much better chance of winning tonight than one of you would alone. If you won’t do it for yourselves, do it for your friend Roberto here.”

A large welt was rising on Cavaletti’s left cheek.

Yitzhak Law stared. “All right, but only on condition you leave Roberto alone. No more injuries.”

“No, Yitzhak,” Roberto said. “No, no. Whatever they want, you will not stop the inevitable.”

Blake glared at Chapman. “Very well. I agree, too. Do we have your guarantee you’ll let all of us go if we win?”

“Of course,” Chapman said easily. “Kardasian, see both are cleaned up and presentable.” He stood and walked out.

Preston caught up with him in the sitting room. “I’ll keep you apprised of the situation with Ryder and Andersen.”

Chapman nodded, his mind already back at the dinner. Just then they heard one of the elevator doors close. They hurried and saw it had stopped at the lowest level, number four-the Library of Gold. Immediately they stepped into the other elevator, and Preston punched the button.

“Who in hell could it be?” Preston’s expression was grim.

The elevator door opened onto an elegant anteroom. Straight ahead was an arched portal that led to offices along the windowed exterior corridor. Instead they sprinted left, and Preston opened a carved wood door onto the library and tonight’s banquet.

The sommelier was walking toward his bureau, his broad tuxedoed back to them. At the sound of the door, he turned. They saw he was carrying two bottles of red wine-unopened.

Preston made a curt gesture, and the sommelier approached. Although as arrogant appearing as before, the man’s eyes hinted at guilt. He held up the bottles as if they were a shield.

“What were you doing on the third floor?” Preston demanded.

“I am very sorry, sir. I found I must go to the kitchen for more wine. You gentlemen are more appreciative than I had expected. I was rushing to return and touched the wrong button in the elevator. Of course, I did not leave the elevator until here.”

Chapman felt Preston relax.

“Resume your duties,” Chapman said.

The sommelier bowed low and left. Chapman hurried to his dinner.

68

TUCKER AND Judd sat in the deep shadow of a gnarled olive tree above the compound. As they cleaned their faces and hands and brushed their hair, they studied the buildings and the fifteen men patrolling in the illumination of the compound’s security lights. All had M4s and were watching the grounds and hills alertly.

“Wonder how many are in the main house,” Tucker said in a low voice.

“With luck, they won’t notice us with so many new guards. That’ll work to our advantage.”

“I like being the new guy. Fewer expectations for you.” Tucker inspected his Uzi, then his knife and wire garotte. “The rear door looks good.”

“My thought, too. You up for this?”

“Can you still ride a bicycle?”

“Like a son of a bitch,” Judd said.

They slung their Uzis onto their backs and slithered on their bellies down among the tall grasses and bushes of the slope. Small rocks cut into Tucker’s jumpsuit. After pausing several heart-stopping times when guards peered out onto the hillside, they reached the edge of the mesa and hid behind a row of manicured shrubs.

Waiting until the closest sentries were looking elsewhere, they ran behind the pool shed and crouched. Judd pointed to himself. Tucker nodded. He hated not being the one out front, but reality was reality-Judd was younger, stronger, and in better condition to take out the guard who would cross in front of the shed soon.

Listening to the sentry’s feet pad across the marble path, Tucker crab-walked after Judd to the shed’s far side. Judd inched forward, taking out a mirror with an attached bendable arm. He extended the arm, watched the mirror, then tossed both to Tucker and stood, pulling out his garotte.

From his low position, Tucker saw one leg appear and then a second. Immediately Judd stepped close behind the guard and dropped the garotte around his neck, yanking. The man fell back. Strangled noises came from his throat as Judd pulled him around and into the shed’s shelter. Tucker ripped the sentry’s M4 away and slapped on plastic cuffs. The sentry gasped, seemed to try to yell. Frantically he punched back with elbows and feet, torquing his body.

Tucker used the mirror to check for more guards, then looked back. Judd’s grim face was frozen as he avoided the flailing blows. He lowered the man as he went limp.

They stripped him of his gear and clothes. While Judd put on the corpse’s black khakis and black microfiber turtleneck, Tucker dressed the dead man in Judd’s jumpsuit and smeared black greasepaint on his face and the backs of his hands. Peering carefully around, Tucker dragged him to the edge of the compound and rolled him deep into grasses.

When he returned, Judd was dressed and outfitted with the guard’s radio, pistol, flashlight, and M4. He hooked on two grenades and checked the tracker to Eva’s ankle bracelet, then slid it into his pants pocket. He pointed toward the house, where another guard would be making rounds. Then he pointed to himself.

Tucker nodded.

Using the mirror, Judd timed his exit, then vanished.

Tucker hurried around the shed. Sitting on his heels, he watched as Judd sauntered up to the next target. Just as the guard frowned, Judd violently bashed his M4 up under his chin, crushing his throat. His head whiplashed, and blood appeared on his lips. As Tucker ran to join them, Judd caught the guard and let his limp body down to the ground silently.

Tucker checked the man’s carotid artery.

“Dead?” Judd whispered.

He nodded.

They surveyed around. No more sentries were in sight yet, and none showed on the other side of the rear door’s window. After they stripped the dead man, Tucker changed into his black turtleneck and pants, at least one size too big, and cinched the waist tight. Judd added the finishing touches to the dead body and dragged it off to conceal near the other corpse.

As he waited for Judd, Tucker checked the M4 and examined the radio-and sensed more than saw someone through the glass of the door. He put a composed look of greeting on his face and turned.

The door opened. “Why aren’t you patrolling?” The sentry was a straight tree trunk of a man, with a brush cut and a heavy jaw. A glimmer of doubt appeared in his eyes. “Who in hell are-”

Tucker slammed the butt of his M4 into the man’s gut. It was always a safer debilitating shot than one to the chin. As the man emptied his lungs and started to double over, Tucker crashed the butt back up into his windpipe. Blood erupted from his mouth and nose. Tucker grabbed him, then hauled him toward the slope behind the shed where the other bodies were.

“This is beginning to look like a party with a bad outcome,” Judd said.

Tucker rolled the man into the grass, watching as the tall fronds closed over him. “Let’s go get Eva.”

69

Khost Province, Afghanistan

IT WAS past midnight, and Capt. Sam Daradar was walking alone, his M4 over his arm. He inhaled, smelling the sweet mountain night air. When he had first arrived here, it had stung his nose, but now he could not get enough of it. Sometimes he dreamed about moving to Afghanistan. Life here was intrinsic to the elements and made sense to him in a way no Western city or rural area ever had.

He looked up. Sparkling stars spread across the night sky. For some reason the sky felt too vast tonight. An unnamed uneasiness filled him. He studied the great expanse of slopes and mountains that hid remote villages difficult to reach with large bodies of conventional forces. He and many of his men had spent the day out there and in town, talking with people.

Tonight he had phoned command, reporting his concerns. But he had been able to point only to restless whisperings in the local marketplace and to the fact that Syed Ullah had actually appeared at the mosque for noon prayers-midweek-rather than saying them at home or on the trail as he usually did.

Sam turned back under the great tent of special camouflage netting and walked along the secret base’s eighteen-inch-thick stone walls. The austere base housed only five hundred soldiers, but they were well trained and experienced. He stopped at the gate. Peering up at the guard tower, he nodded and received a nod in return.

Shaking his head at his unnameable uneasiness, he slid inside the gates and walked onto the base. Two Humvees were still out, watching, patrolling. They were due back in an hour. Perhaps they would have something for him, something that might be meaningless to them but he would understand.

ON HIS belly, Syed Ullah peered down the hillside. The two Humvees were speeding along a dirt road above a valley two ridges away from town. The headlights were bright cones against the night, making the vehicles easy to track. In the pines on the eastern slope above the road were his men, hiding and dressed in the American uniforms, with the American equipment. He and his son Jasim were positioned north, in an open area high enough to have an excellent moonlit view.

“I am not as certain as you that this will work.” Twenty-eight years old, Jasim had just returned from Peshawar and was dressed in American gear, too. He had the same large body as his father, and a thick black beard trimmed just enough so that it could bristle. Blessed with his mother’s fine features, his face was finally coarsening with age, soldiering, and the weather. He had been a beautiful child, and now he was a real man.

“What concerns you, my son?”

“There are more than twice our number on the military base.”

“Ah, but our men have what they do not-surprise. They are dressed like them, and they will wear the American helmets. Except for the ones on duty in the base, the Americans are asleep or playing with their video games. The only doubtful part is getting our people inside. And the answer to that we will know soon.” Without moving his gaze from the road, he explained what was about to happen.

As they watched, the armored Humvees entered the attack zone, the sound of their big engines reverberating across the quiet valley. In the turret on top of each sat a gunner in a sling surrounded by steel protective plates, his M240B machine gun stationary in his hands. The guns covered an almost 360-degree swath, but the plates did not fit together. There were four open spaces of several inches at each corner.

Suddenly there were two explosions and fiery conflagrations in recently cut recesses in the trees. One was ahead of the Humvees, the other behind. From the recesses two cars in flames hurtled down toward the road. Smoke billowed out behind them, and sparks flew, igniting dry grasses. The Humvees were between the cars approaching the road, the sturdy pines above, and the cliff beneath.

The monstrous military vehicles slowed. The Americans would initially suspect this to be simple harassment, that the flaming cars would continue across the road and hurtle off the cliff. But Ullah’s men had piled walls of rocks on the road’s edge.

As the cars stopped, blocking the Humvees, machine-gun fire erupted from both gunners, strafing the trees and the road in hot fusillades. Tree trunks exploded; pine needles disintegrated. And finally there was silence. Slowly the Humvees’ doors opened. As the gunners stood watch above, their weapons looking for targets, the infidels jumped out, M4s in hands, heading for the burning vehicle in front of them.

At that moment gunfire from his two hundred Pashtuns erupted from behind the rocky wall and out of holes dug under the pine forest. It was so fast and blistering, the infidels exposed on the road got off only a few shots while the machine gunners in the turrets furiously returned fire. On the road, the infidels fell, yelling, moaning, and six of Ullah’s Pashtuns slid along the dirt, crawled up the sides of the Humvees, and rolled stun grenades through the open spaces into the turrets. Two loud bangs sounded. And then the only noise was of his converging men putting single gunshots into the heads of the infidels.

As they dragged the bodies into the pines, Ullah stood. They had pulled the unconscious machine-gunners from their cupolas and were killing them.

“Come.” He ran.

With a shout of joy, Jasim passed him.

“Praise Allah,” Ullah said as he arrived on the battlefield. He caught his breath. “How many of us have been killed or hurt?”

In his U.S. Army uniform, Hamid Qadeer stood straight to report. “Only fourteen.”

“Good, good.” The warlord walked around the Humvees, studying the vehicles. They were dirty and showed bullet holes, but that was nothing. The guards at the military base would pass them through, which was all he needed.

“I will join our men now.” Jasim stood at his side. His excitement had calmed, and he had the severe look of a true Pashtun warrior.

Pride filled Ullah. “Of course, my son.”

70

The Isle of Pericles

THE BANQUET was finished, a complete success. As the plates were cleared and the sommelier poured brandy, the men stretched back in their chairs, sated, slightly intoxicated. Chapman related the latest report-Preston’s men had not yet found Ryder and Andersen.

“Frankly, I hope those damn people do get into the house and come down here,” Grandon Holmes announced. He patted the side of his chest where his pistol was holstered.

At no time in the history of the annual banquet had the members attended armed, but tonight was an unusual night. Despite the good humor, a thread of menace had grown among them. The island had been violated.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done active target practice.” Brian Collum gave a cold smile.

“On the other hand,” Maurice Dresser grumbled, “why in hell are we paying the guards astronomical sums if they don’t handle the job?”

“Maurice is right,” Petr Klok said. “Ryder and Andersen will never make it to the library.”

“Pity.” Carl Lindström sighed.

“I heard from Syed Ullah,” Chapman said, changing the subject. “His Pashtuns are uniformed, armed, and eager to go. We should have word in an hour or so.”

“Excellent,” Reinhardt Gruen said. “I did some checking about the village near the Khost military base. I was correct-the entire area is a hotbed of jihadist activity. Ullah is one hell of a tough warlord to have been able to control it. My thinking is he will use tonight’s strike to rid himself of local Taliban enemies-which means our enemies, too. Then the land will be ours. I’ve been dreaming about those diamonds. All in all, Marty, you’re looking very good. It will be a fine night. One for the record books.”

ARMS CROSSED tightly over her chest, Eva paced, inspecting again the closet where they were being held. There was no furniture. The hinges to the heavy door had been installed on the outside, and two dead bolts sealed them in. An overhead fluorescent light was lit all the time, too high for them to reach, and the switch was in the corridor. The walls were solid concrete blocks. If there was a way to break out, she had not found it.

“You must accept it, Eva. We are trapped.” Gazing up at her, Roberto huddled in a corner. His eye was swollen shut, and his cheek was distended, a hot red.

“An accurate assessment of our condition,” Yitzhak said from where he sat close beside Roberto. “Still, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Yet.” Roberto sighed.

Yitzhak put heartiness into his voice. “For a man who worries about leaving our time zone, look how well you’re doing, Roberto.”

“I am heroic.” He gave a small smile and shook his head. Still, there had been a flash in his eyes that told Eva he had not given up completely.

“We’ll figure it out, Roberto,” she encouraged. “Do you think we need to go over the list one more time, Yitzhak?” On it were sixteen illuminated manuscripts, twice the number they would need to name. If the circumstances were different, they would have marveled at the many lost books, but their existence only added to their frustration, and the large number to their fears.

“I think not.” Yitzhak looked up, his bald head pasty in the overbright fluorescent light. “Together we know nearly half, and we’ll just have to make educated guesses about the rest.”

“I wish they would take me to the library with you,” Roberto said. “But it is obvious they will not.”

He was right-she and Yitzhak wore tuxedos Preston had given them, while Roberto was still in the rumpled shirt and pants he’d had on when captured.

“But there’s hope, Roberto,” she told him. “We’re still breathing.”

“It is a small hope, and I will treasure it.” He sighed.

There was the noise of dead bolts being slid opened, and the guard they had heard called Harold Kardasian appeared, pointing his assault rifle. He was sturdy, with thick brown hair streaked with gray.

“Time to go,” he announced.

Eva looked for some sign of help in his eyes, but saw only neutrality.

Both Roberto and Yitzhak stood up.

“Not you,” Kardasian ordered. “Only the professor and Dr. Blake.”

As Roberto slid back down the wall, they said good-bye to him.

Preston was waiting in the corridor, dressed in his black leather jacket and jeans, tall and looming, his features stony. He carried two thick bath towels.

“What are those for?” Eva asked instantly.

“That’s none of your concern. Move.”

They marched Eva and Yitzhak to the stairs beside the elevators and took them down one floor into an anteroom. For a moment Eva felt a frisson of excitement-they were going to see the Library of Gold. She sensed an electric current from Yitzhak and knew he was thinking the same thing.

One guard opened a massive carved door, and golden light appeared. Yitzhak took Eva’s arm, and they walked inside and stopped. For a few moments, her fear vanished. It was as if they were in a cocoon of timeless knowledge dressed in the earth’s most dazzling elements.

“Bewitching,” Yitzhak whispered.

They drank in the four walls of gold-covered books. The embedded gems sparkled in the pure air. For an instant it seemed to Eva that nothing else on the planet mattered.

“Don’t give me the cold tomb of a museum but the fire-breathing world of words and ideas,” Yitzhak said. “Give me a library. This library.”

The tall man who had ordered Preston to hit Roberto walked toward them. “Who said that, Professor?”

Yitzhak looked at him sharply. “I did.”

The man chuckled. “My name is Martin Chapman. Come with me. It’s time you met everyone.”

He motioned to the guards to leave. Preston closed the door and stood in front of it. They followed Chapman to a large oval table around which seven men sat, drinking from brandy glasses.

With a shock, Eva recognized Brian Collum-her attorney, her friend. Watching her, he had laughter on his long, handsome face. She glanced away, smoothed her features, and turned back.

“You look wonderful in a tux,” he told her.

“You bastard.”

“It’s good to see you, too. And in such an appropriate setting.”

She said nothing, fighting the fury that surged through her as she realized he must have been the one who entangled Charles with the Library of Gold. And he had sent her to prison, knowing she was innocent. As Chapman made formal introductions, she forced herself to be calm. Then she assessed the situation: Besides the eight members of the book club, only the sommelier and Preston were in the room. The bath towels still dangled from his hand. Puzzled, she tried to figure out what they meant.

“Does everyone understand the rules?” Chapman asked. When a chorus of yeses answered, he said, “Then the tournament begins. Petr, you’re first this year.”

“Socrates, 469 or 470 to 399 B.C.,” said a bearded man with stylishly clipped hair. “Of course he is credited as one of the founders of Western philosophy. What most people do not know is his utopian republic ruled by philosopher-kings also included glorification of the benefits of a caste system and a powerful argument for the right of armies to conquer and colonize. Hitler must have loved that. Your challenge is to find the illuminated manuscript in which Socrates is shown as a clown teaching his students to hoodwink their way out of debt.”

Eva cleared her throat. “There’s no such thing as a real history from Socrates’ time that dealt with him or Greece.” Hiding her nervousness, she looked at Yitzhak, but he shook his head. He did not know the answer. She had an idea, but it was a long time ago, not since college, that she had read it. “However, we do have plays and other writings. What I remember is ‘The Clouds,’ an old comedy by Aristophanes.”

She gazed at the questioner, hoping to see in his face whether she was correct. His expression showed nothing.

Yitzhak found the location of the manuscript on the list, and they walked quickly down one of the long walls, looking for it. With both hands he lifted out a gold volume embedded with sapphires and handed it to Petr Klok.

There was a long pause as they waited for his answer.

With a flourish Klok took the book and stood it up on the table to admire. “The world has only eleven complete plays by Aristophanes, although he wrote forty. The Library of Gold has the entire collection.”

There was a round of jaunty applause.

Eva and Yitzhak exchanged a look of relief.

Chapman ended it: “Thom, you’re next. Try to beat them, will you?”

JUDD OPENED the rear door to the main house and slid inside, Tucker following. Their M4s ready, they listened for sounds and checked a wall of glass displaying the reflecting pool and spotlighted palms they had seen in NSA photos. When they heard nothing, they padded past closed doors and entered an enormous living room that stretched across the front of the house, glass windows showcasing the ocean view. The wall of glass stretched around the corner on the west side, with heavy glass double doors showing a marble path that led out toward the tennis courts, pool, and distant helipad.

Two sentries were in sight patrolling, their gazes cast outward-not toward the house.

“So far so good,” Judd murmured. He pulled out his reader.

But just as they hurried toward the stairwell beside the elevators, their radios crackled. They snapped them from their belts and looked outdoors. Both of the sentries were grabbing their radios, too. And now a third sentry was in sight, doing the same.

Tucker swore, and they punched their Receive buttons.

“Three down,” the disembodied voice snapped. “Rendezvous behind the pool shed. Now.”

“It’s just a matter of time until they guess we’re inside,” Tucker said as he ran past packing crates to the stairwell door and yanked it open.

M4s ready, they raced down one flight of steps, peered through the window on the door and saw a busy kitchen, then ran down another flight. The door window showed an empty hallway of closed doors.

As they tore down a third flight, Judd whispered, “She’s on this floor.”

At the door, they looked into a sitting area of comfortable sofas and chairs. No one was in sight.

Judd inhaled, exhaled, and slid around the door, crouching, M4 in both hands. In an instant Tucker was beside him. No one was around.

Heart pounding, Judd dashed down the hall, watching the reader, and then stopped. Eva. With one hand he slammed open the door’s dead bolts and turned the knob.

“Judd, is that you?” Roberto Cavaletti stared up, his battered face breaking into a smile. “You are blond.” He scrambled to his feet.

“Where’s Eva?”

“In the Library of Gold.” He hurried toward them. “She gave me her ankle bracelet so you would find me and I could warn you. We overheard the guards talking-all of them at the big banquet have pistols. Eva and Yitzhak were taken there to be part of some mortal game. If they guess wrong, we will die. But if they guess right, I think they plan to murder us anyway.”

“Where’s the library?” Judd asked grimly.

71

Khost Province, Afghanistan

SYED ULLAH met the Pakistani reporter and cameraman at the mosque and drove them out to the edge of the sleeping town. Parking near the remains of mud-brick huts, the three got out, bundled in long down coats against the night’s cold. Ullah sniffed, smelling the strong scent of animal manure.

“Please turn around, General,” the reporter said.

The cameraman motioned him into position. The two were from the respected Pakistan Television Corporation, the country’s national TV broadcaster, whose news was regularly picked up by wire services and media around the globe.

“This is Asif Badri.” The reporter held a mike and looked solemnly into the camera. “Tonight I am in Khost province, Afghanistan. With me is the esteemed general Syed Ullah, a legendary mujahideen hero of the war against the Soviets. Tell us what is in the distance, General.”

The camera focused on Ullah. Putting on his gravest expression, he spoke into the reporter’s mike and pointed with his AK-47. “That is a secret American military base. About five hundred soldiers.” He paused, considering. He did not want to completely insult American listeners, especially since he planned to make a lot of money from Chapman. Phrasing his words carefully, he continued, “They are here to clear out illegal activity and are generally well behaved. Unfortunately, there is a serious problem.”

The camera panned over to the military base with its massive lights glowing in and around it, captured beneath the special netting that stretched in a great canopy far beyond the walls. Above the netting was black night; below it, bright daylight. It was a dramatic picture, showing the infidels’ technical ingenuity and their awful ability to fool the world.

“Does your national government know about the base?” the reporter asked.

“Kabul is completely ignorant,” the warlord lied.

“You mentioned a serious problem. Tell us about it.”

“It is a sad story,” Ullah intoned, embracing his rifle. “The Americans complain about our tribal differences while they have their own. Sports, politics, religion-and business. Remember, their murder rate is among the highest in the world. One of my people overheard an American soldier talking to another in a town governed by another general. They, too, have a secret base in the mountains. Those soldiers are very angry at our soldiers. I am sorry to tell you all of them are smuggling drugs and exporting heroin. As you know, it is very lucrative.” He shook his head sadly. “The other soldiers are planning to murder the soldiers here tonight because they have been poaching their business.”

“Have you informed Kabul?”

“What can they do? I am in charge, and another general is in charge of the other town. We are helpless against the Americans’ far superior weapons. I am left only with being able to tell the world in hopes this will never happen again.” He sighed. “It is a tragedy.”

The reporter turned off his microphone. “Did you get it all, Ali?”

The cameraman nodded. “When do we go to the base?”

Ullah looked into the hills and pointed with his AK-47 at two sets of headlights. His son Jasim was in the lead vehicle with Hamid Qadeer, who spoke perfect Americanized English.

“They are coming out of the mountains now,” he told them. “Those are two American Humvees. My informant said there would be a total of about two hundred soldiers. The arrival of the Humvees means the rest are now in place nearby. Once the Humvees get inside the base, their plan is to silently kill the soldiers in the guard tower and open the gates. The rest is inevitable. Get into my car. I will drive you closer. We must go slow and without headlights. You will be able to film the action outside, and after it is over, you will be the first to record the results of the horrible massacre.”

72

The Isle of Pericles

EVERYONE IN the Library of Gold was focused on Preston, who was standing inside the door with his M4 and thick bath towels and listening to a message on his radio. As Eva watched, he strode to Chapman and spoke quietly into his ear.

“Gentlemen, we may have visitors,” Chapman announced with relish. “Take out your pistols.”

Swiftly the men laid their weapons on the table beside the illuminated manuscripts. Although they had obviously been drinking, their hands and gazes were steady, and they moved with authority. There was an undercurrent of enthusiasm, too, Eva thought. They were looking forward to shooting their guns.

She exchanged a worried look with Yitzhak.

The sommelier advanced with bottles of brandy. He poured into Chapman’s glass first, emptying the bottle, then poured from a fresh one into the glasses of the other men.

As the sommelier returned to his bureau, everyone looked at Chapman.

Eva and Yitzhak had answered correctly seven of the eight tournament questions. The competitive excitement among the men around the banquet table was almost tactile as they waited for the final challenge-from the director, Martin Chapman.

“Jesus of Nazareth, known as the Rabbi and later as Jesus Christ, 7 to 2 B.C. to sometime between A.D. 26 and 36,” Chapman said. “Jesus was the leader of an apocalyptic movement, a faith healer, a rabble-rouser, and with John the Baptist, the founder of Christianity. The consensus of scholars is the four canonical gospels about his life-Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John-weren’t recorded by any of the original disciples or first-person witnesses, although they were probably written within the first century of his death. Your challenge is to find in the library where Jesus tells one of his disciples he ‘will exceed’ the others and learn ‘the mysteries of the kingdom.’ ”

Eva did not remember either quote. She looked at Yitzhak, and he shook his head worriedly. They turned away to study the list. There were three possibilities: One was St. Jerome’s early fifth-century Vulgate Bible. The second was Vetus Latina, which was compiled before the Vulgate. The third was even earlier, the title translating to The Old Gospels. They read the descriptions.

“He’s trying to fool us by referring to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” Yitzhak whispered.

She had reached the same conclusion. “Do you think it’s in the Gnostic book of Judas?” The only known text of the Gospel of Judas had been written seventeen hundred years before, discovered in fragments in the Egyptian desert in 1945 and assembled and translated from the Coptic language in 2006, which was when she had read it.

“I do.”

“Then the third one, The Old Gospels, is the only choice,” she said, “although it predates the Gnostics.”

“Dazzle them.” Anger flashed in his eyes.

She turned back to the table. The brandy glasses glistened. The men’s calculating eyes watched her.

She paused. “In the New Testament, Judas Iscariot betrays Jesus to the Romans for thirty silver coins. The Gospel of Judas says the exact opposite-that it’s Jesus’ idea, and that he asks Judas to do it so his body can be sacrificed on the cross. If Jesus did ask Judas to do that, it’s logical he might’ve encouraged him by saying he ‘will exceed’ the other disciples and learn ‘the mysteries of the kingdom.’ Therefore, the quotation is from The Old Gospels. According to the list we were given, the book contains quite a few, including those of James, Peter, Thomas, Mary Magdalene, Philip-and Judas.”

Was she right? She could read nothing in Chapman’s face. Yitzhak was already walking along the wall. Following him, she passed a section on the Koran and other early Muslim works. Next to it Bibles and Christian literature were shelved.

Yitzhak stared at a manuscript covered in hammered gold. At the center was a simple design-small blue topazes in the outline of a fish. Gingerly he picked up the old book and carried it to Chapman.

Eva’s lungs were tight. She forced herself to breathe.

“Damn you.” Chapman took the book. “You’re right. The Old Gospels is an original, written on parchment pages that Constantine the Great ordered rebound and covered in gold in the early fourth century. It’s pre-Gnostic, composed in the first century A.D., during the time the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were recorded. It can arguably be considered as accurate as the New Testament.” He stroked the book. “The power of this is considerable. It explodes the myth of monolithic Christianity and demonstrates how diverse and fascinating the early movement really was.”

There was a round of enthusiastic applause-for Chapman, not for them. He stood the illuminated manuscript on the table next to his pistol and smiled at it.

The men raised their brandy glasses.

“Good question, Marty,” said one.

“Hear, hear.”

They drank.

As Chapman swallowed and put down his glass, he frowned at Eva and Yitzhak and gestured behind him to Preston.

Immediately the security chief was at his side, his M4 in one hand, the towels in the other.

“Now?” Preston asked.

“By all means.”

Preston leaned the assault rifle against the table and took his pistol from the holster at his hip. The men’s gazes were riveted as he advanced toward Eva and Yitzhak with the two towels.

“The later Assassins.” Yitzhak backed up. “That’s what the towels mean. They covered entrance and exit wounds to control the mess that spraying blood makes.”

73

JUDD, TUCKER, and Roberto hurried along the quiet hallway toward the stairwell. Judd saw instantly both elevators were descending. Passing them, he yanked open the stairwell’s door and heard feet pounding down from high above, echoing against the stone walls. They sounded like a battalion.

“Run!”

With Tucker and Roberto following, he hurtled down the steps to the fourth level and peered through the window into a formal anteroom. Assault rifle in both hands, he slid out, Tucker on his heels. No one was around.

Tucker pulled Roberto from the stairwell, locked and bolted the door, and shoved the small man into a corner beside a tall cabinet, where he would be out of range.

Judd nodded at a huge carved-wood door. “The Library of Gold.” But before they could breach it they still had to face the security teams in the elevators.

“Looks like it,” Tucker agreed.

Judd dropped flat, facing one of the two elevators. Tucker lay prone in front of the other. They aimed their M4s.

Tucker’s elevator arrived first. Four guards were standing inside. Tucker sent a fusillade of automatic fire across them, the noise thunderous. Completely surprised, they’d had no time to aim.

As they grabbed the walls and each other and fell, Judd’s elevator door started to open. This time gunfire exploded from the cage, but aimed high, where men should have been standing. Immediately Judd returned fire, ripping rounds across the five men’s torsos. They staggered and sank, blood pouring from their chests. The air filled with a metallic stink.

Judd and Tucker jumped up and disabled each elevator.

Roberto was already at the library’s big wood door, his eyes wide, his gaze determined.

“Don’t go in there,” Tucker snapped from across the room.

A guard appeared at the window in the stairwell door and yanked, trying to open it. Other guards were behind him, up the steps. The guard saw Judd and Tucker. As he shot through the glass, they sprinted. The rounds splintered across walls and into mirrors.

When they reached Roberto, there was sudden silence-they were beyond the guard’s view, with only seconds before he broke through the door. As bullets exploded again, Judd exchanged a look with Tucker. Tucker put Roberto behind him and readied his assault rifle.

Judd opened the massive carved door a crack, realizing instantly its core was solid steel, the hinges hidden, the movement pneumatic. It was a vault door. No way anyone could shoot through with an M4, and there was no lock to pick.

They slid inside, low, weapons leveled. As Tucker slammed the bolts behind them, sealing out the guards, Judd stared at eight pistols aimed at them by men standing around a large dining table. He quickly took in the room.

To the right was a shocked sommelier cringing in front of a wine bureau, his hand inside his tuxedo jacket, clasping his heart. Farther along the same wall Yitzhak crouched, sweat greasing his bald head. Eva was sprawled on the floor near him. Oddly, both were dressed in tuxedos. Preston lifted his pistol from Eva to train it on Judd and Tucker. Wearing jeans and a black leather jacket as he had the last time Judd had seen him, he let two towels fall from his hand.

“Judd, what a pleasant surprise,” Martin Chapman was saying. “I thought I wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing you again.” Tall and genteel, he stood before the banquet table, his thick white hair flowing, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement, his pistol calmly pointed.

Judd stared at his father’s old friend. “You’re the one who had Dad killed? You son of a bitch.” As a wave of fury rolled through him, he felt Tucker’s restraining hand on his arm.

“Actually,” Chapman said, “Jonathan did it to himself. I tried to talk him out of it, but you know what a hothead he could be. He was completely unreasonable. I’m sorry we lost him. All of us liked him a great deal.”

He gestured with his free hand at the other men around the table. They came out and stood in a line on either side of him, their weapons never wavering as they aimed at Tucker and Judd.

Judd studied the men in their expensive evening clothes. Each was at least six feet tall and ranged in age from early forties to late sixties. Perfectly groomed and with strong athletic bodies, they had an unmistakable air of pride and confidence. Their uniformity was chilling.

“Yitzhak.” Roberto ran around the outside of the room, passing the sommelier.

The sommelier watched, his eyes enormous. A man in his sixties, he had deep wrinkles and a bulbous red nose, a man who enjoyed wine far too much.

“Shh,” Yitzhak warned.

Roberto dropped to the floor beside the professor. As Preston glanced in their direction, Eva lashed out a foot at his leg.

Preston stepped back and pointed his pistol down at her. “Get up!”

Judd realized several of the tuxedoed men were weaving. Those close to the table steadied themselves on it.

Chapman noticed, too. Puzzled, he looked left and right along the line.

The knees of two buckled, and they fell.

“What in hell-” The oldest grabbed his forehead and keeled over.

“Goddammit.” Another stared at his gun hand. It was shaking uncontrollably.

Two more struggled to stay upright, and then all three collapsed.

“The brandy-it must’ve been poisoned,” the youngest said to Chapman.

He and Chapman were the last standing. They swung their pistols toward the sommelier.

With the hand that had been gripping his heart, the sommelier whipped out a 9-mm Walther. In one smooth motion, he fired twice. One bullet struck the younger man in the head, and the other shattered Chapman’s gun hand.

Reeling, Chapman grabbed up the M4 with the other hand.

At the same time, Preston shoved Eva aside and was running along the wall of books, aiming at the sommelier. Before the sommelier could swing around to fire, Preston squeezed off a shot that sliced across the top of the sommelier’s shoulder. From across the room Judd released three explosive bursts into Preston’s chest.

Preston froze. Fury crossed his aristocratic features as he looked down at the blood spreading across his heart. He took two more steps. “You don’t know what you’re doing. The books must be protected-” He pitched over onto his face, arms limp at his sides. His fingers unfurled, and his gun fell with a metallic clunk onto the marble floor.

Ignoring Chapman, the sommelier ran to Preston and grabbed the pistol. “Nice shot, Judd. Thanks.” As blood dripped down his jacket, he felt for Preston’s carotid artery.

“Damn you all to hell!” Martin Chapman trained the M4 on Judd, his finger white on the trigger.

Judd aimed.

“No!” the sommelier shouted from where he crouched. “We need Chapman alive!”

No one moved. Chapman scowled, his weapon pointed at Judd, Judd’s pointed at him. The room seemed to reverberate with tension.

Then Chapman’s face smoothed. A twinkle appeared in his eyes, and warmth infused his voice. “You should know, Judd, that your father had always hoped you’d join our book club.” With his bloody free hand he gestured grandly at the towering expanse of jeweled books. “These can be yours, too. Think of the history, of the trust your father and I inherited. It’s sacred. With Brian dead, we’re shy three members now. Join us. It would’ve pleased Jonathan a great deal.”

Behind Chapman, Eva had been watching. Judd kept his eyes apparently locked on Chapman, while noting she was taking off her shoes.

“Sacred?” he retorted. “What you have here isn’t a trust. It’s god-awful selfishness.”

Eva sprinted in stocking feet across the marble floor, her black hair flying, her eyes narrowed. She threw herself forward onto her belly and slid silently under the banquet table.

Chapman gave Judd a wry smile, “As John Dryden said, ‘Secrets are edged tools and must be kept from children and fools.’ You were raised to appreciate the priceless value of this remarkable library. No one can take care of it-cherish it-better than we can. You have a responsibility to help us-”

Hunching up, Eva threw her shoulders into the backs of his knees. He reeled, then crashed forward with a grunt, landing hard. His M4 spun away. He swore loudly and scrambled toward it.

But Eva scooped it up and rolled, and Judd, Tucker, and the sommelier converged. The four stood over Chapman, pointing their weapons.

Face flushed, he clasped his good hand over his bloody hand against his ruffled white shirt and peered around at his downed companions then back over his shoulder at the dead Preston. Finally he glared up, deep fury and a strange hurt in his eyes.

“Who are you?” he demanded from the sommelier.

“Call me Domino,” the sommelier said in a husky voice. He had a wide face and a stocky figure. “The Carnivore sends his regards. My orders are to remind you that you were warned about his rules. Then I’m supposed to scrub you.”

“I’m not dead yet, you asshole. What did you do to them?”

“Gamma hydroxy butyrate, GHB. Tasteless, odorless, and colorless. A date-rape drug. In the brandy, of course, poured from the ‘new’ bottle. They’ll wake up in a few hours with very bad headaches. I heard you talking. Tell us what’s going to happen in Khost, Afghanistan.”

“Why would I do that?”

Judd had no idea what Domino meant, but he came from the Carnivore, and that was enough reason for him. All four weapons moved slightly, training on Chapman’s head.

“Tell us!” Judd said.

Chapman stared around at the guns. “And if I do?”

“Maybe you get to live, you lucky SOB,” Judd said. “But if we have to kill you now, that’s all right, too. Your friends will wake up, and one of them will talk.”

Chapman blinked slowly. Then he sat up and told a tale of a forgotten diamond mine in Afghanistan and the warlord who was going to eliminate Taliban fighters so the army base would be closed and Chapman could buy the land.

“It’s too late to do anything about it,” Chapman finished. “The action is going on right now. Besides, it ultimately benefits all of us. Actually, the world. You don’t want to stop it.”

“You goddamned fool!” Tucker exploded. “You think you can trust a warlord to do anything he promises? He’s going to do only what he thinks is in his best interest. There could be a dozen different scenarios, and none of them we’d like. Worse than that, the United States maintains those secret bases because Kabul needs us to. This could bring down the government and start another bloody war.” He looked around the room. “Where’s a satellite phone?”

As Domino handed one to him, the door thudded. All looked at the only entrance to the library. The guards must have finally broken through to the anteroom and were preparing to blast their way into the library. New worry filled the room.

“They may have something with more kick than M4s,” Judd said, listening.

Tucker nodded and punched numbers on the phone’s keypad, while they stood silently, trapped.

74

Khost Province, Afghanistan

THE COLD chill of the Khost night was getting to Sam Daradar as he stood at the open window of the guard tower with privates Abe Meyer and Diego Castillo. He inspected the headlights of the Humvees approaching, one behind the other, in the far distance. They looked alone and exposed out there in the black night.

“Any sign of trouble?” Sam asked.

“No, sir,” Meyer said. “Quiet as usual.”

“Get them on the horn.”

Meyer flicked on his radio. “Lieutenant, the captain wants to talk to you.”

Sam Daradar punched the button on his radio. “Why are you late?”

There was the sound of coughing from the Humvee. “Sorry, sir. I think I’m getting a cold. We did an extra recon around Smugglers’ Point. I had a hunch, so wanted to check it out, but there wasn’t anyone there or in the valley.” His voice was so thick it was almost unrecognizable.

Silently Sam swore. The last thing he needed was illness sweeping through the base. “See anything anywhere else?”

“No, sir. Quiet as a grave.” The man cleared his throat.

“I want a full report when you get in.” Sam ended the connection. “I’m going out.”

Climbing down from the tower, he passed sandbags piled against the wall. Nearby were the Sea Huts that housed the mess and the Tactical Operations Center, and farther were the Butler Huts where his soldiers bunked. The gate unlocked and opened enough for him to slide through.

Hurrying through the light, he reached the darkness and slowed. Letting his eyes adjust, he stared around at the flatlands that rose into hills and then at the high-peaked mountains. To his left was the town. He could barely make out the rough outlines of it. There were a few lights. Nothing unusual. Moonlight shimmered down on the shrubs and clumps of trees around the base. A wind had risen, sighing. He looked for movement, listened for sound, sniffed for odors. He was getting to be as much sixteenth century as the other inhabitants around here.

Turning on his heel, he hurried back inside and up into the guard tower. As he took up his post at the window again, he noticed movement coming from the direction of town. It was a vehicle of some kind, the moonlight illuminating a silvery surface. Strange that the headlamps were not alight.

He put infrared binoculars to his eyes and stared. Dammit, it was Syed Ullah’s Toyota Land Cruiser. As he watched, it stopped, and three people climbed out-one was Ullah. They peered at the base and talked. Then one lifted something to his shoulder, aiming it. Sam stared hard. It looked like a movie camera. What in hell was going on?

When the Humvees were about fifty yards from the base, he ordered the gates opened.

The radio sounded. He picked it up, expecting the caller to be the lieutenant reporting he had sighted Ullah, too.

Instead a stranger said, “Captain Daradar, I’m patching you in to Tucker Andersen, CIA. He has important information for you.”

Instantly a strong voice announced, “This is Andersen. I’ve got a story to tell you. I’ll make it quick.”

Sam listened with growing concern.

When Andersen finished, Sam said, “There’ve been no attacks in town or at any of the huts in sight of here. I’ve got a patrol coming in now. I spoke to the lieutenant a while ago, and he said it was quiet in the boonies, too. But Ullah is in the dust bowl near here with two other people, and it looks as if they filmed the base. Maybe they’re the Pakistani news crew your informant told you about.”

“You know Syed Ullah personally?”

“As well as any outsider can.”

“What’s he capable of?”

There was no hesitation. “Anything.” Sam signed off and snapped to Private Meyer, “Sound the alarm. I want all troops at their stations, and the rest here. Close the gates as soon as the Humvees get inside.”

As the alarm blared and orders were relayed over loudspeakers, Sam grabbed his assault rifle and ran down from the guard tower. He waited well behind it, out of view of the gate. The Humvees would stop on the hard-packed dirt in a well-lit area in front of him. Within seconds a lieutenant and a corporal were beside him.

“What’s going on, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

“Don’t know yet.” Sam had a feeling he had the answer, but he did not like it. “Any of the men got viruses or colds?”

The lieutenant and corporal shook their heads.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. I could be wrong about this, but we can’t take any chances. I think Ullah’s men may be in those Humvees.” He told the lieutenant what he wanted him to do.

As more soldiers arrived, the lieutenant directed half to stay with Sam and ran with the rest to the other side of the gate, where they would be out of sight, too.

With a rumble, the Humvees rolled into the base. Sam peered around the edge of the guard tower to check on them. The gunners in the cupolas wore U.S. Army uniforms and helmets. They were dozing over their machine guns. He could not see their faces, and whoever was inside was unseeable, too, through darkened glass. But there were fresh bullet holes in the vehicles. The gates closed behind the Humvees with a clang.

Sam signaled. And four hundred fully equipped, armored, and armed soldiers swarmed out so quickly, the gunners had time only to lift their heads before they were pulled from their turrets and their weapons torn away. It was an overpowering show of force, rows of assault rifles pointed at the Humvees from every possible angle.

For a moment there was no movement. Then the doors opened, and more men in army uniforms stepped out, hands high above their heads, holding army-issue M4s. All were Afghans. U.S. soldiers ripped away the weapons and took the pistols from their belts.

Sam looked up at the guard tower and shouted, “Is Ullah still out there?”

Private Castillo leaned out. “Yes, sir. They filmed the Humvees entering the base, but the light on the camera’s off again now.”

Sam pushed through his men to reach Ulla’s son Jasim, whose tall frame was spread-eagled against the first vehicle. His face was sullen. Sam reached up and grabbed a fistful of Jasim’s jacket and tightened it against his throat.

“You want your father to die?” Sam threatened. Then he lied: “I’ve got a sharpshooter in the tower, and all I have to do is give the order and Syed Ullah is a donkey turd. Tell me what in hell is going on.”

The young man’s eyes widened. Still he said nothing.

Sam reminded him harshly he was Pashtun. “Your first duty is to protect your family.”

In a halting voice Jasim relayed the details of the plan to invade the base and kill all of the soldiers.

Sam hunched his shoulders in fury. He shook Jasim hard once and released him. He barked out an order to his men: “Find out where they left the bodies of our people, then lock him up. Let’s move out.”

Sam roared out of the base in a Humvee. In other Humvees and running on foot, his soldiers spread in an arc over the flatlands. Ullah’s men rose from behind bushes, from holes in the ground, and from behind trees and hotfooted away across the austere landscape. Most would be captured, but not all. But Sam sure as hell was going to catch Ullah.

There was the distant noise of an engine coming to life, and Ullah’s Land Cruiser turned in a big circle.

Sam’s Humvee and two others lurched over the terrain at a far faster speed than the Land Cruiser, cutting it off as it turned onto the road that led into the hills and to Ullah’s villa.

With a bullhorn, Sam blared out his open window, “Get out. Everyone get out! Now!”

M4 in hand, he jumped out of his Humvee and met Ullah and the two others on the dirt road. He was joined instantly by his men, weapons raised.

Ullah’s broad face showed surprise, interest, concern. “Captain Daradar, it is very late for you to be patrolling.”

“Good evening, Mr. Ullah. There’s room in my Humvee for all of you. Your son is asking for you.”

At the mention of Jasim, Ullah’s black eyebrows raised a fraction, then knitted. It was a small gesture, but from the Pashtun it was everything. With his son in custody, he was not only overwhelmed by force but cornered by the Pashtunwali code.

“Give me your rifle,” Sam ordered.

With a flourish, Ullah spun his AK-47, smiled winningly, and handed it over ceremoniously, butt first, the vanquished admitting defeat-for the moment.

What Sam wanted to do was shoot the damn warlord and give the journalists the interview of their lives, but the Kabul government and Uncle Sam would not like that. “Get in. We’ll all go back to the base for some American tea.”

75

The Isle of Pericles

THERE WAS a faint explosion, and the Library of Gold door buckled. The guards would be inside in minutes. Despite the high-powered ventilation system, the air in the room seemed to thicken. As Eva rose to her feet, and Tucker spoke to Khost, Judd saw something in Domino’s eyes.

“What else?”

Domino nodded and pressed his Walther against Chapman’s ear. “Give me your satellite phone.”

Slowly Chapman reached inside his tuxedo jacket and removed the phone. “You’ll never leave here alive,” he said.

Ignoring him, Domino snatched the phone. “I can’t do this, but you can, Judd. There’s a forward deployment on Crete standing by for rapid insertion. A woman named Gloria Feit is waiting for you or Tucker to call. I’m told she had no other way to get in touch with you and she wasn’t certain you’d need or want help.”

As Tucker’s voice droned on the phone in the background, Eva raised her brows in surprise. “How do you know about Gloria Feit?”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Domino handed the phone to Judd.

“Archimedes!” Yitzhak had been walking along the wall. He pulled down a volume and opened it excitedly. “Good Lord, they have his complete collection.”

Judd was already dialing out.

Instantly Gloria answered. “Souda Bay’s been alerted,” she said into his ear. “Three Black Hawks with fully loaded fast-rope teams. They’ll take off in five minutes. Figure a half hour to get there. Maybe longer. Can you hold out?”

“We have to.” Judd ended the connection.

As he filled them in, Tucker finished his call and listened.

“Just a half hour is very long to wait,” Roberto said worriedly. “Perhaps your people will require more time to reach the island, and then of course we are down here. Very far underground.”

Judd’s lungs tightened. Suddenly there was another explosion, this time louder. The door distended into the room, and tendrils of smoke curled toward them.

“The table,” Tucker said curtly.

Judd, Domino, and Tucker crashed it over onto its side. Glasses and candlesticks shattered against the floor. They spun the table around through the mess so it faced the door. The top was three inches of marble lying on four inches of wood, a decent shield.

“Get behind,” Judd ordered. “Not you.” He yanked Chapman to his feet. “Eva, you’re in charge of Roberto and Yitzhak.”

Roberto grabbed Yitzhak’s arm and pulled him away from the books and behind the table. Eva followed with Chapman’s M4, glancing over her shoulder at Judd. He looked into her eyes and nodded. She gave a tense smile and nodded in return.

Suddenly Yitzhak rose above the table. “You must not harm the library!”

“Not now, Yitzhak!” Eva pushed him down and crouched beside him.

“You take that side of the door.” Domino gestured and ran. “I’ll hold the other.”

Immediately Tucker sprinted. Like Domino, he positioned himself flat against the wall, weapon ready. Forcing Chapman to join Tucker, Judd unhooked a frag grenade from his belt.

With a thunderous noise, the door to the library blasted open, landing on the marble and sliding across the room. Gray smoke billowed past them and curled back into the anteroom. As Judd pulled the pin and threw the grenade high into the anteroom’s smoke, gunfire instantly sounded, the bullets streaking blindly past them in fusillades, pounding into chairs, the table, and the books.

“No!” Chapman bellowed, looking wildly back as golden covers exploded and volumes plummeted to the floor. He crashed an elbow into Judd’s side, trying to break free. “Hold your fire! This is Martin Chapman. I order you to hold your fire!”

Tucker slammed an arm around Chapman’s throat and yanked him back.

A loud burst from the grenade in the anteroom shook the library. The smoke was heavy and bitter. They coughed into the sudden silence. Moans sounded from the other side of the doorway.

Judd nodded at Domino. Crouching, weapons raised, they rolled around and stared at the bodies of a half-dozen men who lay in a tumble across the anteroom floor. Blood splattered the walls. Body parts of perhaps four men had been ripped off and tossed, lying on other men and against the elevators and in front of the stairwell.

“Let’s go,” Judd stood upright and called back into the library. “Fast!”

Domino was quickly at the stairs, his Walther tucked away, an M4 in his arms. Judd raced around the packed bodies and entered the stairwell as Tucker propelled Chapman into the anteroom. Behind him he heard Eva gasp. Then their quick steps were following him upward.

“Looks to me as if we got rid of ten on the way in,” Judd said to Domino’s back. “Another six in the anteroom. That leaves about thirty-four.”

“Right.”

“You figured out the layout?”

“There’s a garage on the first underground level. It’s past the kitchen, at the end of the hall. They won’t realize you’ll know about it.”

“Safer than going through the house,” Judd agreed.

Suddenly heavy footsteps sounded, running down toward them. Judd looked up and saw a large number one painted on the stone wall, announcing they were just below ground level. Side by side, they accelerated to the landing as two security men appeared.

Dropping flat on the steps, Judd ripped off a grenade, pulled the pin, and heaved it. Domino fell beside him, and they covered their heads with their arms. Captured in the stairwell, the blast was deafening. Stone chips pelted down. And they jumped up, stepped through the smoke, and pushed the door open onto a high-tech kitchen. At first it appeared deserted, then Judd saw chefs and waiters cringing against a back wall.

“Get down!” he barked and aimed the M4.

As the men and women scrambled to the floor, Domino ran to a side door and propped it open. Through it a long corridor showed. His head swiveling, he hurried along, studying closed doors as he passed.

Judd opened the kitchen door, listening. More security guards were running down the flight of stairs.

“You in one piece?” Tucker demanded as he shoved Chapman past him.

Chapman’s expression was steely, his eyes glinting with outrage. “When my men catch you, I’ll kill you myself.”

Judd ignored him. “We’re fine,” he told Tucker. “Give me one of your grenades. Follow Domino.”

As they moved off, Eva arrived with Yitzhak and Roberto. The pair were breathing hard and said nothing. Judd did not like the way Yitzhak looked. The professor’s round face was gray, and the sweat on his bald head was thick.

Eva gave Judd a too-bright smile and urged Yitzhak and Roberto toward the corridor.

Alone, Judd crouched, his M4 trained on the kitchen staff as he listened to the footsteps descending. As soon as he saw the first pair of feet, he pulled the last grenade’s pin, rolled it onto the landing, closed the door, and sprinted. The noise of the explosion followed him across the kitchen. In his mind he added up the number of the remaining guards in the stairwell-a total of two or three, he decided. That was not a large number. He would have thought the entire force would have been sent after them when they heard the initial explosions.

Slamming shut the door to the corridor, he tore down its length toward the garage. At least thirty minutes had passed, he decided. Roberto had been right. Even if the helicopters had arrived, it would be longer. Ten minutes, maybe twenty, for the teams to fight through the remaining guards to find them. He shook off the worry they would not be able to hold out.

He pushed through the door. And froze. Stared. Domino knelt on the floor, clutching his upper chest where a fresh bullet wound showed. His tuxedo jacket was drenched in blood, and his face was battered. Tucker was helping him up, while Eva kept her M4 aimed at Martin Chapman. At the same time Yitzhak sat cross-legged on the floor, collapsed over his stout stomach, panting, while Roberto worriedly rubbed his back. Six security men lay sprawled on the concrete floor, either dead or unconscious. That was a partial explanation of where Chapman’s extra men were.

Instantly Judd checked the door. There was no way to lock it.

“They were expecting us,” Domino said calmly as he pulled himself up, his M4 dangling from one hand. “Must have some tracking system I didn’t know about. Tucker arrived just in time.”

“Good work, both of you.”

Domino nodded. Rifle ready, Tucker ran across the vast garage space emptied of patrolling Jeeps toward the maw left open by the sliding garage door. Domino limped after him.

Now Judd had one wounded shooter, the professor, who looked so ill he could not walk, and Chapman, who had to be guarded at all times. Inwardly he swore. Suddenly he was exhausted, and he realized the wound on his side was throbbing painfully. He grabbed a loading cart.

“Let’s go, professor. You get to ride.” He handed his rifle to Roberto and gently picked up the older man and set him on the cart’s bed. “Climb aboard, Roberto.”

Roberto sat beside Yitzhak. “You are good, yes?”

The professor said nothing, simply dipped his head once. His eyes were dull with pain.

“You first, Eva.” Judd looked at her strained face.

“Delighted. Move, Chapman.” Then she warned, “I’ll be right behind you, and it’d be such a pleasure to shoot you.”

“Let me go,” Chapman said, his cool gaze assessing their weakened position. “I’ll call off my men and get you out of here.”

“My ass,” Eva retorted. “You’re alive. Don’t try for more. As Horace said, ‘Semper avarus eget.’ That means a greedy man’s always in need, you greedy bastard.”

She hurried him off, and Judd ran past them, pushing the cart. Tucker was on one side of the big garage door, Domino on the other. Both were peering out carefully. Judd glanced over his shoulder at the door to the corridor to make certain it remained closed and Eva still controlled Chapman.

But as he neared the garage door and felt the night air cool on his skin, he heard the shouts of men out on the hillsides. He parked the cart off to the side, against the wall. That explained the rest of Chapman’s men. More would be coming through the house after them.

“Stay there,” he told Yitzhak and Roberto. Before they could respond, he joined Domino, who moved aside so he could take the lead. “See anything?”

“They’re closing in,” Domino said through bruised lips. His jaw was swelling.

Abruptly fusillades of gunfire raked through the garage’s opening, whining past and spitting into the concrete floor. Judd dropped, rolled, and came up on his elbows, sending bursts out toward the flashes of light. Instantly Domino was lying beside him, shooting, too. Dark shadows of men were moving down to join the shooters, far more than the number of Chapman’s men Judd had thought were left. Had Chapman put on more security than he realized?

In his peripheral vision he saw Eva push Chapman to Tucker’s side of the door. Now that they had arrived, Tucker dropped to fire, too.

As Judd squeezed off bursts, he glanced up in time to see Chapman take in the scene, his gaze calculating. Only Eva was left standing to guard him.

“Eva!” Judd warned. “Chapman’s going to-”

Too late. The tall man whirled and lashed out a foot, kicking away her M4. She lunged for it, and he fell on her. Fighting back, she kneed him in the groin, and they rolled, their legs and arms tangled. Judd could not get a clear shot.

Enraged, he jumped up and ran toward her as gunfire continued to slash into the garage. Rounds crazed his back, burning.

Suddenly he heard the door to the corridor behind them burst open. In the shelter of the wall, he turned, firing blindly, raking blasts toward it.

“Stop, Judd!” Tucker bellowed. “It’s our people!”

A paramilitary team dressed in black with black combat gear was streaming around the door, crouching, M4s up.

At the same time, Domino announced tiredly, “Your people are wiping out the security guards on the hills, too.”

Judd said nothing, looking out quickly as he listened to the blistering gunfire. Fusillades no longer streamed into the garage. The gunshots came from all over the dark slopes, muzzle flashes bright and fast as the paratroopers fought the guards.

Judd sprinted to Eva. “Get off her, you asshole!” But before Chapman could move, Judd kicked him in the head.

THE HILLS were quiet at last. Shadows moved as paratroopers rounded up the last of Chapman’s security men. Inside the garage, Eva waited beside Judd, his closeness comforting, as he and Tucker filled in the lieutenant in charge of the operation. At a distance, Chapman sat on the floor, hands cuffed behind him, head cocked as he tried to hear what they said. Blood matted his white hair from Judd’s blow. Refusing to speak, he was alert, his expression angry, his lips thin and tightly closed.

A medic had examined Yitzhak and pronounced a profound case of exhaustion. Roberto and Yitzhak held hands in the cart as one of the soldiers pushed them across the floor toward the house.

Domino took off his tuxedo jacket, and the medic ripped his shirt, gave him shots of antibiotics and painkillers, and cleaned his wound.

“Looks as if the bullet missed your lungs, but you’ve got a broken rib, I think,” the medic decided. “I’ll bandage you until I can get you to a hospital. The painkiller should be kicking in now.”

“Give that to me.”

Domino grabbed packets of sterile bandages. Pushing the medic away, he stood, ripped open two, and slapped one bandage onto the entrance wound in back and the other in front.

He looked at Judd. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Eva was about to say something, then thought better of it. She joined Domino, Judd, and Tucker as they walked across the garage. She felt their weariness and was suddenly aware of her own.

“So you work for the Carnivore, Domino?” she asked.

“I do occasional jobs for him. He felt I’d be appropriate for this particular task.” He had a calm, untroubled expression now.

“Who is the Carnivore, really?”

He chuckled and ran a finger along his red nose. “He told me you might ask. The answer is he’s a man without a face. He employs me only through e-mail.” He gazed at Judd a moment. “I owe you for killing Preston. Saved my hide.”

“A pleasure, believe me.”

“Nevertheless, I won’t forget.”

They rode the elevator up one floor, to the ground level. The living room showed the effects of a gun battle. Furniture and vases were shattered, and bullet holes riddled paintings. They walked out through the double glass doors onto the marble pathway.

Moonlight shone down, casting the grounds in a soft glow. A half-dozen corpses were laid out beside the tennis courts. Chefs and staff members were sitting on the ground, guarded by two members of the paramilitary teams. Ahead, three sleek Black Hawk helicopters were parked on and around the helipad. One’s rotors were turning. Yitzhak and Roberto were climbing on board.

The four passed two cottages.

“This one was your husband’s,” Domino told Eva. “In case you want to see it.”

She stopped and gazed at the white walls, then at the carved wood door, much like the one into the Library of Gold. “Yes, you’re right. I’d like to go inside.”

“I’ll go with you,” Judd offered.

“We need to talk about the Carnivore and how you found out about Gloria Feit,” Tucker told Domino.

“Of course. I’ll fill you in completely, but give me a few moments to rest. How about on the helicopter ride back?”

Tucker gave an understanding nod. “Agreed.”

As the pair waited outside, Judd and Eva entered the small foyer of Charles Sherback’s cottage and walked into a spacious living room. It had been searched. Books piled haphazardly on the floor, the shelves that lined the walls empty. The cushions on the sofas and easy chairs were upended, and the drawers on the writing desk left open. Eva clasped her throat.

Judd followed her into the bedroom. The cover and sheets on the king-size bed were torn off. Clothes from the bureau and closet lay on the floor. Men’s clothes-and women’s clothes.

Eva walked up to a framed needlepoint above the dresser. It was a quotation:

I cannot live without books.

– Thomas Jefferson, letter to John Adams, 1815

“I gave that to Charles,” she said quietly, her back to Judd. “It was in his office at the Moreau Library. I’d forgotten about it.”

Judd had seen no photos in the living room, but there were several hanging on the wall in the bedroom of Charles and Robin-working together in the library, walking on the beach, picking oranges in a grove. He watched Eva turn to gaze at them.

“Maybe he took the Jefferson quotation to remember you,” he said kindly.

“Or maybe he wanted it because he liked the quotation. Did I tell you I can needlepoint?”

He put an arm around her shoulders. “I imagine there are a lot things you haven’t told me. I’d like to know all of them.”

She smiled up at him but said nothing, full of emotions she could not name.

He felt a moment of disappointment, then he led her to the door. They walked out into the night. Another helicopter’s rotors were turning, the motor sending waves of sound across the fresh sea air.

“Where are Tucker and Domino?” Judd looked quickly around.

They ran. Tucker was pushing himself up off the ground behind a bush.

“Tucker, what happened?” she said.

“The bastard got me while I wasn’t looking.” He grimaced and dusted off his trousers. “Obviously he didn’t want to answer my questions.”

“There he is,” Judd said, peering far up the hill behind them.

Domino was a solitary figure, climbing swiftly. He had peeled off his white shirt and was wearing a long-sleeve black T-shirt. With his black tuxedo trousers, he was difficult to see. Then he turned, and moonlight illuminated his face. Cradling his M4, he caught sight of them.

“Come back, dammit!” Tucker shouted.

Instead Domino lifted two fingers and deliberately touched his forehead in a brisk salute. Eva vaguely recalled the gesture… And then it was vivid: A moonlit night like this, the Thracian coast in Turkey. She and Judd were sitting inside the small plane, about to take off for Athens, and Judd had saluted back.

The men cursed as Domino’s silhouetted form ran off lightly and vanished over the hill’s crest.

But Eva felt a strange thrill. “My God, it was him all along. The assassin without a face. There is no Domino. That was the Carnivore.”